Title: Of Christmas, Cherry Scented Lip-Gloss and Burning Push-up Bras.
Summary: Words. They were only just words. A brief utterance, a meaningful unit of language sounds. Molly Hooper knows this. She knows words aren't supposed to hurt. Except when they do. A one-shot inspired by that awkward Christmas party in A Scandal in Belgravia.
Musical Inspiration: Cold War by Janelle Monae, Jar of Hearts by Christina Perri and Reflection, sung by Lea Salonga in Disney's Mulan.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters.
Words.
They were only just words. A brief utterance, a meaningful unit of language sounds.
That's all they were…words.
Words don't sting, they don't burn in your chest the way stomach acid churns up the oesophagus after binging on slices of gooey peperoni pizza. They're not supposed to weigh you down, slump your shoulders like a heavy load, and settle against your spine like a knapsack filled with a month's worth of school assignments.
Words don't fill you with shame, drain your body of colour, seize at your belly the way a week-long fast gnaws away at your insides. Words aren't supposed to hurt so much. Except when they do…And they echo in your mind, over and over and over again. Screaming and shouting like banshees in the night. A mantra meant to drive you insane.
'Compensating'…
'Size of her mouth and breasts…'
This wasn't the first time she had heard those words…it probably wouldn't be the last. But why? Every single time…why was it always those horrible words!
'Always' She stared into that glass of champagne, lost in thought…remembering secondary school and all those tiresome friends who woke up one morning caring less about schoolwork and more about boys. It was a change that was…confusing. She couldn't understand it. Why did she have to look good for people who never talked to her, who couldn't be bothered if she even existed?
She remembered exhausting trips to the shopping centre, purchasing 'cool clothing', trying on lingerie that her father said was for 'when you get older, Molls'. The cherry scented lip-gloss she received from Jessica one Christmas that 'makes your lips look plump'. That black push-up bra her friend Alice said was 'so cute' and 'boys don't like girls with small breasts.'
What was wrong with small breasts?
She listened to Alice and wore it to school one day, trying not to fuss at the awkward way it settled against her chest and strained against the buttons of her white uniform blouse…praying it wasn't noticeable…ignoring the whispers that followed her the rest of the day. 'Compensating…'
The word followed her around like a malicious curse.
She burnt it that evening on the fire escape in a fit of rage… the acrid scent of burning polyester and lace leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. It lingered on into the night, and the copious amounts of water she consumed brought only nausea. Molly remembered sitting sullenly on the couch, a large bowl of ramen noodles resting comfortably in her lap, studiously ignoring her father's quizzical look.
He wouldn't get it.
Then, Alice came over later, overflowing with sage words of advice. 'We should have bought the one with smaller padding. 'It can't be too big you know?' So, don't have small breasts…but they can't be too big either?
One bowl turned into three, and Molly found herself sitting there in the dark, absently shovelling forkful after forkful of those annoyingly salty noodles. And she hated every minute of it. Hated the softness of the noodles as she chewed, loathed the stinging sensation at the corner of her mouth with every mouthful, ignored the growing queasiness in her stomach every time she swallowed. She despised it…but somehow the ramen made everything feel better.
Eating made everything feel better…
When she finished her A-levels a year early, and prepared to enter university, Molly hoped it would be over. The conflicting social expectations, tubes and tubes of sticky, heavy scented lip gloss, cases and cases of concealer, foundation and blush…what was she supposed to be concealing anyway? Why did her cheeks have to be so damn rosy all the time?
University meant the end of posturing, the end of being someone that simply did not exist. No more: 'wear this; it makes your legs look longer ...but not too high' or 'you'll look 'easy' and 'show cleavage, boys like that...but not too much or they will think you are 'loose'.
It wasn't over…easier to ignore maybe. But not over.
It would never end.
There would always be those 'well meaning comments' the 'maybe you should pad your bras a little' from slightly intoxicated flat mates. The 'your breasts are small' from absent-minded boyfriends with wandering hands as they snogged on the sofa. The 'wear some lipstick to fill out your lips'. What was wrong with small breasts? Since when did thin lips become a crime?
No one could answer that question for her.
Molly stifled her aggravation, swallowed her annoyance, and nursed the pain with plate after plate of junk food. What if she just gained some weight? Maybe the comments would stop; those words that never used to hurt but now sting a little inside. Words that began to whisper silently in her mind…like wraith that slipped soundlessly through the shadows. Phrases that followed her around, taunting murmurs during the daytime, and raging shrieks in the night.
'Compensating'
'Small breasts'
'Thin lips'
'Morbid'
Never all at once but scattered throughout her life.
Molly tried to gain weight, she tried desperately, hoping in vain that maybe, just maybe, she would finally be free of those words. Those hurtful words that clung to her like sharp thorns. She prayed with every spoonful of god-knows-what she shovelled into her mouth, pleaded with every forkful of greasy takeaway, begged and ate and ate…until the pain in her stomach became unbearable, and she squirmed in agony on the floor, hot tears of shame and self-loathing dripping from her eyes, and cooling against her skin.
She couldn't gain weight…but perhaps the pain was better. Anything was better than those words. She could manage the pain…but not those words. And she did… Molly managed when her father passed away, coped when she began residency, struggled as she started working in the morgue. She ignored the comments, the sarcastic remarks, and the well-meaning advice of her aunt who constantly lamented over having 'such a morbid niece'.
She managed to control it…
Until Sherlock swaggered into the laboratory one day with that dark curly hair and his bright blue eyes and those cheekbones and his callous, biting words. His words always hurt the most.
They dug into her chest like a dull, rusty, butter knife, twisting, and twisting until there was nothing left but shreds. They slammed atop her shoulders like the weight of a thousand ages…gnawed at her insides until there was nothing left. Was it on purpose? Did he know how sharp his words stung? Molly couldn't understand how someone so smart and observant could miss all the signs. Maybe he did know…perhaps he had known all along…and it was all some stupid game.
Who did he think he was?
Molly hated him sometimes…with a passion. She hated the way Sherlock sauntered about the room, command after command pouring from his lips, like an arrogant lord overseeing his manor. She despised the nonchalant manner in which his blue eyes brimmed and twinkled with nothingness as those snarky little insults quickly and easily flew from those perfect lips of his, running her through like a freshly sharpened he not see what he was doing every time those words left his lips?
Always leaving scars…
And he would pompously disappear, leaving nothing behind but a cold, empty room, a dead body resting patiently on the examination table, an unbearable stinging in her chest and those old, familiar voices in her head… voices that now echoed with Sherlock's posh, arrogant tenor. Molly Hooper hated Sherlock sometimes. She hated his insensitive words, hated his callous, indifferent attitude.
Perhaps it wasn't him she despised...but herself. She loathed herself for liking him...for wanting his attention. Molly cursed the hold Sherlock had over her...the perilous sway of her emotions to his opinions. She detested the way she allowed him to manipulate her...hated herself for falling for his stupid, flattering words...for giving in to his machinations. For allowing him to make her feel so...empty.
Empty…
Just like the champagne glass dangling from her freezing fingers. The bubbly drink settled heavily in her empty stomach…the after-taste suddenly bitter on her tongue. Was it the lipstick? Molly could not tell anymore, refused to wonder why the nauseating scent of cherry lip-gloss wafted into her nose and her skin itched as it did all those years ago Alice's make-up interventions. Suddenly, Molly couldn't stand it… couldn't stay here in this room pretending to be OK…always pretending that she was fine.
That those words did not hurt.
And as she sat in the cab, head resting on the cold window, watching as her vision blurred, she thought of her friend Alice... bubbly outgoing Alice. The girl who knew just what to say, how to act…how to dress. 'A proper lady', her Aunt would praise and criticize in the same breath. 'Molly, why can't you follow her example?'
It wasn't her fault…Molly knew. She was just doing what everyone else did…going through the motions. Trying to find a place in a world that never wanted them to succeed. Molly loved Alice, truly. And yet, hated her all the same…
Molly hated that Alice fit in better, wore her clothes 'just right', applied her make-up 'properly'; she hated her beautiful black, bouncy hair, blue eyes, full lips and 'slightly big but not too big breasts'. Molly hated that Alice seemed to have all the answers…but couldn't see the questions behind them. She couldn't see the uselessness of it all, refused to acknowledge the sheer and utter stupidity behind this thing society called 'beauty'.
Alice couldn't see the monster behind the mask…or maybe she just didn't care. Alice wasn't the smart one, didn't complete her A level courses two years early…didn't graduate at the top of her class, but everybody praised her. Everybody loved Alice. Alice was a better girl though…she didn't ask questions. Good girls didn't ask questions, wasn't that what Aunty always used to say? She stared with veiled anger at the shop windows with the perfectly sized mannequins, adverts that smiled down at her with their perfect faces, perfect hair.
Perfect…how could anything be 'perfect'…
Cold air nipped at Molly's face as she entered the building and made her way into her flat. The lights flickered on, illuminating the room. Her eyes darted across the room, noting Toby curled up by the bedroom door before resting on the package that sat beside the window. She fell onto the couch, toeing off her shoes and eyeing them with an irrational hatred. A gift from her aunt when she first started working at the hospital…because every woman needed a proper pair of heels… Molly lifted up the shoes and stared at them once more, before throwing them hard against the wall.
Fuck those shoes.
Fingers shook as she struggled with the zip on the dress, with frustration; Molly kicked the bedroom door open, shimmed out of the dress and hurled it across the room, a scream of annoyance tearing unbidden from her lips. Everything came off, the stockings, the strapless bra she purchased, but rarely wore, because sleeveless blouses were not proper lab attire. Molly scrubbed at her lips with trembling hands, desperate to remove that sickening cherry taste from her mouth. The slick, slimy texture of cheap lip gloss. She was furious; her breath rose and fell heavily, fingers shook with an inexplicable rage.
The scream that escaped her clenched teeth sounded inhuman; Molly was angry...for wearing on that stupid dress, for using that stupid colour of lipstick, for going to that party…for thinking just for a minute that she looked…pretty.
She stared at her hands, fingers now tinged with that aggravating shade of red. If it were just a bit darker…just a smidge, it could almost be mistaken for blood. A shudder raced down her spine at how easy it would be to cross that line. To silence those voices for good…to rest in peace.
Don't even think about it…just don't.
Choking back a moan of anguish, Molly's fingers fastened themselves around the small bracelet dangling from her wrist. One of the few trinkets left from her university days…a birthday gift from Alice. It too found its way across the room, beads clattering noisily against the floor when it hit the wall.
On came the baggy pyjama bottoms, the old tee shirt that was several sizes too big, and the mismatched socks. Molly crashed into the bathroom, breath heavy and frantic as she wet a cloth and scrubbed furiously at her face. She couldn't get that taste out of her mouth…that bitter taste of smouldering polyester and cherry lip gloss…the annoying tingle of foundation and blush. The sweet musky scent of Alice's perfume as she flitted about, pointing out which dress could help 'enhance' her figure.
A scream of aggravation flew unbidden from Molly's shaking lips.
What was wrong with me? She stared into the mirror and could not help but wonder why her reflection seemed so…foreign. It stared back at her, the person that everyone wanted her to be…that pretty-enough-to-be-on-a-magazine girl that Alice tried so hard to bring out, and the proper, joyous niece her aunt could only dream of having.
It stared back at her, perfectly coated eyelashes, rosy cheeks, clear complexion and a rather becoming shade of pink glittering from its lips...A façade…a mask. One she could not wear no matter how hard she tried.
Fuck this…
She was done.
Done trying to 'brush it off', done with 'ignoring'. It was not working…it never worked! She could never ignore those insults, those off-handed comments that hurt more than the occasional scalpel piercing her hand. She could not brush off those words that pierced her chest; stung like a thousand splinters…Molly could not bear that kind of pain.
It was too much.
And suddenly, Molly finds herself in the kitchen, shaking fingers clutching a small metal fork, methodically stabbing into the pan of freshly baked cake her neighbour brought by in the morning. She closes her eyes, revelling in the taste of cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla that melted on her tongue, sighing as the warm fluffy cake soothed her frazzled mind, eased the throbbing pain in her chest, and placated the frantic gnawing of her stomach.
Those taunting voices, those shrieking echoes, that sounded so much like Sherlock, finally died down…tempered by the scent of freshly baked coffee cake.
Eating made everything better…
A sigh of contentment left her full lips, even as silent tears streaked down her cheeks. Molly would have to remember to thank her next-door neighbour…baking a cake and dropping it off before leaving town for the holiday.
But it wasn't enough…it was never enough. Nothing could remove that bitter taste that settled on her tongue like a stain in the carpet. The acrid scent of burning fabric from her nose...the slickness of the lip gloss from her mouth. The revolting gummy texture and taste of cherry lip gloss on her front teeth.
Molly curls on the floor by the fridge, clutching a large bowl of leftover Chinese takeaway, the scent of spicy lo mien and chicken fried rice doing little to quell the growing nausea. She eats it anyway…pushing forkful after forkful into her mouth mechanically; scrunching her mouth in anguish from the saltiness…like all those bowls of instant ramen from long time ago. No matter what she did, or how much she accomplished, Molly would always be that awkward, quiet teenager…trapped in Alice's perfect shadow.
'Compensating'
Imprisoned by those words. Forever haunted by tubes of sticky cherry scented lip gloss, the scent of burning push-up bras and her aunt's callous comparisons. Tormented by Sherlock's biting insults. Ashamed about her looks, her personality…about not being 'perfect.'
'Small breasts'
They were only just words. A brief utterance, a meaningful unit of language sounds.
'Thin lips'
That's all they were, words.
''Morbid'
Words don't sting, they don't smoulder in your throat the way a hasty sip of hot tea throbs as it slides down the throat. Words don't confine, they don't entrap you within a dark winding tunnel that has no end. They aren't supposed to weigh you down, fill your heart with a sorrowful bitterness, and chill your skin to the bone like a heavy winter rain.
Except when they do...
They echo in your mind, over and over, and over again. Screaming and shouting like banshees in the night. A mantra meant to drive you insane.
And as Molly Hooper sprawls on the cold, hard kitchen floor, tears running down her cheeks with abandon, clutching her stomach in pain and trying desperately not to vomit at the pungent scent of Chinese takeaway slowly filling the room: she honestly does not know how much more she can take.
Fortunately, the ringing telephone saves her from pondering any further.
Please review and tell me what you think. Happy Holidays!
~heartless16