The Murder House

Eighteen - Letter Four

     All of my mistakes are written in ink.

I have not been the best House there is and I have not been the worst, I like my brother are a force that controls neutrality. We are two half's of the coin, good and evil, life and death, heaven and hell, past and future, parent and child. I have had time to reflect upon my emotions during our last letter, I have evaluated my own performance in this little charade you call a tale. I do not believe I have done enough, and though we are almost at the end I know I am missing crucial parts of the process, as is River. She has skipped the fights with Mouse and the endless meetings with Maverick and Lyra Jade, she has skipped over the long nights and insecurities. She is choosing the most important parts to share and I do trust her, I do, but I believe she is trying to hide the human side of us all. She is painting me in such a light where I am not a scorned woman, a house scorched and burnt deep inside of her core by the one man who was allowed into it. Forgive me if this does not make sense, I will not write a second draft but like Francesco I must get my words across. You can not see me stealing a piece of long forgotten wallpaper from my core, nor see me writing around the burnt edges. I played my last refrain as he took my dignity, in retaliation I use what scraps of myself I can. Time heals all wounds my dear brother said to me.

Time does nothing.

I fell off the edge the day that fire loving underdeveloped rhino burnt me alive killing himself in the process. If only he lived the sacrifice would have been worth it, but no he roams my halls taunting me with the click of the damned fire starter. It sets my windowsills on edge! Click, click, click, I want to swear oh how I wish to tell him to fuck off.

A hero will give his life, he is not afraid.

What a pile of lies, even heroes are afraid of the eternal ending I give out. I am the one who comes to end even the most loved of heroes, and you know why? Because heroes are fantasies, they exist purely in children's tales and those tales die out within the generations. Each retelling forces the heroes to wither and to decay, each detail changes until none of it is the truth. Much like my spirits, once upon a time Fredrick really did not speak English but now he can barely remember a time before he thought in English. One day you realise the mask you wore has disintegrated from age and you ponder when it happened. Nothing is forever, everything ends eventually some quicker than others but everything has an expiry date. Even me, even I the great Bellerose House will one day be beyond repair. I suppose I am writing this due to the obvious decay the author has decided to skip over. Maybe due to her need to not see it or maybe due to her lack of ability to encompass the journey he went on. I am not so ethical, nor do I truly care for him as much as she which means I can weaken and repay him. I can take his dignity as mine once was taken, I will force him to see me scorched alive I will force him to play my last refrain. Why you may ask, the reasoning is I am not truly seen by my living, but I will be seen by my spirits. I once was a gracious house who would do anything for her living.

If you stand, I shall stand too.

I did not threaten those words, nor did I promise them, I vowed them, I carved the vows into my core allowing each and every spirit to remember the promise and sacrifice I made for them. I vowed to my Mouse I would get the truth out and return him home at all costs, but now he is home and he is not the child I bore. He is a Byron, no matter how hard Francesco tried that man is a disgusting shack of shit. I would rather spend eternity alone with the fire loving potato than an hour alone with the Byron man who torments my good name, a name I built up from the slums of London!

He forgot, I control how this story goes.

He has flown beyond my reach but he is never beyond my sight, now I know he will never truly leave my halls even as he passes from my propriety. He will always be a part of this bloodline, unlike his sister he will not rot in my attic, I will not think of all that may have been waiting until someone, anyone, comes to rescue my child. I, me! I will be the one to rescue him, you may say no Lorelai you did not do your brothers job and heal him, you murdered him. I will taint and poison his weakened mind until rhe truth can stand free above the false claims forced upon him. I have done it more times than you have cleaned yourself, meals eaten, sleeps granted. Many a year ago a man took my innocence, he bent and broke my reigns in turn breaking my earthly chains. He created this monstrosity I am today, you can only read my words not hear the emotion in my suffering. I sing like a lonely siren scorned by the human man she loved, but unlike that poor little fish I was the one with the power. I was idiotic enough to trust someone of mortal flesh, a man with a beating heart I could stop at any moment. But I did not, why you may ask, because I loved him. I thought he saw me for more than bricks and mortar, he saw me as the woman I feel deep inside, he saw my core and he saw my life force beating like his heart. Instead of treating my heart with nimble, fragile fingers, he threw it onto the floor where he lit a flame moments beforehand. I know I am a old woman who does not deserve to complain, but I have feelings too. I felt betrayed, it took many a generation for me to even think of trusting again let alone fully putting my faith into a living creature.

I never show mercy for the sins you have created.

The author sits here now wrapped up in the library, typing away beside the crackling fire. She is wearing one of his ridiculous shirts my dear brother informed me were called plaid shirts. It's wrapped around her as if it could change the ending he chose, I would have forced him to suffer further but no, yet another living who let me down. I reach over to brush her unruly curls from her eye line, she smiles faintly stopping her vigorous typing for a moment. She looks up trying to pinpoint where to make eye contact, I blaze the fire to keep her warm, she decides that's where my eyes are.

"Bellerose, why me?" She asked. "Why me?"

I did not chose her out of anyone else, she is not my favourite out of all the living but she is who I am pouring all my efforts into. She, after all, one day will be Old Lady Wayne, she is the creator of my next generation even if I do not believe the father should have ever been given the opportunity for children. I look upon her now and wonder what she sees in me, why me of all houses, why she's chooses the room closest to my core to spend almost every waking moment inside of. I blaze the fire again causing her to roll her eyes, she must not like my silence. I smile reaching out to place a hand just over where my next generation resides.

'I found you most chaotically,' I respond.

"They say you're a monster, but a diven't think so, a kna a said a lot to Roma about kids. But am fucking terrified Bellerose, what am to dey? A don't like kids, sticky, screaming balls of emotions,"

I soothe her as best as I can, it is not her fault she followed in the footsteps of a woman on the other side of my coin. History always repeats itself. Our bond will never be broken due to the fact that she has no blood relation to me, though she is engrained in the very existence of Willowdale. She revived me from a decrepit pit of despair to the grand house I am today, and for that I will forever be grateful, even more so for her speaking the truth. Even when said truth would be better unspoken. I tell her it is time to forget the fears which burden her, let go the things weighing your heart down. Instead look to my window where life and death meet together in harmony, your worries become another speck of dust on my doorknob. I gently kiss her hair reminding her she is one of the few things I would never trade away. Call me bias, but I stand by those who stand by myself, she showed me her cards and allowed me to play her hand at times. I will never forget nor regret her choice to trust me, I will forever allow her to fall upon me in times of need. Unlike Reiner she did not burn me alive nor did she try destroy what little of myself I hold dear. Instead, she built me up and began to share me with you my child, I will always remember the silent support she has showed me. My soft lit corridors will be left to her, I know she will care for it as I care for her because I will hold her legacy deep within me until another living can come along and make good on her behalf.

I will wait eternity if I have to.

Trust is a hard thing to create, and an easy thing to break. Reiner broke me and very few built me back up, but the author never gave me reason to doubt myself, and when I did she would argue with me. Now she has allowed me in, I will be her guide as I will yours if you allow me. Even once this book is over a little part of me will reside inside of you, laying dormant until my teachings are needed. There will be stretches where I'm completely forgotten about until something sparks a long buried memory, even if it's something as simple as a vague memory of a ivy riddled house. Now, I look upon her and wonder how she will fare, will she be like me and sink under the burden of motherhood or will she rise to the challenge?

Do not worry, the end is not here yet

Until next time my child, I will await your return.

— The Murder House September 2024.