WIP :: Two :: Rafaela Thomas

I swear how is it possible for anyone to be this perfect

EMILIE AUTUMN

Some stuff about make up. Only Death will ever see me cry. Watch me claw at my own skin. Watch me turn myself into a bloodied jester. I can make you laugh. Let me go off by myself.

In the most quiet of moments, even the person with the most sensitive of hearing can hear Isolde’s incessant laughing as it pulls itself through the Thomas’ house. She will always be the one to crack a joke, to try to cheer others up. The worst thing to her is sadness; she avoids it by tricking her mind into happiness. Even so, she is a definite loner and will wander off at night sometimes. She hates any sort of duty and is most definitely the most rebellious of all the sisters.

Rafaela was always afraid of clowns. The fake, lurid smile; the wide, garish eyes; that laugh... It always made her remember back to when they children would play pretend, under the warm gaze of their beloved mother. At those times, there was always a little darkness behind their laughter and play - you weren't to show when you were hurt. Rafaela would trip up, bloodying her knees or palms, and Bell would approach her, face stony and whisper, "don't cry. Keep pretending, Els." So Rafaela would practice at night - clawing at her flesh until it was purple and ragged, and smiling past her tears, adopting the bright eyes and achingly wide smile of the clowns she so feared. And, after a time, pretending was easier than real life.

When the Thomas sisters were separated from their mother, all Els' practice finally payed off. Though the other sisters screamed and cried and begged the spirits to show them where she had gone, Rafaela stayed smiling. It's just a game. Keep pretending. But soon just a smile wasn't enough, because her sisters needed the comfort just as much as she did. They needed a jester.

Rafaela began to paint her face even before the circus had been formed. She practiced in her room, just like when she was a child - colouring her hair bright colours, dressing up in costume, drawing a new face on top of her own. Then she would hurt herself, conjur up the pain that she felt combined with the [ain of all her family. And, when the tears started to well up in her eyes, she would laugh. Hysterical, insane laughing, the sort that went beyond happiness. She would laugh and dance and play her violin until her make up smeared and her face and arms bled from all her scratching. And so the clown was born to the Circus of Tightropes and Lions, laughing always, bleeding where no one could see under her costume, fighting her own pain to teach herself, and her family, that there was more than despair. The girl was insane, totally and utterly, and yet, in some ways, she was the most sensible of them all.

Also she has a violin and it'slike this


Pink and shit
Song