namely, me

[08.07.01] » by ScaRR

namely, me.
by ScaRR

…When viewed through the eyes of Scarlet.

 "My life is not a game that I play to entertain you
And if you can do it better, then you're welcome to my fame"
~Madonna
 

Bitch.

That's what they call me.

Little hussy. Tramp. Hooker. I've heard them all.

But I know better. I taste their jealousy, I relish their avarice, I indulge in their covetousness. Unwilling to accept their eradication, all those worthless scums do is bitch their case of being overridden by a woman.

A mere woman.

Wretched fools, I laugh in spite of myself. I smirk in vicious malevolence, I smirk at their fatuous pride, shattered by a sheer female-

Namely, me.

And they say I'm no better than a slut. A despicable slut.

You know, maybe they're right.

And they say I'm a disgrace, some abasement of dishonour. A shame, that's what I am. But had they ever thought about the fucking shame I went through instead. Of course they haven't. Selfish, illiberal bastards, each and every one of them.

So I bereaved my virtue, I abandoned my chastity. I clawed my way up the ladder of corruption.

Like hell I cared.

Like anyone cared.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself, nor do I want your pity. I deserve more than your fucking pity.

So you could say that I'm no virtuous saint. Look at her, you say, just some immoral wench, indecent, corrupted, adulterated, -

Unclean.

So you could say, that I've been through it all. Disillusionment, I've had my fair share of disillusionment all right. Sorrow, well it builds a hell of a character, I can tell you that. And then there's humiliation…

…And breakdown.

There comes the time when you feel lost. An utter, hollow loss, but it's almost indescribable. Sometimes you just feel so lost. You feel devastated, inevitably. But most of all you feel…alone.

So very alone, it stings the back of your throat with an astringent tinge.

Some impurities may regress, but not many understand that some just can't. Those of the soul remained tainted, where tears come to no avail, wept lamentations are futile -

-And the wound lingers forever.

 The darkest stain yet, is the larceny of integrity, the marred tarnish of lost innocence, strewn and forgotten like some mistaken attribute of your heart. And the hurt never heals. The ravage incises so deeply the absurd hope of convalescence is dashed to shards of devastation.

And hope? I never thought that word could ever escape my lips again. I don't know any goddamned hope, and I don't need any. These days, you don't fucking hope. You want.

And then you realize you have fallen too far in the abysmal chasm of no return.

There is no return.

But by then, it's too late. And there's no turning back. Remorse is disseminated, and contrition…fuck, I'm too tired to elaborate on that shit anymore.

I lived with no regrets. There isn't room for penitence anyway. I don't implore atonement. Who do think I am, Vincent? He can wallow in his senseless daydream for as long as I goddamn care.

I don't daydream. Hell, no. That's why I don't beseech indemnity or repentance. I don't owe the world anything, but fate owes me a promising future. I don't think I believe in a foreordained destiny, but I want to believe my deserved prescience.

Then again I don't have to. I have successfully established myself, and I'm fucking proud of it.

Don't ask me for directions, I'm every bit as lost as you are. Or maybe I don't want to tell you, because I don't think you need to know about my lousy childhood. I don't think you need to know I grew up a fraction too soon for a little girl. Except I was never a little girl, she ran away from my contemptible existence together with my virginity. I still question myself if I was indisputably gladdened to let them go, but I can't find a reason. Yet.

And I can't find a reason to why that bitch abandoned her child in the depraved constituency of the slums. The fucking whore was just trying to shun her conscience, and her overbearing responsibility. Perhaps that's why I was never born with those as well.

I hate her for that.

She is not my mother, and she never will be. I refuse to acknowledge her regard, and it fucking serves her right.

Serves her right her daughter learned in her goddamn footsteps, and forged into a slut every bit a prostitute as she was. Serves her right her daughter learned about rape and a shattered adolescence the hard way and ascertained the only effortless strive up from the shit-hole she came from.

And most of all, it serves her right her daughter is now the imperious chief executive of an enterprise so impressive, the very awe of it would banish her unworthy self to the crawling ghettos.

You see, it's all a matter of being gone precipitately. Too far. So I just had to surpass higher-

-And higher.

Onwards, unstoppable and undeviating, until my greatest desires prevailed my last trace of humanity.

Good riddance, anyway. It was a major hindrance towards betterment, and that, I was gratified to be relieved of.

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words may never hurt me.

How authentic. But how incomparably did the veracity lie?

Words may never hurt me?

It does hurt. It hurts, it stabs gravely. It tears apart a broken heart, broken from years of suffered affliction. It crushes a flailing soul, flailing from the lost regions of a betrayed spirit.

It fucking hurts.

Then there comes the time when you have to harden, and have a change of heart. A change of who's boss.

And then you have to stand up for yourself.

Because no one else does.

Shut up, I said I don't crave your sympathy. You deprived me of compassion when I needed it, and don't you think that fucking excuse of an apology can make up for it.

And there comes the time when you want to prove yourself. To corroborate your prominence, ascertain the confidence that once forsaken you against the derision and brazen jeers; against the contumelious mockery, and despise. To prove yourself and show them what you're made of.

That you're made of substance.

Worthy, superlative substance.

And looking back, I smile to myself. A victorious smile. After all, revenge is sweet.

Bittersweet.

Life doesn't play fair I guess. It never did. This isn't some kind of infantile fairy tale world we live in, and not everyone gets to be the good guy. And there's no taking turns, you stupid fool. What were you expecting, children waiting to be pushed on a swing? Let me remind you, Avalanche just got lucky, and someone's gotta take the bad role anyway.

Namely me, I guess.

They call me the impenitent slut. I'd prefer the Chief Executive of SHINRA Weaponry Development, thank you very much.

I earned it. I earned my title, my eminence, my fucking reputation – Scarlet Di Vanesse, Head of Weaponry Development.

Luscious.

But between you and me, however, I daresay the bed hoards the best weapon.

Abhorrently christened a shameless whore, think I didn't know that? But I know I deserved everything I've got, and that's all I fucking care about nowadays. Rising to glory, fame,
status, wealth and power-

-I did it all.

I did it my way.

Now the tables are turned, I get my share this time. My fair share.

So don't mess with the big girl, anyhow. Just watch it, that's all I'm telling you.

Don't mess with the bitch. Scarlet the bitch.

…Namely, me .
 
 

Concluded Aug2000____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Hold on to Your Innocence copyright of Madonna from the musical Evita. The lyrics have been slightly modified to adhere to the fanfic.