Thomas delivered the death knell: “Yes, but it happened.”
Yes, but it happened. The watcher moaned, exhaling its poison into the heart and mind of the last of the Sharpes. For the brother was a Sharpe no longer; he had renouced his name, his legacy… and his curse. So the house reserved its love for his sister, the murderess, the one who would serve and love evil for the rest of her days. Who would not waver from filling the halls and walls with ghosts. And it whispered at her to do it, do it—
And with a shriek, she stabbed her brother in the chest. He tried to grab the knife but she slashed at his arms and hands, wildly. “Is this how it ends?” the sister screamed in the throes of anguish. “You love her? You love her?” Hate him, it cackled. Thomas looked down at his belly as blood poured from it; out from his mouth came the faintest sound—a discreet surprise, a quiet, nearly casuak sigh: “Oh, Lucille…”
She stabbed him again, almost as if she had to prove to him that she had meant to, weeping half in rage and half in pain. The pain was so great that he went numb, which was more that he deserved. He had done this… to her, to them. To all of them. Still, he tried to save her from ripping him apart, because he must save her, and Edith, and the doctor.
“No, no, no, stop, please. I can’t…” Thomas trailed off. I can’t, the litany of his life. I can’t, and so he had been forced to. He had turned her into this. The look on her face. Would it be the last thing he ever saw? He knew that all she wanted to know was for him to be silent, to stop looking at her. He hurt everywhere; the numbness was gone, and every blow, slap, and kick that she had endured for his sake hit him full force. Engulfed him. He was bobbing in a boiling vat of crimson clay, and torment sucked him down toward a scarlet hell.
With a shriek she drove the knife in one final time; it lodged itself firmy into his cheek, almost to the hilt. — Crimson Peak, book.
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