A/N: I've always been enthralled by the Dollanganger Saga, and all of V.C. Andrews' works. I've wondered what it would be like if there was a fifth Dollanganger child, who wasn't quite as close to the others...and who questioned Corrine Foxworth's decisions but kept quiet and compliant, and wondered deep-down if they were really as sinful as the Grandmother said.
But I've found two ways that I think I could explore this: through the eyes of Clarabelle Dollanganger, or those of Clarence Dollanganger. Both have their own similar, but slightly different stories to tell - and only one story will be told. And so, if I have any dear readers, it will be up to you to vote for me and decide whose story it will be. The first part of this chapter will be by Clarabelle, and the second by Clarence.
I hope you all enjoy.
It is a curious thing, how quickly one's life can turn on a dime.
We lived a good life, a happy life, my mother, father, two brothers and two sisters. We were the Dresden dolls, the seven of us the most beautiful, charming family in Gladstone, envied secretly by all. It was just as perfect on the inside as it was from the outside, if not more so.
Or, perhaps, that was what my siblings would have thought.
I was not the oldest of the Dresden dolls – that was Chris, not quite two years older than I was, nor the most perceptive – that would perhaps, be Cathy, not even a year younger than myself, or Cory, the youngest of us all. But Chris loved Momma so – sometimes, I thought, more than life itself – and Cathy was so utterly enthralled by Daddy. And Cory, so young as he was, couldn't begin to comprehend half the things he saw, and in any case, they rarely caught his attention for longer than an instant before he was off with his twin sister Carrie in their own fantasy land.
But I was, perhaps, less eager to please than my siblings.
Oh, I adored them with all of my heart, of course! Particularly Carrie and Cory, dear, sweet twins who were both bold and brave in their own way, yes, even quiet little Cory. But some circumstance of my upbringing (what it was, I could not fathom, for I had grown up in the exact same lovely house with the exact same loving parents that all my siblings had) had made it so that I was inexplicably more wary of everything around me.
Momma said it was because of my friends, "those boys," she would say, shaking her head with a delicately concerned smile on her face. "Those classmates of Clarabelle's, they roughhouse and swear and behave in the most unbecoming ways. Clarabelle, darling, I do wish you would be friends with girls your age," she would sigh, but she would smile and gently smooth down my waves of flaxen hair that were identical to her own. Momma was the only one that used my full name regularly, for it was too long, too ungainly to be used all the time, particularly in combination with our surname. Christopher said it to tease me, sometimes – it sounded awkward and clumsy, just as I felt when I was around the girls my age that Momma so wanted me to be friends with (and of course, I felt ever so unattractive beside Cathy, with all the grace and poise of a prima ballerina).
Boys, I thought privately, were much easier. If they didn't like you, they spat at you, or struck you a glancing blow, or sneered and insulted you – and that was that. Girls were complicated.
Daddy said it was simply the way I was born. "She's got her own pride, Corrine," he would say, laughing as Momma fretted. "She's a determined girl, that's all, and she won't let life cheat her out of what she deserves. Isn't that right, Clara?"
Daddy called me Clara when I was born, because Clarabelle had been much too long and dignified for a squirming, wailing infant. But Chris, who had already been speaking but hadn't quite mastered it yet, couldn't manage even that and called me "Clare, Clare," instead. And when Cathy came along, she, too, called me Clare.
I preferred Clare. It was short, charming, shouted across the street "Clare, come ride bikes with us," and exclaimed in admiration "that's wonderful, Clare," and I insisted on it until even the twins called me Clare. That was, unless they wanted something, and then it would be "Cla-a-a-ry, Clary," plaintive and insistent.
Perhaps it was neither of these, but rather, the first year of my life that had made me so. I hadn't been planned, Daddy had confessed, but he assured me that I was a welcome blessing all the same. But no sooner had I been born for about a month, did Momma become pregnant yet again, this time with Cathy.
Momma's pregnancy with me had been hard, they'd said. I'd been born a little too early, a little too small and thin. So when Momma had become pregnant again so soon afterwards, the doctor had advised her to take it easy. It must have worked, for Cathy was the most perfect little girl that our parents could have hoped for – charming and brave and graceful and lovely. But when Momma had been pregnant, she couldn't possibly care for me at the same time, even just-born as I was. Babysitters had taken that job.
Perhaps that was why I never quite adored my parents like my siblings did. Perhaps I wasn't as close to them as they were, perhaps they had never lavished the same amount of attention on me as they did to the others – unintentionally, of course, and something I never blamed them for. But I had never been quite as close with them as my siblings were, and perhaps this, this was why I could see their shortcomings just the slightest bit clearer.
And perhaps this was why I was the slightest bit less shocked when we were stowed up in the attic of Foxworth Manor.
It is a curious thing, how quickly one's life can turn on a dime.
We lived a good life, a happy life, my mother, father, two brothers and two sisters. We were the Dresden dolls, the seven of us the most beautiful, charming family in Gladstone, envied secretly by all. It was just as perfect on the inside as it was from the outside, if not more so.
Or, perhaps, that was what my siblings would have thought.
I was not the oldest of the Dresden dolls – that was Chris, not quite two years older than I was, nor the most perceptive – that would perhaps, be Cathy, not even a year younger than myself, or Cory, the youngest of us all. But Chris loved Momma so – sometimes, I thought, more than life itself – and Cathy was so utterly enthralled by Daddy. And Cory, so young as he was, couldn't begin to comprehend half the things he saw, and in any case, they rarely caught his attention for longer than an instant before he was off with his twin sister Carrie in their own fantasy land.
But I was, perhaps, less eager to please than my siblings.
But I loved my family, of course I did. There were times, of course, when Christopher and his effortless, glowing brilliance would grate on me (for I would never be as tall and handsome as he was, never as fast or as strong or as good at sports), and when Cathy and her graceful charms would make me feel awkward and ungainly and clumsy – but I loved them dearly all the same, despite it and because of it. But some circumstance of my upbringing (what it was, I could not fathom, for I had grown up in the exact same lovely house with the exact same loving parents that all my siblings had) had made it so that I was inexplicably more wary of everything around me.
Momma said it was because of all those books I read, "always with his nose in a book," she would say, shaking her head with a delicately amused smile on her face, her concern only slightly betrayed by the sheen in her blue eyes. "My clever boy speaks to books easier than he does to other children. Clarence, darling, I do wish you would be friends with children your age. You could play with Christopher's, if you wanted, I'm sure he would welcome you."
"Aw, Momma," Christopher would object, every time, almost even before I would shake my head. "He wouldn't be able to keep up. Sorry, Clare, but it's the truth," he would add, though I was never offended – Christopher was never deliberately malicious. "Besides, Clare has lots of friends. He just likes being alone better."
Christopher had always called me Clare, when he was young and couldn't manage the other half. And later, when Cathy came along, she did the same, and others caught on until it was only adults and those stuffy sticklers for propriety that called me by my full name. When I was younger, classmates would tease me – a girly name, Christopher, are you sure that's not your little sister, what kind of a name is Claire for a boy – and Christopher would flush with anger and Cathy would spit at them with razor-wit and a scathing tongue. And I learned to hit back, to lash out with my own sharp insults and with fists if necessary. So you see, I was not nearly as helpless and quiet as Momma seemed to think I was.
Friends were all fine and nice, I thought. But the boys my age were so dreadfully immature, and the girls my age giggled and teased whenever a boy came near. Books were easier, for there was just so much to learn, so much to know. Only Christopher seemed to understand this as well, but even he would come home late from school, his golden curls (that were identical to my own) dusty with the dirt from the fields, his face flushed with exertion as he recounted the games he and his friends would play.
Daddy said it was simply the way I was born. "Clarence was born a thinker, Corrine," he would say, laughing as Momma fretted. "He's contemplative, that's all. He knows what he wants in life and watches to make sure he isn't cheated by it, isn't that right, Clarence?"
And then he would ruffle my blond curls and grin, and I would smile back and nod to agree with him.
Perhaps it was neither of these, but rather, the first year of my life that had made me so. I hadn't been planned, Daddy had confessed, but he assured me that I was a welcome blessing all the same. But no sooner had I been born for about a month, did Momma become pregnant yet again, this time with Cathy.
Momma's pregnancy with me had been hard, they'd said. I'd been born a little too early, a little too small and thin. So when Momma had become pregnant again so soon afterwards, the doctor had advised her to take it easy. It must have worked, for Cathy was the most perfect little girl that our parents could have hoped for – charming and brave and graceful and lovely. But when Momma had been pregnant, she couldn't possibly care for me at the same time, even just-born as I was. Babysitters had taken that job.
Perhaps that was why I never quite adored my parents like my siblings did. Perhaps I wasn't as close to them as they were, perhaps they had never lavished the same amount of attention on me as they did to the others – unintentionally, of course, and something I never blamed them for. But I had never been quite as close with them as my siblings were, and perhaps this, this was why I could see their shortcomings just the slightest bit clearer.
And perhaps this was why I was the slightest bit less shocked when we were stowed up in the attic of Foxworth Manor.