I, psycho.

Chapter Thirty Two

Hi!

I'm back in business baby!! Well, partially 😉

I'm finally well enough to write though, thank you for your support as I recuperated.

Enjoy the chapter we've all been waiting for.

-Your Author.

Genevieve Mitéssourà Maine was born mad.

There were no undercurrent conspiracies or spine chilling experiments behind her birth, no childhood trauma or neglect that could have made her thus, she was just .. mad.

The sole heir to the Maine Dynasty was mad, of course it was kept a tight secret.

Poor Elan had had to hide everything, from the little murders to the mass murders, from the whole world.

At the early age of eighteen she'd married in a prestigious husband for her child hoping to.. well, I don't know what she'd hoped exactly but I reckon it was along the line of maternal love being the cure to her daughter's madness.

Unfortunately, yes, very, very unfortunately, Mitéssourà's madness was not only incurable, it was.. contagious.

She'd fashioned it that way. Like a weapon, she'd weld it silently and swiftly, striking into her unsuspecting victims like the viper she was.

By the time I was born, five years after their marriage, my father was well past madness and onto the road of self-destruction.

Atticus Valeruis-Seymour, despite his madness, notwithstanding his..abuse, had been a kind, strong man.

Albeit, his kindness could only be seen in those rare moments when his madness receded and his mind returned, still, he at least never ran.

Not from his family, never from his sins.

It proved just how messed up my family was that the abusive parent was the better one.

Before my sister had been born, father's sane moments had been less rare.

He'd used to sing, but after I'd told him how horrible his voice was, he'd relented to humming.

Sometimes, when I closed my eyes, sometimes when I didn't want to remember, I could hear it.

His baritone, scratchy voice humming a song I could scarcely remember. The feeling of his large, calloused hand stroking my hair.

He had been kind. No, he'd been perfect.

It did not matter what he did. Not the abuses, not the beatings, not the rape, he was always the one who I turned to after a daily dose of my mother, he was the one who would would pet me as I cried myself to sleep even as he held back his own tears, he was the one who never left.

'Adolorata, mica'

We had been each other's lifeline, each other's saving grace, the one sane thing we'd had left.

And my mother had known.

And so when she gave birth to a girl, stunning in beauty, and as mad as herself, I had not been all that surprised. It had been only a matter of time, really.

Perhaps it was then. Perhaps it was when my father had held his newborn in his arms and had seen her eyes, so much like my mother's, not in colour or even in shape, it was just that same glint, that creeping feeling all was lost.. perhaps that was when my perfect father had broken.

And boy oh boy did he break.

One of mother, we could manage, two.. was too much.

I had watched him struggle to love her. Nessí Jàjài Maine was probably the most beautiful baby to have been born but that had not been enough to disguise the evil beneath her deceiving form. Not from us, at least, we were far too experience with evil that lurked underneath beauty to be deceived by her chubby cheeks and sweetness.