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Crimson Peak Reaction

Lilith

By Alexandra FPublished 6 years ago 4 min read
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the Butterfly

You all know who I am. You all know who I am in this too, and I’m not who you’d expect me to be by my title, my reputation as such a baby-stealing, slut-favoring, sexuality and kink head. Yes, that’s who I am, and my womb is necessarily Purgatory as well. Don’t make me laugh.

I was the butterfly, not the moth one would expect. I, as my proper title, not my reputation, disagreed with all that that brother and sister did in that movie. I don’t approve of incest or non-consensual kink. The brother was not, in fact, a fully willing participant in their sexual activities together, especially once he’d developed a taste for the purity of the butterfly. Her example of a better way of life, of being, of a better path to take instead of remaining in an incestuous, wrongfully kinky, and codependent way with his sister appealed to him, as did the butterfly herself.

The characters were wrong enough in what they did. One must begin with them.

Not one of those women, those butterflies, consented to being the sacrifice she ended up being. I suppose the siblings were a bit like vampires in that, seeing as they looted off of their corpses in some way, draining their bank accounts dry through his “marriage” to them.

Those baths filled with their remains were telling enough as to who these bottom-feeders really were. If one didn’t infer it from that, one was ignorant (or at least ignorant of the real mother dearest). They referred constantly enough to their mother, their mother dearest to whom the clothes the sister now wore, and that disturbing rocking chair belonged. They wanted to do her proud, that she might finally be proud of them, and implied through their father’s disapproval of them in some difference they had that they didn’t belong as his. Hence their seeking solace and approval in the only parent left, and in each other in a way that still goes against most people’s morals.

Yes, they were based on a certain blood-bather’s brats, her rat babies as I call them because of who their real father was. He was someone else in their father’s court, the one to which he’d belonged more so when he was not yet married to her. I guess you could call it a sort of perverse justice against the father for marrying her that another was the children’s real father. I guess they’d noticed that there was something not quite right about the children’s precious mother dearest at court that worried them enough about the father that they sent the other court member as an emissary. He must have fallen in love with this woman who felt strangely shunned, though officially accepted, by those nobler relatives of her husband. There was a kinship. He wasn’t quite right enough in the head to be an official noble, so he was their emissary and bodyguard. He found his answer to feeling that way in a woman who was so misunderstood in his eyes. They fell in with each other in that, and so fell in bed with each other.

Those offspring came of that. I’m sure of those two, though I’m not sure of the rest of them, the ones that kept up the appearance of being the husband’s children. They carried out the circled back energy from that unholy union and from the blood-bathing mother dearest’s going mad and what she did to those women, not all of whom she got to. I think there was a list of all the victims, all those women and girls she’d helped when she was feeling sane, feeling more like she wanted to do her noble and wifely duty and less like she was a monster to the world, less like she surrendered to that. I think she passed that list on to the daughter to carry on her work in some way, and I think the daughter and the son came up with a new way, their own way of doing it. I know that the daughter wanted to carry it on as mother dearest had, but that the son couldn’t stomach being her designated servitor as first torture assistant in her own blood-baths.

I sometimes wonder if their mother dearest had meant her blood-bathing as a beauty ritual, that she actually thought that the blood of virgins would bring her the beauty of youth and purity, hence her being the original head moth in that, in eating in the purity of her own butterflies, those on the list she’d gotten to, crossed off.

I happen to know that she ate in their purity through her skin, and not in the literally porous way that most would assume. Hers was the skin of a fairy eater, a pixie, well on land that’s what they were. In the sea, they were krakens, having to adopt such a form on land to adapt to the land itself and what forms were available. If one has ever analyzed the skin of an octopus, one has noticed it is highly absorbent, a bit spongy even.

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About the Creator

Alexandra F

I write to give myself an adventure & if it's fun perhaps you will enjoy it too.

This is the link to my journalistic blog: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/franklynews

I only make money if you contribute, so please click the bottom button. Thanks!

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