InsaneJournal

Who: Bran (A narrative)
What: Oh, just a little breakdown.
Where: 1106
When: Sometime after this
Warnings: The usual insanity.

Lotte thought he was nice. Lotte was worried about him. Lotte thought he was just an innocent victim of the fables, chosen among the others to turn into a madman named Erik during every full moon. He would have laughed if his throat wasn't so tight, but at best all he could manage was a strangled, wordless sound. She didn't think he'd hurt Ella, but how long would that last? They would never find anyone else to pin it on, and he would be their only suspect. He couldn't reveal himself to her; not now, not ever.

But he wanted to. She'd met Trevor and she seemed to like him well enough - maybe they wouldn't be able to prove he had anything to do with Ella's attack. Maybe, maybe; so many fucking uncertainties it made him want to destroy until there was nothing left. How long could he keep his fable a secret? How long until someone decided to go looking for the Phantom? If they found him, what then? Would he be murdered by a mob of the people he so vehemently despised? No; he would kill himself before that happened. If he died, would Lotte bury him in the catacombs like Christine had buried Erik?

This time he did laugh, a hysterical gurgle of noise that rose to dangerous levels before he managed to cut it off. Wouldn't that be a perfect fucking ending to their story? Lloyd Webber would love it; he'd already had audiences weeping for the poor misunderstood Phantom. So much useless pity, tears shed that didn't do him or Erik any damn good. They didn't care, did they? The musical made them weep but the book made them afraid, because he wasn't normal and he wasn't good and bad people were supposed to suffer. His head began to hurt, thoughts becoming disjointed and nonsensical, colliding with each other until nothing made sense anymore.

Ella just had to interfere, didn't she? It seemed like a good idea at the time, teaching her a lesson, but Lotte wouldn't understand. Why did people have to be so weak; so pathetically fragile? He hadn't killed her, damn it, he'd just hurt her. Just a little. She would recover and heal and be FINE because she had people who cared about her. His grandmother had poured fucking lighter fluid on him and set him on fire. No one rushed to his defense; no one swore revenge or even gave a damn - and he survived. He lived. Why the hell couldn't she? Why did she have to whimper and complain and make him out to be some kind of monster?

Bran snarled at the empty air, clearing the top of his desk with one savage sweep of his arm. He hated them, he hated all of them - except Lotte. He couldn't hate Lotte, not when she defended him and worried about him.

"I'll figure something out," he said aloud, turning to face the mirror. "I will - I will. Erik might have given Christine up, but we're not the same." His reflection stared back at him, wild-eyed and feral. "We're not the same!"

His fist met the mirror with a high-pitched crack, sending shards of glass raining down to the floor. A few pieces were embedded in his flesh, the blood already beginning to flow. He didn't feel the pain, though. Pain was natural to him, and he didn't mind it. Not anymore.

"I won't let it end like before," he whispered, opening and closing his hand almost absently. "Ella can't stop me, either. No one can."