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JOLY Technicolor-Werewolf SISTER SITES  
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| Fortuity; reserved for Odile ♥ | |
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| Topic Started: Mar 1 2009, 01:12 AM (121 Views) | |
| Liza | Mar 1 2009, 01:12 AM Post #1 |
 
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Usually, when Mrs. Lovett went out to run errands, she managed to immerse herself in her own little world and not pay attention to anything outside of it that was irrelevent to the task at hand. After all, if she didn't allow herself to become distracted, then she could get whatever it was that needed to be taken care of done faster. And that meant returning to her shop sooner, which was always a comfort. The baker didn't like to be without her barber. Especially when she didn't necessarily have to be. It was hard enough to tear herself away from the building long enough to go out and mail a letter, or pick up more pie ingredients or some other necessity of the sort. So when it came to leaving and venturing out into the city for some petty little task that could just as easily be put off until tomorrow, Lovett often managed to tear herself up with indecision. Why, though, she never really knew. What reason did she have to be so distraught over merely leaving her shop? Besides the fact that it meant leaving Mr. Todd - though that was obvious. She never liked leaving him. But what was the real reason for that? She had always assumed it had just been because of the intensity of her adoration; that because of it she considered herself unable to be away from him. That could be correct, to a degree, but it didn't seem completely legitimate. Was she subconsciously worried that something could happen in the time allotted between her leaving and returning? But what on Earth could happen? What reason did she have to worry? It wasn't as if he would leave - really, did she think he would leave? Surely he wouldn't leave. That was silly. Besides, he'd told her once that he had nowhere else to go. No, he wouldn't leave. She'd go home and he'd probably be upstairs in that damned shop brooding in his chair or pacing or glaring out the window. Or, perhaps, just the way he'd been when she'd poked her head in to tell him that she was leaving. Really, now. She shouldn't have let herself get so creative, so carried away. Regardless of those lingering frets and menacing questions, she had pulled herself away from the shop to go to the market in search of various necessary items for the shop, and also for herself. She'd needed to repair the hems of several dresses for what seemed like an eternity, so she had made a point to buy some more thread and the like. Thread, several essential items for the pies. It was really all she needed, so she had begun on her way back through the market, planning to then proceed to her shop, trying not to become distracted by the noise and the bustling of other men and women carrying out their errands. Though, now that her mind had been allowed to wander somewhat, it became harder and harder to keep it under control. The items which she had bought were in a small bag - hanging on her shoulder - that she had brought with her, occasionally bouncing against her leg as she walked. And the more she walked, the more unaware she became, and the more her worries seemed to drop off one by one and become a part of the muddled noises and utterances of passing people. She was now so absorbed in the other form of her own 'little world' that she wouldn't have even realized that some people in front of her may stop - suddenly, or not - and that she would have to walk around them to get through, until it actually happened. And it did, of course. She had been looking in another direction, and was thrown violently back into reality upon coming into contact with the solid form of another person. She uttered a gasp and stumbled backwards slightly, holding her hand out to both steady herself and, perhaps, offer as a method of steadying the person - should they lose their balance - that she'd so abruptly smacked into. |
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| Erical | Mar 3 2009, 08:47 PM Post #2 |
Leader of the Surete
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J'ai descendu dans mon jardin Pour y cueillir du romarin. Odile was not thinking about anything. She was thinking about nothing. She was thinking about nothing with such violent concentration that it very nearly worked. Black. Think about black little girl. Think about the colour black and nothing else. Don't think about what happens in the black, push it out - away - force it down. Make it stay. Build the walls high around it. She caught a flash of red among the black, big walls with roses climbing up them. Thorns as big as my finger. Black. Black black black. Black as lace. Black as fur. Black as buttons on my shoes. She had plenty of practise, after all. Gentil coq'licot, Mesdames, Gentil coq'licot nouveau. She stalked steadily over a bridge, across a road - barely noticing and caring even less whether there was a carriage or a fiacre. It didn't make any difference in the world if they hit her, and it made even less difference if they didn't, so what use was that? People melted by, a sea of pink expressionless faces, eyes unseeing, mouths jabbering away about something that wasn't... black black black black black. We will not think. We will not feel. We will not remember. It became a mantra, the words repeating until she couldn't hear anything else in her head, and she walked on, eating the ground in long steady strides, her skirt dipped in mud, in gutter water, in trash and in dust. Her fingers digging through the fabric of her gloves, curled into fists and slapping at her side. The world passing by in a blur of sounds and sensations that didn't even touch her. Buzz in the darkness, she thought. Just buzz until nothing else matters. J'en avais pas cueilli trois brins, Qu'un rossignol vint sur ma main. Someone stopped before her, halting the Walk. The Walk was important, but they had stopped it. Stopped her from walking and then - wham. She was jerked out of the blackness and the hum and staring at a huge fat man with pudgy fingers and current-button eyes shoved in by an over-hasty baker before the dough could rise. He smiled, wet flapping lips forming words she couldn't hear. Big - pudgy - hands - reaching. She jerked backwards, out of the reach of the fat-spider-feel-poke-prod-caress fingers. Jerked backwards and darted around him, feeling the thoughts of his touches down her side. The wall fell, and the roses were crushed under their own thorns. Il me dit trois mots en latin. Que les hommes ne valent rien. Jacques, Jacques, Jacques. 'Come on, m'dear... just a little rumple, hmm? A little rumple-tumple?' A headache. i have a headache. I want to sleep. Don't you touch me. Let me go. Leave me alone. 'You've got plenty for your fancy men, why not some for me, eh? I put up with a lot from you, m'dear - time I got a little back! Let me go. Don't touch me! Stop it, I say stop it stop it stop it! 'Don't play the virgin, girl. You've had enough rams through your bed to sate a whore. so that's what you are, eh? Just a whore. Then you can give a little to me for the price I pay to you! No. No. No. I hate you. She was walking again. fleeing the sounds and sensations, the hand on her chest - fumbling and squeezing, between her legs, up her thigh... The coins he'd tossed - clink, clink, clink - on the table, a laugh. Mockery. Mockery and laughter. Et les garçons encore moins bien. Des dames il ne me dit rien, Mais des demoiselles, beaucoup de bien! How many corners do I have to go around to get away from you? She paused for a moment, hanging on a second of time outside a shop - catching her reflection in the sparkling clean glass. The woman looking back was a stranger, a lady with hollow eyes and a pinched ancient face. A shell of a woman without a sparck of truth in her. A shadow. A phantom. A ghost. And no one even came to the funeral. Gentil coq'licot, Mesdames, Gentil coqlicot nouveau. Perhaps it was the tears in her eyes as she started walking again, but she did not see the person rushing at her until the colided in a flurry of lace and fabric. And Odile stopped. And the blackness was gone. And she had remembered. And she wept. Gentil coq'licot, Mesdames, Gentil coqlicot nouveau. Edited by Erical, Mar 3 2009, 08:47 PM.
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| Liza | Mar 15 2009, 07:58 PM Post #3 |
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It took Mrs. Lovett a moment to gain complete and total understanding of what had just happened. Well, obviously she'd been dawdling about, like some five year old child who had managed to stray away from their mother, staring at the sky, or the market, or something else. And then... there had been some sort of solid force in front of her that had caused her to stop. And stumble. And very nearly fall over on her bum end. She supposed that she was actually rather lucky that she hadn't fallen - it was embarrassing enough to not be paying attention and just waltz right into someone, but then to fall over... She'd have the entire street looking at her. How ridiculous that would've been. Under normal circumstances, however, that wouldn't be such a bad thing - Lovett would've liked to make heads turn. But this just happened to be the completely wrong situation, of course. The next thing to take into consideration was the other person. Typically, one would check to see if the other was hurt first, but Lovett - as usual - had a different way of doing things. She tended to look and see if they were angry first. After all, where was the sense in asking them if they were alright if all they planned to do was knock some sense into your sorry head? That's when you run away, not try to make conversation. So first, with a blush saturated with humiliation plastered on her face, she looked up at the figure who she assumed was the person that she had so [rudely] walked into. For a minute she felt somewhat startled. Was she...? Had Lovett...? Oh surely she hadn't done that. Was she really crying? Lovett paled, the blush now wiped off of her face completely. This was absurd. Either Lovett had run into the woman with more force than she'd previously thought, or she had some sort of bizarre mental... impediment, or deficiency, or handicap, or something. Or just had the emotional capacity of a thimble. No one in their right mind began weeping when someone bumped into them on the street. Or perhaps they did; perhaps it was the new reaction you were supposed to have when someone did such a thing. Perhaps Lovett wasn't the one in her right mind? No, that was nonsense. She was perfectly sane. Hadn't she just established that the other day? She wouldn't dwell on it, she tended to become incredibly unreasonable and illogical when she started questioning her sanity. But what did she do about this... weeping woman in front of her? Lovett was typically sociable, yes, and she knew how to deal with customers, she knew how to comfort people... But no woman had ever come into her shop with tears running down her face. No complete stranger had ever come into her shop with tears running down their face, actually. And how did one go about comforting someone they didn't know? Lovett was sociable and typically sympathetic, yes, but... to a degree, there had to be some sort of trust formed first. And right now she wasn't really too eager to trust this woman, whether it be because she was standing in front of her weeping for a reason Lovett couldn't determine, or because she was questioning the mental [and emotional] stability of her. What she did know was that she couldn't just stand there looking like a total moron with her face shifting from red to white every ten seconds. She probably looked laughable. Like a chameleon that was incapable of blending into its surroundings... And was stuck on just two colors. Two colors that would probably never be beneficial to it. Either way... It wouldn't have surprised her if people found it humorous. They probably looked like a rather comical pair. A weeping woman and the defective chameleon, standing in the midst of the market. Lovett swallowed with some difficulty and adjusted the bag full of what she'd bought, licking her lips once very quickly before opening her mouth to speak. But what did she say? It was obvious, but she couldn't necessarily bring herself to say it, or at least say it with the instantaneity that she intended. So she clamped her mouth shut and swallowed once more, pushing a curl away from her face and shifting her weight with an embarrassed glance cast towards the... victim of her... mindless dawdling. "I'm... sorry," she began awkwardly, finally finding her voice. "...Are you alright?" |
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| Erical | Apr 6 2009, 03:48 PM Post #4 |
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Leader of the Surete
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((so late... so short! T.T)) There were two diametrically oposed forces in Odile Collard's blue-satin and rosebud adorned breast (and a generous breast it was, as many had commented in the past). The matron, the Baronness, the society dame with black lace fingers and perfectly coiffed hair - she knew what they should do. They should dust themselves off, apologise to the personage they had so rudely assaulted, and return home. Home where chores awaited, letters were to be written, and a husband was waiting like an engorged slug... and this dovetailed straight into the child Odile. The thin waif of a chit who was still yearning for the smell of fresh fields outside her window, and mud between her toes. That girl, screwed up like a blackened hankerchief, just wanted to cry. She didn't want to go home. She didn't want to be touched by pudgy fingers around her wrist... her waist... her breasts... Odile choked on a sob, and sank to the ground. Dimly she realised, she accepted that there was a person standing near her and saying something. Perhaps she should apologise? They seemed concerned. What's the matter little girl? Did you hurt yourself? Crying in public with all the little people staring at the great baronness with her dress in the mud. She took a breath - a deep breath - a deep shuddering breath that hurt like hell. "I - I'm sorry..." There. Society weas appeased. Thank heavens, because she stuck on the word sorry and dissolved again. Her arms linked around her knees and she rocked back and forth, trying not to think or remember. Trying not to think of big slugs and fat hands and bruises and blood and - It took her five minutes to realise that she was murmuring between her sobs. dark horrible things which shouldn't be said aloud outside of a church. Awful things, choked up with black dreams and nightmares. "My husband..." she bit it off and swallowed it whole - and it wriggled like a slug in her stomach. |
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| Liza | Apr 25 2009, 02:30 PM Post #5 |
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Oh, how terribly awkward this was all becoming. How terribly, incredibly awkward. What did she do? Did she just reach out and attempt to comfort this woman that she'd never met? How did one do that? She would probably attempt to comfort this woman and then do something wrong and just make everything worse. Yes, she wanted to help her, but she didn't know what to do, and she wouldn't be able to take any course of action and keep her wits about her while doing it until she did. She was on the ground. And she was crying, and sobbing, and... Lovett felt the need to pace. To clear her head, to stop thinking about this... dilemma. She turned around, her back to her. Yes, as of right now it was a dilemma. And... and it wasn't as if it didn't tug at her heartstrings to see a woman in this shape, but that was always when Lovett was not involved. When she was involved however, it was completely different. It made the sympathy that much more difficult to give out, and that much more difficult to act upon. She couldn't think. She couldn't sort out all of these thoughts going through her mind with the woman behind her crying and mumbling and... and everything else she was doing. Lovett almost wanted to turn around and tell her to shut up and let her think. It would help the both of them in the long run, probably - because then Lovett could think clearly and decide what to do with the sobbing woman, and then maybe the sobbing woman would slowly regain a sense of normalcy and take care of herself, and then Lovett wouldn't have to be in such a tizzy. Lovett turned around again with walking over to her to pull her up off the ground in mind, but paused when she heard her begin to speak. To apologize, and then proceed to mumble - Lovett would have probably considered it rather incoherent if she hadn't been listening with full attention. She bit her tongue - forcing all of the want to just... continue walking and ignore this woman into the back of her mind, if not completely out of it. Why did she say such things? Such awful, dreadful things - things that Lovett had no desire to hear, but listened to any way. But Lovett couldn't judge her, not when she was positive that she had uttered the same kinds of things, usually because of - "My husband..." And then she knew, and she understood. Lovett knelt beside her. Her husband. Yes, husbands seemed to be the root of all problems. Or at least bad husbands. Surely there were some men who were not terrible husbands - she could name one off the top of her head, one who was always running through her head... Her hand moved to touch the woman's arm, barely, but still there. "Your husband... What... what about... your husband?" |
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| Erical | Aug 11 2009, 04:53 AM Post #6 |
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Leader of the Surete
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Odile waited, listening to the word, the secret terrible word 'husband', the half-murmured complaint echo around and around her head. The ringing of an old bell, a funeral bell, the bell that sat on top of the mantlepiece and stared at the marriage bed. Bells. Bells. Odile saw all the bells of the world chiding her in a moments time. The priests with their bells calling morning chapel, church bells ringing stentorian peals in their towers, and clock chimes all ding-donging the same tune. Faithless wife with a scolding tongue, tell your tale and your tale be done. You'll never speak of it, Jacques had told her the night she'd said it aloud, the night she'd finally lost. Ten years after Paris and her rise to power in their house, ten years of playing the goose to his gander, of basking in the empty attentions of young men who wanted her for her jewels or her body of her influence or her whispers - ten years of pearls trickling down before the swine in her father's swineyard. Ten years of him touching her when she didn't like it. She had stood in the doorway and refused to come in, and he'd done what she'd never thought he would. She'd never dreamed that the big round man, the merry cuckold so pleased at his wife's popularity, might have a core of iron at his heart. Might have the fingers to go with the heart. Might take what she had refused to give while she struggled and wept, and her hair lashed against his shoulder. Afterwards, he'd stood over her still naked and steamy and pudgy and wet, and he'd said it. You'll never speak of it. You'll never tell a soul. And she hadn't. The touch startled her, made her flinch as she sniffled and sobbed like a guttersnipe child, like the hemp-spun callow thing of the fields she'd always be. Fool. Bitch. Imbecile. Whore. She waited for this woman to agree with Jacques, to tell her she was an Unfaithful Wife - the ultimate failure, the ultimate stain on the earth. She waited for righteous indignation, and the bells of the church. "My..." what? The question took her breath away, and she stopped very still, stopped even crying, her fingers plucking at her gloves and twisting each seperate ring until they tore the delicate fabric. My husband hits me, she said safely inside her head. He takes me and uses me and beats me. And I can't do anything about it. The words rammed up against her teeth, wanting to get out, yearning to be said for the first time. But the bells were too loud. She shivered miserably and rubbed one glove off her hand, tremors spreading from the ache in her chest up to her fingers. There ws a long golden peal, and she stared at the blackened purple bruise on her wrist - turned towards the sun like a prayer. |
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| Liza | Sep 9 2009, 11:48 PM Post #7 |
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She began to wonder if she'd done something wrong. Perhaps she'd been too forward in her inquiry. Was it any of her business to ask about the woman's husband? (It had, in a way, become her business, considering she'd collided with the woman to begin with.) Her hand retracted, now remaining close to her body, as if she were trying to restrain it. Really, it seemed that she was trying to restrain her sympathy, the sympathy that possessed that hand to reach out to another human being in need, almost like the day she and the barber had taken in Toby. While she saw the practical reasons for taking him in, that being another helping hand around the shop and such, she hated to see him be treated the way he had been with that other man, the Italian, who was now long gone and probably properly devoured, completely, without one last scrap of his body left to pollute the Earth any longer. Regardless, this didn't seem right. Sitting here, in public, asking a woman about her husband? No, it didn't seem right at all. And while she sympathized for the woman, she had to wonder if stopping to help her really was the right thing. Often there was a time when helping did more harm than feigning ignorance. With that thought in mind, Lovett had the intention of standing up and returning to her shop. Or at least finding someone to help the woman first, then doing so. While being cold enough to be a woman who guiltlessly dissected bodies of her own kind, she wasn't that cold. And so, in her conflict, she remained where she was, waiting for an answer of some sort. But the answer she received wasn't what she had been expecting. All she did was watch, and wait, not sure what she should feel about how this was playing out. It hadn't even been her intention to run into the woman, let alone be kneeling beside her. She'd gone out for a simple trip to the market, to buy what she needed, and then go home. If she ran into anyone, she'd only had the intention of apologizing and excusing herself, or perhaps helping them up if the accident was more serious. She hadn't been prepared for this at all. And there was the ugly mark on her arm; purple and blue, a revelation - an answer that needn't be explained vocally. Lovett knew. She understood that mark, she understood it more than she would have liked to. She swallowed dryly, searching the woman's face, as if hoping to communicate without words. To reply without having to say a word. There were too many words that she could say. She could say that she knew what had happened, that she understood, that the woman never had to say another word, or that her husband had been the same way. But her lips wouldn't move, her voice wouldn't make the sound. She only gazed, hoping that it was enough. |
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