Bloody Red Doll

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don't own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

Part 1

The men in my family were blessed with having luscious, beautiful red hair; the color of a warm flame and richly thick. None of them appreciated their gift. They would suffocate it under a powdered wig, choke it with a tight bow, or maim it with scissors until it was only a stub on their heads.

I seemed to be the only one who truly savored this blessing, mother made sure of it.

Her own hair was a brilliant golden. A few subtle streaks of gray had shown up by the time I as old enough to notice anything, blending in perfectly. She wore her hair differently from day to day, her servant Annette was an amazing stylist; nimble little fingers would to intricate twists and curls, braids so perfect, artistic almost. Mother never forgave imperfection; sometimes Annette would make her collar higher to cover the scratches the bristles of a brush left on her face and neck.

Mother wouldn't let any servant lay a finger on me; I was her own little project. She loved to do French braids on me, sometimes I would get a ponytail if we had occasion but she loved to do wide ringlets hanging down my back. Sometimes she would leave it flowing natural, adding a few well-placed curls.

She loved to dress me in these little velvet suits with plenty of lace and ruffles when I was small. Even on more demure occasions of dress, ribbons would be added here and there and she always knew what to do with rings and brooches.

I was like a little doll to her. She would hire tailors from London or even France to make me the prettiest little outfits. Money was never an object and our family had plenty of it. I suspect she would rather I had been a girl. She had a girl for five minutes many years ago, only five minutes before death took her. I suspect she found a nice outfit to bury her in.

The rest of her children were boys, one of whom also met the grave as an infant and four others who rarely recognized her presence by the time I came around.

Their's had been an arranged marriage. She came from a family of wealthy German traders and marrying their 16-year-old daughter to the son of a British baron probably gave them a lot more clout and money.

My father was Thomas Arnold Samuel, 6th Baron Sutcliff. Our fortunes were made through livestock and corn on our manor in Essex though our family had become increasingly known for innovations in agricultural equipment. The barons held patents for a plow that could turn the earth in such a way to dig up more nutrients and a troth that changed the nature of feed for better production. There was also a rack that could put nails through the skulls of five cows in a row, killing them as they fed. There were many other patents of the like; creating fortune from better ways to kill animals. Taking in the daughter of a merchant family was more a business decision; Anneliese Dresdner's name might as well been "pawn."

My parents cared about each other once, or at least that was how the old butler Ross would describe it. I asked him when I was five if there was ever a time mother and father were able to not throw things at each other if they were in the same room or look at each other in a warmer gaze than a deathly glare. He said they would hold hands in their younger days or sit next to each other in the study reading. Stories of an ancient time that were likely fairy tales told by an addled servant. Ross was found hanging from his ceiling six months later; anything he said in life lost a bit of credibility.

My brothers never said anything in general, only because I was to be seen and not heard as I was only a child to them. I was the youngest, my eldest brother Matthew was older than me by two decades, groomed from birth to be the next baron. He and my brother Jacob, older two years younger than Matthew, would turn the side business of patents and equipment into a manufacturing operation, Sutcliff Agriculture, Ltd., that was raking in the pounds…for themselves at least. Father was getting nothing save for the family's usual earnings. Matthew was greasing a nice place for himself when father finally shoved off and the barony fell to him. Jacob managed the London office, but was ever the greedy businessman. Title, station, human life, all those pesky other things meant nothing to him aside from money.

Elijah was 15 when I was born and entered the ministry soon after. He had a wife and two children by the time I was four, I only knew of them through the occasional mention by my mother. Sometimes that mention would be followed by "Being around us threatens his righteousness."

Oskar was 12 and in boarding school at the time of my birth. I remember seeing him a few times before he pursued interests of a young man and remained a ghost to me like the others. Notice Oskar's, or more completely Oskar Friedrich's decidedly German name. My guess is my father wanted nothing to do with this one and let my mother have free reign; not caring about the foreign name for his son as his son likely didn't exist to him.

Such was the same with me in spades. She was entering her later years when I was born, probably the last time she bothered to get in father's bed. My mother told my I was christened Grell Nils after members of her family, though I thought it somewhat delightful the German translation of my forename is "garish" and "dazzling." It was more her favorite word; she loved everything grand, everything bright, everything beautiful; the finest clothes, the most glittering jewelry, the most riotous parties. I was her projection; I was indeed her little doll both for herself and against my father.

By the time I was four, it was only myself, my mother, my father, and our servants in our manor. Matthew and Jacob would periodically drop by, mostly to coax my father into handing over money and signing papers. Father was never sober enough to care; he would sign the papers half asleep.

Drinking gradually became his hobby the older I got, as was carrying out the most outrageous and despicable acts when he was completely drunk. A few stumbles down the hallway would become a few obscenities thrown at my brothers. Mother would always order the new butler David or some other servant to keep him out of sight if we had any respectable guests. "The baron is ill, shall I give him a message?"

I thought he just had off manners for a while though the only time he really spent with me was when I was with my nanny. I forgot most of their names, none of them tended to stay in the house long. Mother would hire a new one and invariably the new governess would meet my father. Sometimes he would ask for a private discussion, I would then follow them to father's office and hear these odd grunts and screaming. They would both walk out soon after with sweaty faces and uncomfortable expressions. Invariably, I would get a new nanny soon after, though mother must have known how this would end up.

Father was to be left alone, that was always what I thought. Then he decided to start paying a little more attention to me when I was around seven, the years of mother's primping and doting made me a clear target for when his manner turned much, much darker.

I remember the night when I was six I wandered into the hallway to get a glass of juice. I mainly just wanted to stretch my legs, I could have easily rang for David but really didn't feel like it. I walked down one corridor with a candle and saw a shadow coming down the hall. It was my father stumbling around, I could not get away from him as I was in clear view. I stood still, he walked closer to me and I saw a small axe in his hand.

He stopped right in front of me and waved it in my face, my heart racing in fear.

"Who's a good boy," he said, waving the axe back and forth. "Are you a good boy? I'd hate to have a naughty child."

He snickered a little, I could smell the Scottish whiskey on his breath. He then dropped the axe on the floor and merely walked away as if nothing happened. I ran back to my room and tried to keep to my room at night from then on.

A while later he made an offhand comment about how I was too soft, I needed to toughen up a bit. The next morning he shook me awake just before dawn and dragged me into the cattle barn. Roddy the stable manager was there in front of the door, poised beside a cow; a knife pressed against the creature's throat. Father grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me forward so I was but a step from the animal.

Roddy pressed the blade. Hot blood sprayed over me, over my face and a little getting in my mouth. My clothing, a nice, blue outfit mother picked out, was soaked in blood. The cows legs gave under it and it flailed, blood spraying more with each struggle for breath that never came until the flow of blood diminished.

I could barely breathe. I stood paralyzed, I wanted to scream but my vocal chords could not move. I watched as the cow stilled, the life draining from it with the slowing flow of its blood.

Father would drag me back into the house and back to my room. He stood outside the door as David changed my clothes. Father had him bring the soiled clothes outside when we were finished and he stood in the hallway with me for a few horrifying seconds.

"You repeat this, you'll get a more direct lesson," he said before walking away.

No word was ever repeated. I had nightmares for weeks, though at some point the thought stopped scaring me. It almost fascinated me how the cow stilled, how its blood flowed slower until it was only a trickle.

Father went back to ignoring me, of which I was eternally grateful. Mother did her best to keep me occupied in other ways.

We would go into London together on occasion. She introduced me to opera, to orchestras, galleries. I was eight-years-old when my mother took me to see a play called "A Midsummer Night's Dream." I believe I truly fell in love; my affections were for the beautiful words and mesmerizing stories of one William Shakespeare.

I told mother I wanted to be an actor. She would laugh and smile, I never knew how seriously she took this but I was deadly serious at the time. I sometimes would sneak into the tool shed out back to rehearse lines, often improvised from my child's imagination. Occasionally I would put on little productions for the housekeepers, and sometimes when I played outside they would invite me into their cottage for biscuits and theater.

It was early evening of one such night I was in the room of Annette and her husband Geoffrey, our footman. I was putting on a little play, they laughed and clapped, told me how magnificent I was. Then someone pounded on the door, I heard my father yelling from outside. Geoffrey and Annette gently pushed me toward the wardrobe and I went in shaking; was he looking for me? I didn't want to think on the horrible consequences of having him angry at me.

I hid among Annette's black dresses, though could see out a small crack of the door. Father burst in, hair falling from his ponytail looking an awful fright. I don't remember exactly what he said, but it had to do something with stealing. Father screamed at both of them for stealing something, I blocked out the details. I do remember that axe in his hand.

It was as if the sound turned off in my mind, though I vaguely remember Annette screaming, the crunch and splat of a sharp blade digging into someone's skull, the river of crimson flowing down Geoffrey's face and how is soaked in his beard, the way his eyes widened as if they would pop out of his head. I do remember father's boot digging into Geoffrey's chest as he pulled the axe out, a spray of blood following behind.

I just remember how red it all was. How Geoffrey's white shirt turned brilliant, glistening red. How Annette's white collar was dyed crimson as her head fell backward on the sinews of her neck; the spraying fountain that followed. Father's already ruddy face splashed and practically painted, yellow teeth exposed in a snarl providing a stark contrast.

I just looked at the colors, the colors kept me from fainting or screaming or maybe dying of fright; perhaps kept me from thinking of what would happen if he found me there. I think he had been gone from the room for five minutes by the time I realized it. I don't remember how I got out of there but I did. I just remember hopping out the window and right onto the grass.

All I wanted to do was clean my feet off, that's all I could think of. I remember finding a small puddle and being horrified to even approach it, though I promised myself I would ask for a nice bath later. The blood was off and I rushed back to the main house. I believe the cook let me in through the side door into the kitchen muttering something about "Bloody kid playing outside this time of night." He was more right than he knew. I made it back to my room unnoticed. Somehow I fell right asleep.

Mother tried to keep me in my room for the next day, she got me some little masks to use for my plays. I am sure she did this to keep me from the horrors lurking across the field. A child cannot possibly understand such cruelty, a child must not even get the hint of anything amiss.

Years later I heard some of the lingering whispers about how a madman broke into the servant's house, one of those Irish peasants wandering the countryside resorting to a life of crime to keep them fed. Or maybe Geoffrey was wanted for some crime, or a peeved debtor or angry husband tracked him down.

Father hired a few guards to walk the perimeter, though I suspect it was Matthew's idea. Father resumed his silence, I never said anything. I don't doubt if I did I would have been next. Mother never said anything about it, but her demeanor changed somewhat. I hoped she had some magical hint of what happened. No, it was not magical, it was borne out of years of watching him fall more and more to pieces.

Everyday after that was just normal; quiet, numb. There were no nightmares, there was no jumping at every sound I heard as it was after the cow. There were fewer plays after that, few rehearsals. Everything felt like an act. Mother never said anything, but the way she would embrace me a bit gentler and kiss my forehead a little more felt like she understood something. I felt like I did not have a secret.

Little did I know my horror and fear would all but end a month later.

Thomas Arnold Samuel, 6th Baron Sutcliff was found dead in his bed on the 21 of April, 1768. David was bringing him breakfast and found he would not wake. His doctor said he most likely passed in his sleep. He was never in good health and his drinking likely put him into the grave. I still think drinking was still the culprit, though not the endless amounts of whiskey and brandy he would consume.

No, I now suspect it was from drinking the arsenic my mother instructed he receive in his tea every day like sugar, perhaps my brothers had a hand in it as well. I could never prove anything, of course, but it was this small feeling at the pit of my stomach that someone took measures. Knowing what I do now, all the symptoms were there; he was stumbling all the time even when he didn't smell like liquor, the odd color of his fingernails, how the thick hair he kept into middle age was suddenly thinning.

Though I think it was the way mother went into my room crying, tears gushing, face a right mess.

"I…I…I'm so sorry, Grelly, mein liebschoen, you're father is…is…he's gone to heaven."

Cue dramatic arms around her child's shoulders and sobbing into his hair while the servants looked on with tears. A marvelous performance from such a splendid actress; I knew it even then.

We were all in official mourning. The manor was festooned in black, everyone wore black and held white flowers, a lot of people were crying, everything felt…joyful. A pall had been lifted. Polite mourning was in order yet I had to feign that.

It was like the world had been opened up.