Fandom: Le Portrait de Petit Cossette: A boy encounters the spirit of a girl named Cossette who was murdered by the man who painted her portrait—she now inhabits said portrait. She doesn't ask for much. She just wants him to die for her.
Taunt: My fandom will confuse the hell out of you.
She looks so confused. What is Marcello doing? What is he talking about?
I cannot help but feel the smallest twinge of pity for her. She may be pretty, but she knows nothing. Still, she is the imposter, the fake.
She is the imposter.
I am real.
Marcello pushes her back to the wall, the sword in his hand. She is frightened, uncertain, bewildered. She calls out to him—platitudes of love, questioning his actions, begging for mercy and reason.
There is blood on him, on his sword. I can smell it. I do not think she is his first victim tonight. Who else has he killed? I suspect her family, if he felt they would get in the way. I daresay that his love of her beauty became an obsession, and obsession lead to this.
Only it is not her beauty.
It was once hers, but no longer.
It is mine.
He tells her that he loves her.
And he drives the sword into her chest.
Blood—a deeper red than Cossette's lips, darker than any paint Marcello had ever used—immediately covers her. It rushes from the wound like a fountain, soaking her dress and blemishing her fair skin. Her eyes, those eyes that had bewitched and entrapped dear Marcello, have lost their light; they no longer see anything at all.
She is dead.
…but Cossette lives.
Marcello stumbles backwards. He killed her to preserve her beauty, so that it would never fade. And now he is stained, tainted by his crime of passion. To save her beauty…foolish man. Didn't he know that he had already done that?
Still, the imposter needed to be removed.
The room itself is resounding now, vibrating with shock and hate at the event to which it has just borne witness. The glasses, the furniture, the dolls, even the lights in the chandelier and the glass panes in the windows…everything in here condemns you, Marcello.
Beloved, despised Marcello, the one who gave me life. You who gave existence to true beauty.
Look at her, lying there on the floor, stained by her own blood. The heart no longer beats. She is frozen in a moment that has been both captured for eternity, and yet will never again be realized. She is mere flesh, so easily broken.
I am captured in canvas and paint, by oils and brush-strokes guided by the loving hand of obsession. I will live forever, undestroyed and unblemished. My beauty—mine.
You will decay and rot to nothing.
I will continue to exist.
As soon as Marcello painted me, you became the copy. With my creation, you became obsolete, unnecessary, and such things must be removed.
You no longer live. You no longer exist. You no longer have the beauty that captivated a painter and drove him to create masterpieces and destroy the subject of those masterpieces.
You are no longer Cossette.
There is only me and my beauty.
I am Cossette.
PS. Holy surrealism, Batman o.o The idea is that this is from the painting's point of view as Marcello kills Cossette. A lot of it was inspired by her one line in the last episode (this is anime-based, I have not read the manga) where she says that once she was created, Cossette became the copy. That struck me.
Thanks for reading, all! Much love!