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sapphicrow · 8 months ago

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His Better.

(A lil Lady D drabble looking at her past)

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Dear Diary,

Today is the anniversary of his death. Of his complete and total departure from my world. Those who remember him perhaps view this day as a day of mourning, though I must confess I feel no such grief. A buzz of vibrant elation hums in my chest. His portrait sits in the main hall once more for today, but if not for Mother Miranda’s command for it to be in such an honorable place it would be fueling the hearth that warms my feet as I indulge in sapphic erotica, plentiful goblets of wine, maybe even a maiden or four on their knees begging for an opportunity to breathe the same air as I. He would call me a heathen and a whore. I shall call him, with phony tears in my eyes, a victim of times of political unrest. Patricide may be the more precise term, but alas, I shan’t spoil my lovely day with scandal. Mother does not wish for the truth to be spoken. I suppose it is a fair wish. I may not speak it, but I find myself needing to release this memory from my head, lest it rot in there and I begin to feel sorry for the bitch.

My father was not a good man. He was barely a man. He was a nincompoop who took advantage of his station, and his staff, and his abundant liquor collection. He was not kind. It is not for this reason I resent him, for I can hardly claim to be kind either. I resent him for his failure as a count, and his confidence in his incompetence. I remember watching his fat, clumsy fingers struggle to button his lavishly crafted waist coat with contempt. I knew from a young age that I was a far better leader than he. That my own hands, nimble and steady from years of the pointless needlework noble girls were expected to do, were suited for the control he fumbled about with so terribly. For holding the throne. I remember being fifteen years of age, watching him bumble about his office in a suit lined with silk he did not deserve the softness of. The war had threatened to touch his territory. Even then I knew that securing assets would be a vital defense for the empire he wished to construct. He did no such thing. He simply ran around like a chicken with its head severed and defiled more maids in his stress. The only measure he took was of how many drinks he could fit in his bulbous stomach. I couldn’t fathom being so irresponsible. If his land in the Carpathian Mountains was threatened, was it not clear as day that he should be worried about finding other means to protect his legacy? I recall creeping into his office in the dead of night to look over the correspondences surrounding the war and his rule and the financials that were spread carelessly about the big oak desk, my heist backed by the erratic growl of his snores. I felt as if I had forged his signature hundreds of times, even if it was my very first act of blatant treachery. It still felt so natural to use his name for my own game. It wasn’t as if he was using it for anything useful. That night he wrote a very fine letter to the duchies nearby asking for an alliance through these trying times, though the recipients would question the flair to his cursive, as well as the fact that there seemed to be a scribbled out A before his signature. I would not let this incompetent fool ruin my holdings. I would have the power that was my birthright.

For years, I would conduct similar such maneuvers. It became a performance of sorts. The key ring would leap from his belt loop to my gloved hand, landing with a graceful turn into the lock of his office. My slippered feet would dance through the slimmest crack of the door so as not to let light from the open curtains spill into the other room. My night gown would sway with me, it became synonymous with the robes of a queen in my mind. I’d Chassé from the doorway to his desk, all too eager to begin my work. The moon and I became partners in this secretive dance, for she was the subtle light I remained loyal to, granting me sight of the papers I now held under my midnight authority. And so began the unofficial, unnoticed rule of the new Dimitrescu, though the old one was oblivious to how he’d been replaced. Thankfully the old fool was a drunkard and simply believed he had managed to make all of these lucrative decisions in his intoxicated stupor.

As if.

Looking back, I cannot help but laugh heartily at how bold I was. I am much too good. But a large amount of my amusement is pointed at the pure egocentrism of the man who named himself my father. How humorous the thought of a drunk man taking the time to send out the decrees I painstakingly assembler was. There was a time when this did not entertain me, however. It was no laughing matter when my father took all the credit for my success. I had heard so much praise on the account of his wise conduct of the county. Barons and dukes and alike bowed to him, preening in his presence as if he exuded some holy power.

I grew bitter.

I was the one making these decisions! I was the one keeping him together! I had created this man’s legacy in the dead of night and neither he nor his adoring fans knew this. It infuriated me. Dear Diary, I am ashamed to admit that even now I’ve cracked the stem of my glass reminiscing upon it. For lack of a more eloquent response to this situation, it just wasn’t fair! Surely if they knew the raven haired girl with his nose and ten times his wit trailing behind him was the one truly in charge, they wouldn’t grovel to him the same way. He would be forgotten like the sorry bastard he was while everyone kissed the ground I walked upon. But they didn’t know. And so I was just his daughter. A material object he constantly strove to rid himself of. It was infuriating, I tell you, infuriating! I could only feed off of second hand acknowledgement for so long.

And so, a plot came to be. Or rather, a hastily conceived idea. I did not spend fortnights planning his death. I did not weave a technical tale of coverups and falsehoods. There was no subtlety. I was sick of hiding. You call it a risk, I called it a need. A need for his blood coating my hands as soon as possible. It was the eve of a grand event- which one it was escapes my memory for there was simply no end to the monotonous parties I was dragged along to - but all I knew was that I couldn’t stand to see him grin so smugly with the acclaim he hadn’t truly earned even one more time.

This night was not a ballet. I did not dance on light feet through the halls. I near slammed the door of my chambers as I tore through the corridors. The moon could not illumine me tonight. She would take no pleasure in seeing him torn to pieces, though I certainly would. I was near frothing at the mouth. One could paint my likeness as the lycans that now hunger in the shadows of the village.

I opened his door and closed it behind me without an ounce of gentleness. Let them hear. My nightgown billowed around me like the dark cloaks death was usually depicted wearing. The old man could not hear me over his snores. I clutched the previously ornamental dagger in my hand and snarled at the sight of his peaceful sleep. I was not going to allow him to slumber through this. In my rage I punched through the glass of his window (I dimly acknowledged it would be a good alibi for the later accusation of assassins, but mostly I just yearned for his terror) to the sound of which he shot up. He looked around frantically and saw the face of his daughter as the blade plunged into him without the courtesy of a warning. It was a wet, nasty slide of flesh around the metal of my blade. It was the sickest form of penetration. It was my finest act of political assistance to his county. I grin now at the memory of his shock. His greedy mouth parted in disbelief. He croaked my name into the night and I twisted the blade deeper. I only remember the sound from me being something between a growl and a triumphant laugh. He tried to cry out and I pulled the dagger from his side and forced it down his throat the same way I knew he had forced his foul chode down the throats of unwilling maidens. His lips curved around it and I looked down at him as his fat body flailed in agony. He deserved this, I had thought as I shoved my hand past his teeth and drug the blade along the walls of his esophagus, he deserves to die. I am greater at thirty than he ever was at fifty. I am not his daughter, I am his better. That was my mantra as I pulled horrific noises from this man. It was the most pleasurable thing I’d ever done. I had expected at least some remorse, but seeing him bloodied and dying brought me nothing but glee. I watched death tear him from his hideous form and I did not relent. I stabbed again and again until I felt calm. I had three decades of pent up anger to get out, so he was long dead before then. He looked like an oversized meatball when I was done, limp in the bed he spent most of his lazy fucking life in.

My white slip was dyed red with vengeance. This was my coronation long before I ever received the crown. I still keep that gown as a momento, though it is now far too small.

Today I contemplate that garment with all its dried blood and crusted on innards. Perhaps I have a wardrobe filled with fine dresses, but none is as fine as that one.

Can a normal dress be stained with the moment you gained independence? Can it tell the story of the rise of House Dimitrescu? Since that day we have done nothing but prosper. Even a century later I do not regret it.

Dear Diary, I am Alcina Dimitrescu. I am a cruel woman. I am power. I am not his daughter. I am forever his better.

#resident evil village #lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #re8 #resident evil #resident evil 8 #okay so.#this is something #I saw a TikTok and I got the brain itchies so I had to write it out #I know this is nothing sexy or silly but I like to think Alcina had a pretty bad ass origin story even outside the cadou #does this count as a character study?#idk #I’m not an official writer #this is an unreasonable amount of words to expect someone to read #to those who did read this I love you and thank you #you’re a hottie #mwa #lady d #tw abuse mention

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