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Epel hated being Vil's little, perfect doll to do with as he saw fit.
He would be dressed up in frilly outfits that made his dysphoria act up and when he tried to tell Vil about the feeling that made him want to claw all of his skin off, his throat would lock up and he couldn't say anything and Vil would lecture him about speaking with confidence and grace.
Nothing he could do about it.
He would be forced to pitch his voice higher like he wasn't already casting it as low as he could to try and stave off that feeling that dug under his mind and burrowed into his nerves and then he would be scolded for not pitching it even higher when he was terrified about others finding out about him not being a real boy.
Nothing he could do about it.
He would be forced to abandon the expensive medication that his family bought him when he came out to them because he couldn't take them when he was under Vil and Rook's watchful eyes and he could feel his confidence draining away by the day, and he was scolded for not presenting himself properly in public.
Not a single thing he could do about it.
He hated Vil.
Vil, with his sharp, intelligent, cold amethyst eyes. Vil, with his perfect posture and regal demeanor. Vil, with his set face and small smiles and harsh glares. Vil, with his fame and his money and his constant nagging. Vil, with the ability to tear away whatever small sense of masculinity he had left. Vil, with his strict diet and stricter routines and bitter punishments. Vil, with his confidence that matched up to his strength. Vil, with the idea that he could help Epel when all he did was make him hurt more. Vil, his Housewarden. Vil, his master.
Vil, the person who was systematically destroying him with no idea that he was doing so.
He hated Rook.
Rook, with his even sharper eyes that caught everything Epel did. Rook, with his eccentric ways of speech and tendencies to slip into the language of Flowers. Rook, with his stupid hat that made Epel want to tear it off and give him a proper one from Harveston. Rook, with his fascination with hunting and stalking. Rook, the one person who knew just how much of liar he was. Rook, the person who knew who he was and still smiled and lied straight to his face about his beauty when he knew that he had none. Rook, his Vice Housewarden. Rook, his watcher. Rook, his keeper.
Rook, the person who had the knowledge to tear him down yet still claimed that he was beautiful no matter how much of a lie that was.
He hated Pomefiore.
Pomefiore, with its sparkling walls and pristine floors, so unlike Harveston. Pomefiore, with its strict routines, rules, and patterns. Pomefiore, with its beautiful people who were all so much better than him because they weren't lying to everyone's faces. Pomefiore, with its way of imprisoning him. Pomefiore, with its harsh punishments and harsher practices. Pomefiore, with its severe people who were all so much ricer and better than him. Pomefiore, his dorm. Pomefiore, his prison.
Pomefiore, the place that was breaking him into pieces and leaving nothing left but a shell of who he once was.
But most of all, he hated himself.
Epel Felmier, with his muddy cyan eyes that ruined the perfection of the world outside. Epel Felmier, with his bright purple hair that was too vibrant, too noticeable. Epel Felmier, with his dainty face and fair skin and a hidden body. Epel Felmier, the liar who lied to everyone's faces because he wasn't brave enough to tell them the truth. Epel Felmier, with his broken mind and the something wrong with him that everyone could tell, even if they didn't know what, because why else would they turn up their noses at him? Epel Felmier, himself. Epel Felmier, the person he hated.
Epel Felmier, the lying liar who he hated with every cell of his being.
He would kill Epel Felmier.
He would kill the Poison Apple of the Felmier family.
He would become who Vil wanted him to become.
He would become the new perfect, innocent actor and overtake Neige and send back money to Epel Felmier's family, and he would kill the ghost of the little girl left behind.
And yet...
And yet Epel Felmier stood in his room in Pomefiore, in the bathroom, away from his roommates, holding a knife to his skin like it would solve all of his problems.
It was surprisingly easy to steal from the school kitchens in a moment between classes to stash in his bag.
He gripped the knife in a shaky hand, point hovering a centimeter above his bare forearm, threatening to drive it in to chase away the voices.
The voices that chanted in the back of his mind, telling him that he wasn't a real boy, that he deserved to die, that he deserved to hurt and live and hurt some more because that would make him suffer more than if he died.
He wanted to-
He wanted to-
What did he want?
Epel Felmier wanted to be free.
Epel Felmier wanted to hurt himself.
Epel Felmier wanted to die.
Epel Felmier wanted to suffer.
Epel Felmier wanted to be a boy.
Epel Felmier needed to kill himself.
With a sigh, he tucked the knife away. If he did harm himself, then Rook would notice immediately, then Vil would find out and then he would be lectured for hours about not marring his skin with any scars. It couldn't even really be hidden with makeup either, if he really did.
He wanted to die.
That thought had crossed his mind several times throughout the day already.
Maybe one day he would finally go through with it, and then he wouldn't be Vil's doll anymore.