They have names for this sort of thing.

Murder is the most appropriate, he thinks. The term collateral damage could even be used. Regicide too, depending on how you looked at it. She'd thought of herself as a goddamn queen, just like their father, so yeah, that word sounded good. But it made him sound bad. And he wasn't bad, not really.

The sight of the dead body isn't what bothers him as he sits there. Dead bodies, no big. Luigi's used to them.

They have names for this sort of thing: the way he smiles as his eyes return to his knife. It's still stuck in her guts. A part of him, in her. They have names for that too.

He still can't think of the right word, and angrily slams his fist down on the desk. Fuck, it was right there, dancing on the edge of his teeth, but it won't fall out of his mouth. The eldest Largo snorts, looking at the blood dripping off the table. Drip drip drip fuck why can't he remember the word? There's fratricide, so maybe he could call this sororicide or something. But that doesn't have the right ring to it.

Eyes back on the bleeding cadaver, he pauses, thinking maybe the word will come if he waits. She looks as disgusting as ever. Her skin is white. Not alabaster, not ebony, but pure white. On wallpaper it would look nice. On her it looks putrid. He sneers a little. At least he'd only replaced a few organs. She'd gone all out, wasting his money on new everythings.

There's a twinge of something there, as he looks at her. She hadn't always been like this, this patchwork marionette. He's the oldest, and he can remember the time when she was something else. The word's still not there, not quite.

Slaughter, maybe. That's what happened to pigs and cows and chickens, wasn't it? So it fit. But it wasn't the word he was looking for.

When he grabs the knife, it doesn't come out at first, and he tugs it again. But it's lodged in the bone, and he sits there for a long minute, looking stupid as he hangs off of the handle. But he's noticed something, and he doesn't care how he looks because he's starting to remember the word as he looks at her sprawled remains. They have names for this sort of thing, words like realization, like epiphany.

Pale skin, pale, perfect skin.

His knife embedded in her sternum like a ship's mast, him hanging off like the sail.

The betrayal scrawled across her doll's face.

In death, she's perfectly flawed, and he wonders if maybe he's gone too far.

Too late to tell now.

Deicide.

Fuck, that's the word, isn't it?