A villain is a villain. Nobody cares about the why or how of it. It matters little the pain, anger, fear or betrayal that leads them to make the choices they make. 

Nobody cares how you get where you're going, the end result is all that matters. Being broken down time and again, losing pieces of yourself along the way; how could it not twist you into something else? How could it not make you ugly?

Miseria certainly felt ugly most of the time. Her name alone marked her for a tragic life. People had often told her that names had power and could be a foreshadowing of what was to come. She had come to realize that they were right. 

She'd thought of changing her name, but what was the point really? Right from birth, maybe before, the world had already decided; her life would not be a happy one. Her mother had died in childbirth and her father had never truly gotten over it. In his grief over losing his beloved wife, he had branded his daughter, Misery. He became bitter choosing to resent his only child for something she had no control over. 

She had often wondered why he had chosen to keep her at all. Why he hadn't simply abandoned her or dealt a more permanent solution, and reunited her with her mother. As she got older his resentment only grew and so did hers. She was missing an integral part of her life. She had no mother, no mother-like figure to help her through things that only a mother could understand. Yet he couldn't see it, so lost in his grief yet he denied hers. 

Eventually she gave up hope of reaching him. Even sharing in his pain would give them some sort of connection but her refused choosing to continue blaming her instead. If she hadn't been born, he would still have his wife. When she became sullen and withdrawn, he became more angry. She was ungrateful, wasting the life  her mother had given up for her. He had named her well. He often said that. Even now she could feel the words echoing through her, 'I named you right. Always miserable. Always the cause of my misery.'

How could she not have been? People had told her it wasn't his fault. He had loved his wife more than anything. He was dealing with the loss as best he could. She couldn't possibly understand the love they had shared. It was tragic, they said, that she had never known her mother. She was a wonderful, kind, caring and loving woman. 

People would probably say that about him now, too. People always do after you die. Nobody ever shows up to a funeral and tells you all the bad things the person laying in the casket did. Nobody tells the truth about them, even if they were horrible. You can't speak ill of the dead. 

Her father had become violent, even with people there to see it. It didn't matter, people tend to look away when they're uncomfortable. It's easier to pretend you don't see a man striking his child than to involve yourself in someone elses problem. Easier to ignore the tears of the child, to tell yourself they're overreacting. Everywhere she turned, people ignored or denied her claims. It took her too long to understand. There was no one else to help her; she would have to do it herself. So she had. 

'Guilty.'

The sound of the gavel and the finality of the word brought her back to the present with crushing clarity. At sixteen, she was going to spend the rest of her life in prison. Rotting away for trying to help herself when no one else would. 

*Originally posted on read.cash*