This is my first Sweeney Todd fic, so be nice. After watching this musical, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if Johanna discovered that her birth father was a crazed murderer, bent on revenge for her and her mother's sake. This is about how I think it might play out.
Also, it may not be identical to the diolauge in the play. I can't quite remember exactly what Sweeney says in the scene, but it has the same effect.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Would She Be Proud?
This man looks so familiar.
She can't put her finger on it. But she knows him. She's positive of it. She has seen this man before. Beneath his gaunt, loveless expression, even the glint of insanity in his eye, she can tell that this man believes… that what he is doing is not only for his sake.
He doesn't realize she's behind him as he pulls back the chair and dusts it off. He's just pulled the chair back from the posistion it was in before: completely erected, so that if a man sat in it, he would fall right out of it. And if she weren't in such a fog, she'd swear that she saw another man's legs and feet sliding over it just seconds earlier; but, no, she's sure that the chair tips simply for... cleaning purposes. Suddenly she feels very naive and confused, presented with a challenge.
He raises his blade and gazes at it affectionately. The way he gazes at it is almost as if, to him, it is not only a blade, but a doorway to redemption. A glint of red stains the blade, but she has no time to let her eye take in the crimson before he wipes it clean. Still, a tiny gasp is released from her lips, without her knowing so. The man freezes.
He spins so quickly that she fears he will knock her over with the wind he lets off, though he is several feet away from her. Though the timing is bad to acknowledge his appearence, she gets a full look at him. The restless expression on his face is mixed with worry and fear, and anger.
Quickly he composes himself.
"You – lad – care for a shave?"
As he takes a step towards her, she remembers the attire she's dressed in. She looks like a young man.
She stutters out a few syllables, unable to explain herself.
She doesn't have to. The man perks up like a jumpy cat, hearing something coming from just outside the room. "Quick," he says, and all but shoves her into a large trunk. She hasn't the courage to move.
Muffled voices waver through the thick walls of the casket which smells of copper and salt and has the residue of a dark, thick substance she can't identify. If she didn't know any better, she would say it was –
Her thought is cut short by the newcomer's voice. Judge Turpin—she never thought she'd be happy to hear his voice all of her life. And yet, he saves her.
Fiercely she debates on whether to open the trunk or not. Perhaps if she stays, the stranger will forget about her and move on. And later, Anthony can free her. Is it worth the risk of both of them, though? She finds it hard to concentrate with the muffled dialouge that is taking place right outside the trunk.
"Benjamin Barker!"
The muffled cry is defying even through the walls of the casket in which she crouches. It is not the Judge's voice, although she hear his voice coming from outside. It sounds like he is... whimpering. Pleading.
She's too frightened to move. Why does that name seem so familiar? She remembers hearing it on the Judge's tongue, without his knowing she was listening. She wishes she'd never heard it. It almost makes her feel… guilty. She shouldn't have been listening then; She shouldn't be listening now. Benjamin Barker...
Through the generous crack in the casket, she can see just the ends of the two men; the Judge's legs sitting in the chair, and the other man's standing. He now steps with a bounce in his feet, a very slight one, but there when it had not been before.
The ghastly man then moves to the side of the chair, and even though she can only see the bottom of his legs, she can tell that he has pulled a lever that tips the chair over. And she can see the Judge's legs sliding down into a hole behind the chair. She gasp quietly, unable to restrain herself.
The man's legs turn and advance on her; the merry bounce has gone.
He raises his arm, the bloody blade raised far above his head as he opens the trunk, ready to strike.
The tip of the trunk knocks her cap off, sending her dirty, faded hair cascading over her shoulders, just as the man swung his arm, aiming for her neck. He just stopped himself in time to barely nick her neck. She could feel a trickle of blood coming from the wound, but she was too confused and scared to feel pain. Why would he spare her?
"Johanna," he breathes.
For a brief moment their eyes meet mutually, and for a reason she feels like she trusts this man. It quickly passes as she glances back at the chair, and the blade that is now hanging limply at his side in his hand.
"Johanna!" he says, this time more loudly, gleefully. He dropps the razor and clenchee both of her wrists in his hands. Even with his expression of the purest bliss, she feels threatened as he helps her out of the casket and spins her around, in some sort of drunken waltz.
She quickly frees her hands. "Who are you?"
"Ah, Johanna, my love," he chirps, planting an affectionate kiss on her forehead. "Ah, Johanna, my daughter!"
"Beg pardon?" she stutters.
"Johanna!" he sings again, clearly in a separate state of mind as he wrapps his arm around her waist, and holds her hand once more, twisting her around in a continuation of the awkward dance. "Not to worry, my turtledove, not to worry, anymore. We're free, you and me. Free from the terrors, free from sadness, free from the Judge--"
"Who has shown me nothing but kindness throughout my life!" she lies, louder than necessary. "Have you--" she breaks free her wrists again from this delusional man and walk over to the hellish chair. Immediately behind where the head of the chair tilts to is an open pit in the room, and below, though darkened, she can make out the features of the Judge, shocked, covered in blood. She feels as if she may vomit.
"Not to worry, not to worry, my pet!" the man shouts. "He won't hurt you any longer, love." Once more he swings her tightly into his grasp. "Ah, Johanna, you look just like her," he mumbles, twirling a strand of her hair around in his fingers. "Just like your mother..."
She staggers backwards, horrified. "Are you—are you my father?" The question is an accusation.
The man looks as if he may explode with happiness. "The most loving one you'll ever meet, my dear."
Time slows. She glances back down into the pit, where my marred Judge lays, lifeless and shocked, accompanied by, she now sees, several other men, also gored by a cruel razor, and then back to this man, her father.
"No…" she finds herself saying quietly.
"What's that, Johanna?" her father is finally sobering up, it seems. He looks confused, perhaps trying to convince himself that he has heard wrong.
"No!" she shouts at him. "No father of mine could be so cruel! So--"
She doesn't finish my statement. My father takes a single step towards her, making her flinch in fear.
"Johanna," he pleads. "You must understand, Johanna. All of this-" he gestures to the pit "-is for you. Is for you and your late mother." And then he is sobbing. "For you, Johanna!" he cries.
Startled, she retreats another step.
"No!" he shouts, and grasps her arm. "No, you--" he stammered. "You don't understand. You must be grateful," he insists.
"I—I…" she shakes her head hastily. "You… don't deserve my gratitude," she says slowly, warily. "Not for... not for this."
Catiously she backs out of the room, watching the man watch her. His eyes follow her every motion, and she gets lost in her careful movements until she hits the banister of the staircase, breaking her out of her trance. Briefly, she glances at him again, as if in a silent goodbye, and then races down the stairs without looking back.
Poor Todd...
Please review.
Or I'll come after you with my Sweeney Todd-esque razors!
Care for a shave?