What have I done, sweet Jesus what have I done? This was all inspired by the lovely Kai's (Les Dorks de L'ABC or marius-you-dumb-shit on tumblr) mental ward AU. I asked her if I could write it, and then this monster appeared. I still have to do the introductions for like, two thirds of the characters. Shit. Anyhow, this is about a million years long, but please take the time to read it!
XXX
The Abaissés Asylum for the Mentally Ill. Two miles away. That's what the sign said. "Good thing most of the patients here are not French, yes?" Jean Prouvaire, the Asylum's newest patient, attempted to joke.
"Why's that?" the "behavioral officer" who was sitting in the carriage with Jean to make sure he didn't harm himself said. He was a stout man somewhere in his forties named McGill who liked to talk about his little son and daughter, Alfred and Clara. In the two hours they had been in the carriage, Jean had learned that the boy was five and his elder sister was nine. Apparently Officer McGill was raising the children on his own, as his wife had died of the fever a year ago. Jean would have liked to meet the children after the way Officer McGill described them. Clara was a little tomboy, he said, who wanted nothing more than to play in the woods all day. Alfred was meticulous and acted like a little professor.
"Abaissés," Jean said, drawing himself from his thoughts. "I am French, you see, so I know. It means –"
He felt something in his chest stirring, and tried to suppress it. Of all times, this was the worst to have The Thing happen to him. He didn't need McGill fretting over him. But then again, what if McGill thought he was lying about being French? What if he thought Jean was just pretending? Making a spectacle? He didn't want – no, didn't need – the extra attention. After all, why lie? Why lie about something so silly? So trivial? But was Jean lying? Was he not really French? He didn't know was Abaissés meant. Of course. That was just it. He was just lying to get the extra attention. Wait…no. No he wasn't! Of course he wasn't. He was born in France and immigrated over to America when he was fifteen because of his little "disorder." Yes, that was true. He just needed to focus on what was true and what was not.
Things that were true: he was seventeen years old. Yes. That was indisputable. What else? He had an affinity for the feminine side of things. Flowers and keeping his hair in a thick braid. Judging by the fact that his hair was in a braid now and there were petals in his shoes...that was true, too. What else? What else? What else? What else? What else? Whatelsewhatelsewhatelsewhatelsewhatelse?
"Jean?" He could hear the voice of Officer McGill in the background of his panicked thoughts. "Jean, please. Explain to me what you were sayin' before. What does that word mean?"
"I…I can't tell you," Jean stammered. "I might be lying, and lying is a sin. I cannot lie. I think I'm lying now."
"What'd you be lying about?" Officer McGill asked, shifting on the cushioned seat of the carriage. He picked up a bottle of some substance and took a long drink. "Here, boy, drink this."
Jean accepted the bottle – not taking it would be impolite, and being impolite was almost worse than lying – and took a short glug from it. He tried to cover his hacking and coughing with smiles, but couldn't. "Oh, oh," he gasped. "Forgive me, Officer. I do not mean to say that it is a bad drink, but –"
"Good old American nectar," Officer McGill laughed. "Clears the head. Now, Jean, tell me what that word means."
Jean looked around the carriage. At the mauve cushions on the straight-backed seats; at his round, pale green suitcase that was a bit like a drum; at the half-eaten bag of hard candies resting next to him; the heavy, old-fashioned damask curtains. "I want to," Jean said, "but I do not think I can. I know it, I think, but I worry that I may lie."
"Well, boy, it's alright if you lie. Just say the word. Why did you make your joke?" Officer McGill asked, taking another slug of his drink.
"I am French, and the name of the Asylum means…lowered. Abased, the wretched. Wretched Asylum for the Mentally Ill," Jean laughed. "How…sad."
"See?" Officer McGill encouraged. "You just said the word alright." He shook his head and chuckled. "Shame a boy like you has to be locked up in there. You're a good boy, Jean. Polite to a fault, maybe, but a good boy anyways. Why are you going to the Ah-bay-say anyways?"
"They did not tell you?" Jean asked, feeling indescribably weary.
"No. It's not at my liberty to know those things. All I'm told is that I'm to sit here and make sure the "crazies" – pardon the expression – don't hurt themselves on the way. Then I leave 'em. I try to make conversation sometimes, but I've been shouted at more times 'n I can count. The effort don't seem much worth it, then. But when I seen you, I said to myself, 'There's a good boy. He needs someone to talk to.' So I did."
"Well, thank you," Jean said with a small smile. "I appreciate that, Officer. I really do. I am here because of little episodes that I happen to have. I need to be polite. Obsessively so. I cannot lie under any circumstances. I obsessively worry that I am lying even I say the simplest things, most of them true. I've been in many fights because of my compulsive honestly, though. Even though I cannot be impolite, I also cannot lie. Sometimes I freeze myself when I am going to say something, and have a…panic attack, I think it is called. We moved to America from France two years ago because I started panicking more often and I would get…hysterical. Mother dealt with me for as long as she could, but finally she shipped me off here. That is why I am here."
Officer McGill looked sad.
"I…I apologize, sir. I should not have told you that," Jean said quickly.
"No, no, boy. It's not impolite. I asked to hear, now didn't I?" the behavioral officer said. "It wasn't your story that made me sad. It's the fact that a good boy like you – maybe a little panicky and rough around the edges, but still a good person –is going to a hell like this."
[123]
Victor Bahorel, age twenty-three, sat in the classroom of his university. The professor was droning on – something about the law. After all, that was what Bahorel was studying. At first, it had seemed like a reasonable career. Something that would provide for his family when he chose to have one, something that was fulfilling to the part of him that enjoyed arguing. It wasn't the most exciting career, or something he necessarily wanted to do, but it was what needed to be done.
From the minute they got out of high school, young men needed to find a job. It just made sense. Your school years were for fun and games, and the time after that was for working hard.
Bahorel's problem was that he just wasn't build for the "indoor" sorts of jobs. He was tall and strong, and fought on the weekends for fun. He loved the wilderness and working with his hands. He wanted to craft things: chairs, tables, shelves. Not be stuck at some desk scribbling on papers and studying cases until his eyes went out.
But that was where his life was headed. Besides, maybe being a lawyer would cure him of his little "issue." Bahorel had struggled with intense anger throughout his childhood, encouraged by his mother and father to hide it. Sometimes, when he got angry, it would turn into something more. He would black out completely, and when he came to, he would have done something horrible.
Take for instance, the occasion with the neighbor's dog when he was ten:
Victor was walking through the cornfield in his family's farm. He loved it out there in October – corn so high it went above his head and all he could see was the sea of green stalks and the blue window of sky above him. He broke into a sudden run, his lanky limbs flying, the thin leaves of the cornstalks making neat slices in his skin.
Vic let out a whoop and crashed through the corn, wondering if he could keep life this way forever. If he just kept running through the sea of corn with the still-warm October sun beating down on him, maybe his life could stay the same. Maybe he would run through a portal hidden somewhere in the massive field, where he could be a kid forever. Where he could sip sweet lemonade, chomp on crispy chicken, and never go back to school. He would earn his keep on the farm, doing men's work. It would be paradise.
The young boy's little fantasy was quickly shattered by a high pitched caterwaul. Vic paused for a minute, wondering what the strange noise was. "Oh, no," he whispered. "Daisy." Daisy was his younger sister Emmanuel's cat.
Emmanuel was seven, and "retarded" as the doctors said. She wasn't fit to be in public. That much was known. The cat was one of the only things she really loved, other than maybe Mama and Vic himself. If that cat was hurt, Emmanuel would have a wild tantrum, and get worse than she already was.
Vic turned on his heel and sprinted in the direction of home. "I've gotta save Daisy," he huffed to himself. "For Emmanuel." His feet pounded over the dirt, skipping over crushed stalks of corn. He ran and ran and ran until it seemed like he had been running forever. The corn whipped his arms and stung. The sun began to get uncomfortably hot. Everything began to look the same. Everything. Vic was sure he was going in circles. Daisy's wails had gotten louder and louder. An ear of corn slapped Vic in the face and he stumbled back, slipping on a leaf and falling on his butt.
He began to get angry.
He couldn't get out of the damn corn! It was like it was trying to trap him there! And you would have thought someone was gutting the cat from the way it was screaming! God, what a weak animal! And to top it all off, he was only working so hard to save the cat because of Emmanuel. The retard. The girl who couldn't look even look at certain colors or….or objects without screaming like a banshee. What did he owe her anyway?
Finally, Vic made it out of the corn. He ran towards the direction of Daisy's now-diminishing cries and what he saw just fuelled his rage even more: the neighbor's big black hunting dog knelt over Daisy.
"Oi!" Vic roared. "What the hell do you think you're doin'?" He wished his voice was deeper and more intimidating. Instead, he sounded like a little boy using words he shouldn't. The dog didn't even look up. That made him…incensed. Yes, that was a good word for it.
Without thinking of the dangers of disturbing an all but feral animal, Vic picked up a rock from the ground and threw it at the dog. "Hey!" he shouted. "Leave the cat alone!"
The dog looked up, and its jowls were dripping with red. Vic felt sick, but looked down anyway, and saw Daisy's mutilated body on the ground. That dog ate my little sister's cat! Vic thought, clenching his fists.
And that was it. He snapped. He looked around and saw a large, heavy hoe Papa had been using the other day to make rows for his seeds. Vic had been told to put it away, but forgot. Now he was really glad he'd forgotten. He grabbed the hoe from the ground and charged toward the stupid dog, screaming.
Everything went black.
…
…
…
When Vic's vision returned to normal, the black dog was lying on the ground, its head bashed in, a bloody hoe next to it.
"Holy hell," Vic murmured, looking down at his big hands. Had he really done that? And why didn't be feel bad? He'd just killed someone's pet.
Suddenly, his ears popped, and the sounds of the real word rushed back in. The first thing he heard were little Emmanuel's screeches.
"KITTY! DAISY! KITTY!" she screamed. "VICTOR KILLED MY KITTY! AND THE DOGGIE TOO! HELPHELPHELP! VICTOR KILLED MY DAISY!" Then wordless screams, just the loudest sounds he'd ever head.
Vic felt angry again. A tide of red began to overtake his vision. But wait. Vic, stop, he thought, if you blacked out and killed the dog like that, what could you do to your little sister? He forced the tide of red down. "Emmanuel!" he shouted, stalking over to her and grabbing the screaming child by the shoulders.
"STOP!" he roared. "Stop screaming! Emmanuel Maryanne Bahorel! I did not kill your cat! The dog did! That stupid, stupid dog did it! NOT ME!" He shook her by the shoulders. "Do you hear me? Somewhere in that thick skull of yours I know you can understand me!" His shaking began to get harder and harder.
Emmanuel nodded fearfully. "Okay, Victor, yes, Victor," she babbled. "Yes, Victor. Okay, Victor. I believe you, Victor. Please, Victor, let me go, Victor." She began to shake, tears running down her face.
"NO!" shouted. "You're just lying! You ungrateful little retard!"
"M-Mama says that's a no-word, Victor!" Emmanuel stammered. "A very not nice word to say, Victor."
"Oh, shut up! You shut up, you hear? I can say it all I want! Retard, retard, retard! You're a retard! You hear me? That's all you are! You get all the attention with your dumb little bob haircut and your stupid little face! You don't look like anyone else, and you never act like anyone else! And you always have to say my name after EVERYTHING! Yes, I'm Victor! Who are you trying to remind, you idiot?" Vic roared. His rage felt worse than when he'd killed the dog.
Emmanuel began to scream again, this time adding hiccupy sobs to the mix. Vic shouted at her, not even knowing what he was saying.
He felt his vision go black again.
…
…
Another voice joined in with his shouts and Emmanuel's screams a thousand years later. It was Papa. The older man jumped out of his truck – he had been to town picking up supplies; Mama was at a quilting bee – and ran towards his children.
"Vic! Emmanuel!" he cried. "What the hell is going on here?"
Vic felt himself calming down a little bit, and when the blackness faded, he realized he was holding Emmanuel by the neck and squeezing. He immediately released his little sister. "Papa!" Vic cried.
Papa shoved Vic roughly aside and went to Emmanuel. "Child, what happened?" he asked her.
"A big dog attacked Daisy, Papa," Emmanuel sobbed. "And Victor went after the dog, Papa. I thought that he killed Daisy, Papa, but he didn't. It was the dog, Papa. Victor got angry, Papa, and yelled at me."
Vic felt his knees go weak. Oh…God. Oh…oh…God. He had just murdered the neighbor's dog, screamed horrible things at his little sister, and then nearly strangled her. What had come over him? It was like some bloody black wave blocked out his vision and he couldn't remember a thing, and when he came to, horrible things had happened. Sweet Jesus, what had he done? Tears began to snake down the young boy's face. His knees wobbled and collapsed under him, and he fell knees-first on the wooden porch.
"Papa!" Vic sobbed. "H-help me, Papa!" He cried harder and harder, his body shaking with horror and guilt at what he'd just done. "Oh dear God, Papa," he wept. "I swear I didn't know what I was doing! I-I was in the c-corn running about when I heard Daisy wailing and…and I went to help her, but when I-I saw the big black dog…I just got so angry! Everything turned black. This dark, never-ever-ending black. And then when it passed I had smashed the dog's head in. Th-then Emmanuel just started up with her screaming and sc-screaming! I tried to tell her that I-I wasn't the one who had killed Daisy, but she started in with her babbling and I got so angry again and I-I yelled these horrible things." He scrambled around on the porch on his hands and knees, grabbing for Emmanuel. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" he sobbed. "I swear I didn't m-mean a thing I said. Then everything went that HORRIBLE black again and then you came!" He hugged Emmanuel hard. "Please forgive me," he begged his little sister. "Papa, if you hadn't come, I think I would have k-k-killed her!"
His father looked down on him coldly.
"P-please, Papa," Vic sobbed. "Please forgive me. I-I didn't mean to."
His father's mouth became a grim line.
"I…I need help," Vic begged. "I couldn't control myself. I need a doctor to help me. A teacher! A policeman! Anyone…please!"
"No!" his father snapped abruptly. "Never, do you hear me? We already have enough trouble as is raising a retarded child without anyone finding out. It would shame our family if anyone found out about Emmanuel. Think of your grandfather! If it were up to him, we would have left Emmanuel out in the snow to die once we found out of her…condition. But, no. Laws are in place, now, and we're forced to raise these…these determents to society. Your mother suggested shipping her off to an institution; an asylum. Or even some special school for the retards. But no. No one can find out about Emmanuel. We can't have a mental case for a son," the man continued. "Your sister is bad enough, but now you? I'm ashamed."
"Papa, please," Vic begged one more time. "What…what are we going to do?"
"No. 'Please' my ass. What are we going to do about this? We're going to keep it quiet. We're not going to tell anyone." He grabbed Emmanuel by the back of her dress and dragged her away from Vic, in turn grabbing the ten-year-old by his collar and hauling him up so the young boy was face to face with the older man. "Do you understand me?" Mr. Bahorel growled.
"Papa," Vic tried again. "P-please. I won't tell anyone, I promise, but I need help. What it if happens again? It's so scary, Papa. I can't deal with this alone."
Mr. Bahorel let go of his son's collar and struck him across the face. "STOP BEGGING LIKE A LITTLE GIRL AND DEAL WITH IT! I DEAL WITH YOUR RETARD SISTER; YOU DEAL WITH YOUR LITTLE ISSUE! WE DO NOT TELL A SOUL, AND YOU DO! NOT! DEFY! MY! ORDERS! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?! AND FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, BOY, STOP CRYING!"
Vic fell to the porch and wiped his eyes. He grabbed Emmanuel's hand and raced inside, up to their little bathroom, wrapping bandages around his little sister's neck.
"Emmanuel," Vic said quietly.
She didn't respond.
"Emmanuel," he said again, this time in a tone as tired as Father Time himself. "Look at me when I talk to you…please."
"Are you going to hurt me again?" Emmanuel whispered.
"No," Vic said. "Never again. Ever, you hear me? I'm so sorry, and I'll be sorry until I'm dead. I…I didn't mean to. And when Papa hurt me, I felt the way you felt. So in a little way, we're even…sorta. Oh, Emmanuel." He stopped bandaging her neck and hugged her as hard as he could. "I love you."
XXX
"BAHOREL! BAHOREL! STOP!" It was the shriek that brought him out his intense flashback. He blinked, and his vision went from black to colorful and bright, bright red. He shook his head and looked around his classroom. He was straddling the teacher with his hands around the man's neck.
Bahorel immediately jumped up, shaking. "Oh, God," he whispered. "Not again." He looked to his classmates. "Please…what happened?" he begged.
"Professor Collins asked you a question," a classmate of his named Daryl stammered out in a terrified tone. "You were off someplace in your head, and he began to taunt you for it. You just leapt at him. Like a tiger."
"Oh, Christ," Bahorel murmured. "Not again. Oh, God please." He began to rock back and forth and back and forth, tearing at his hair. "Notagainnotagainnotagain," he whispered.
"Someone fetch the authorities!" another classmate – Davis Smith – cried. "He nearly killed Professor Collins! We all just stood here, yeah? We could be tried as accomplices!"
"Don't get the authorities," Daryl said quietly. "Poor Victor is gone. He's rocking like a child. And look at his eyes – the boy is terrified. He doesn't seem to know what's going on. We need to fetch…" He paused, looking around at the other young men in the room. "The folks from the asylum."
A collective shudder ran through them. Putting people in mental institutions was getting more and more popular, and sometimes even perfectly sane people worried about it.
It was a rational fear.
And so they came, the folks from the asylum. They dragged Bahorel, still rocking and babbling to himself, off to the Abaissés.
[123]
Lesgles de Meaux had always seen things. Ever since he was a child, he remembered talking to his "friends" and getting strange looks. It was only when he was about eight that his parents realized that he was suffering from some mysterious affliction, and not just playing pretend games.
If Lesgles had a penny for every time someone had given him an odd look, and he'd had to smile sheepishly, asking, "Are they not there?" he would be a rich man.
Lesgles's parents were kind, country-born people with terrible luck. They were simple folk, who didn't venture out much because of the horrible luck that seemed to follow them everywhere. From branches falling on the roof of the house to dogs just falling down dead, it had all happened to the de Meaux family.
So when they first found out about his hallucinations, they just laughed and called him a "creative child." But it happened past childhood. Into his thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth years.
No doctors in their Southern, heavily-Caucasian town wanted to treat Lesgles because he was black. The very thought horrified them. And because there were no black doctors, well…his delusions went on.
Eventually, when Lesgles was sixteen, he started seeing the spirit of a little girl. She had the same skin color as he did, and looked quite a bit like him, really.
"Lesgles," she giggled. "Come play with me!"
He had thought it was the daughter of some neighbor. The only other black family in town – the Millers – did have three little daughters, after all.
"Which one are you, little one?" he had asked her kindly. "Rosie, Eleanor, or Jeannie?" The three girls did look quite a bit alike. He was surprised that he remembered their names, even.
"I'm not them!" the little girl cried. "I'm Dora. Dora de Meaux, silly! Dontcha know your own sister?" She tugged at his coat, giggling. "I'm surprised you don't know me, Lesgles. Didn't Momma and Daddy tell you about me?" She looked a little sad.
Lesgles had knelt down on the child's level. "Little one," he said, not unkindly, "you must be mistaken. I don't have a sister named Dora. I have a brother named William, and a younger sister named Effie, but no Dora. Certainly not as young as you."
"I'm not your little sister!" Dora insisted. "I'm your big sister." She crossed her arms and sighed, sitting down in the scrubby grass. "I guess Momma and Daddy never bothered to tell you about me, huh? William is six years old, and your Effie," she spat the name, "is twelve. You're sixteen. And I'm seven! But I'm your big sister. I guess I left before you were born."
"Left?" Lesgles had asked patiently. The child was obviously delusional. Maybe a bit like him. Ma and Pa had never told him about anyone named Dora. But…how did she know about Effie and William?
"Left," Dora agreed. "I was playing in the woods when this big scary white man with a funny hood came up with a gun. He was dressed in bed sheets! I don't remember much after that." She shrugged. "You musta been born a couple of years after that. Then Effie and William. Now, please. Won't you come and play with me?" She tugged his hand and pulled him up with surprising strength for such a small girl. "Please?"
"Um…I'll play with you," Lesgles said. Dora dragged him on for some time, babbling about something or other. One of her friends, maybe. Lesgles wasn't listening. He was so confused. Is Dora a…a ghost? Is she just a crazy little girl, or a sane on playing a trick on me? Did some cop put her up to this, just to get a rise out of me? he thought. And where are we going?
"Let's play by the tracks!" Dora squealed. She tugged Lesgles by some train tracks that ran through the woods, and plopped down right in the middle of them. "We can pretend we're Indians, and the tracks are our river and we're tryin' to float down them in our canoe! Get in the canoe!"
Lesgles looked around the woods, listening for a train whistle. "Dora, this isn't a good idea," he said. "Trains come through here often. Just about every two hours or so. The last train must've come through…well, about that time, actually. Get off the tracks."
Dora crossed her arms and pouted. "No," she said, shaking her head.
"Dora!" Lesgles cried. "C'mon, kid! Get off the tracks! You're gonna get run over!" He walked over to her. Suddenly, a train whistle blasted in the distance. Lesgles could hear the train coming. "Get off!" he shouted. The delusional little brat was going to get killed in front of his very eyes!
The train was in sight now, rumbling down the tracks like a giant, angry horse. Dora just sat there stubbornly.
"Child!" Lesgles screamed. "You will die if you don't get off this second!"
When the train was less than three feet away, Lesgles did something drastic: he leapt in front of it, grabbed Dora up in his arms, and rolled off to the other side of the tracks. The train rushed by less than an inch from his face, the whistle screaming like a woman being murdered.
When he looked down at Dora to see if she was okay, he found his arms empty.
XXX
Needless to say, the story of the crazy black boy who leapt in front of a train clutching at nothing, claiming to be saving his sister, got around his little town. People started whispering about how he was a danger to society. A crazy old nigger. Suicidal, maybe. Seeing things nobody else saw.
Lesgles had tried to ask his parents about a dead sister named Dora, but Ma and Pa just shut him down. "We needn't discuss the child," was all his mother would say on the issue.
After this, the family packed up and moved to the north. The verbal and physical abuse from the folks in his Tennessee town was getting too awful. Some ten-year-old kids had knocked little William into a mud puddle. Effie had been harassed by some teenage boys; Ma and Pa were belittled whenever either of them set a foot in town. But Lesgles had it the worst. He had been beaten by people his own age, had stones thrown at him by children, and he was even hit in the knees with a heavy stick.
The family settled somewhere in the northwest, where cliffs and pine trees were the kings. Freezing rain crashed down on them most of the time, but at least they were free of the hot abuse from the southern citizens. Everyone was a lot more spread out, and when they did go into town, everyone greeted the de Meauxs like old friends.
Even so, Lesgles resolved to change himself. He called himself Bossuet, after some old French man he'd read about in a history book. He didn't talk to anyone, worried that they were illusions from his head. His little "problem" had gotten so bad that he couldn't tell who was real and who was a hallucination. His solution was just to shut everyone out. When Bossuet did speak, he used a sarcastic, wry wit that his parents hated.
He joked about his terrible luck and got drunk, muttering bitterly about his hallucinations. Life lasted this way until he was twenty-two, when he was found roaring at his bedroom wall: "LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU LITTLE BITCH! YOU'RE NOT REAL! NOT! REAL! YOU! ARE! NOT! REAL!" That was when his parents, with no other option, shipped Bossuet off to the sanitarium.
Luckily they took black folks…
[123]
Masselin Feuilly did not sleep.
Well, this wasn't entirely true. Sometimes he would crash down for an hour or two each night, waking up frequently and twitching around with nightmares. Other nights, he sat on his bed for hours, staring at the walls and becoming increasingly exhausted. Feuilly had tried everything he could to sleep, from drugs that knocked him out for hours to every sort of strenuous activity that would make most people fall asleep the minute they hit their beds.
But nothing worked.
Instead, during the day, Feuilly managed dozens of short ten to twenty minute naps that caused him to get fired from too many jobs.
The nightmares didn't come during his little naps, and anything was better than the nightmares. All he could see in them were big men with whips and freezing lakes. A dreary, wearying, abuse-filled childhood. Feuilly wondered if his childhood was like that. In truth, he couldn't remember a thing from those years.
It concerned him sometimes, but he was too busy trying to sleep to really pay much attention to his lack of a childhood.
One day, at twenty-two, Feuilly just snapped. One could say he went stark-raving mad. He was working at a racetrack – everyone was preparing for the big derby – when it happened.
"Oi, 'Selin!" one of his mates, a young Irishman named Tom called. "Git yer ginger-headed butt over here! We gotta get this thing painted by tonight!"
The boys were trying to get a board painted with an advertisement for the derby. Everyone knew how great Feuilly was at painting, so whenever jobs like this came up, the young man was recruited. He stifled a yawn and loped over to Tom, giving his friend a weary grin and grabbing a drafting pencil, kneeling down over the board.
"Tom," Feuilly sighed, "why isn't the drawing of the horse done?"
"Well," Tom said, grimacing. "I ain't so hot at drawin' beasties and…Marybell was hangin' about last night…and one thing led to another and…"
Feuilly stabbed his drafting pencil into the dirt, gritting his teeth around another yawn. "Dammit, Tom," he growled. "Do us all a favor and get your brain out of your trousers for once. We were supposed to have this three-quarters done by this morning, and Mr. Blythe won't be happy that it's NOT EVEN HALFWAY DONE!" He smashed a fist on the grassy ground, looking around at the busy people around him. Young teenagers preparing the stalls for the horses, older men were hammering nails and moving heavy objects, and people of every age were preparing the track for the horses to race on that night. It was busy and every detail was precise. Feuilly loved it.
But what he didn't love, what a partner that promised to finish up the work for that night with a: "Go on home, 'Selin. You need the sleep fer tomorrow! I swear I'll get that horse drawn up and painted like a masterpiece!" and then didn't follow through.
Great. More stress.
Feuilly began to quickly sketch out a horse on the large wooden sign. Their sign was basic and not too flashy: a jockey standing next to his horse, patting the large animal on the back. In the background, there was a bright blue sky and green grass. They had painted the smiling jokey already, but the horse wasn't done, and the background wasn't either.
"Ah, 'Selin. I'm sorry 'bout all this," Tom apologized. "Here, lemme help."
"No!" Feuilly snapped. "I'll…I'll get it done." He yawned. "Just leave me alone and I'll get it done. Go help the kids with the stalls for the horses. That one over there – the tall one – looks like he has no idea what he's doing here. Go on." With that, he turned his back on Tom and began to sketch. Large, sweeping lines for the horse and curved little squiggly lines for the clouds. Once Feuilly got into the place in his head where he drew pictures, it was hard to get out. It was like entering a dark room with no doors.
His hand moved rapidly, creating a frontal view of a large, majestic horse. Feuilly grabbed the pots of paint some minutes later, dipping a brush in and filling in his lines. He used broad strokes for the ground, sprigging in a darker green as tufts of grass for detail's sake. He filled in the sky with a nice shade of light blue, painting the clouds a creamy white. Finally, the horse was all that was left, and Feuilly even got that done quickly.
When he was done painting, he realized that only about thirty minutes had passed. Feuilly had never painted something with that amount of speed. He grinned at the sky. "Tom!" he shouted over to his friend, who seemed to be lecturing the tall boy on the way to put hay in a horse's stall.
Tom looked up from his admonishments. "Oi!" he shouted back. "What's the word, 'Selin? Need some help?"
Feuilly shook his head. "I've finished," he said coolly, still frustrated at Tom. "We should bring this to Mr. Blythe!" he called over. "Help me move it, then!"
Feuilly felt a wave of anger rise in his gut as Tom walked over. Anger at Tom for breaking a promise to work and going off with some girl instead. Anger at the tall boy in the stables who didn't even know how to put hay down for a horse. Anger at Mr. Blythe, his boss, for always being so demanding. And even anger at broader things – life itself, for one thing. Anger that he was an orphan, that he seemed born to be poor and struggling. That he worked so hard in life and never earned what he deserved. That he couldn't ever sleep without suffering from nightmares. Anger at the fact that other than irresponsible Tom, he didn't have any friends.
By the time Tom got to him, he felt a rush of love and hate rise for the Irishman. Love at the fact that they were friends, and hate for…everything about him. Did that even make sense?
My head feels…odd, he thought.
He briefly wondered if this was how a woman felt when she had her monthly "visitor." Love and hate and conflicting emotions. Huh. A thing to think about.
"Lift the right side," Feuilly commanded. "Be careful, though. The paint still isn't dr –"
Tom hefted up the right side of the big board easily, grabbing it by the sides instead of the bottom as he should have. He slapped one palm directly into the wet paint. "Oh!" he exclaimed, realizing his palm had landed right in the middle of the horse's muzzle. "Oh, dear." He tried to gently extract his hand, but tripped backwards on a tuft of grass, landing on his butt. His hand slipped down the entire painting, smearing Feuilly's work. "Oh, no. Oh, 'Selin. I'm so sorry!" he cried.
Feuilly dropped the board, his hands hanging limply at his sides. The entire horse was smeared, its lovely chestnut brown mixing in horribly with the pale green of the grass. There was cloud-white bedaubed where the horse's ear should have been. "What have you done?" he asked in a tone devoid of emotion.
"Please forgive me, 'Selin," Tom begged. "I slipped."
"You did this on purpose!" Feuilly cried, clenching his fists. "That's it! You did this on purpose! I know it!" It all made sense in his head. "You were angry at me for calling you out on plowing your slut instead of working as you should have! You did this so I would get fired! My rent is due, you idiot! I HAVE NO INCOME OTHER THAN THIS!"
"Hey, hey," Tom said, trying to remain calm. "It was an accident, 'Selin. I'll go before Mr. Blythe and tell him this was all my fault. But don't you go calling Marybell such names. She's a good girl."
"Oh, she's a slut!" Feuilly growled. "The kid's probably spread her legs for half the boys here!"
"Oi!" Tom snarled. "DON'T you call Marybell that name! She's a classy thing, and certainly wouldn't come in contact with some of the people here."
"Oh, yes she would!" Feuilly snarled back. "And she does! Why do you think the girl's around her all the time, anyhow? She was having quite a bit of fun with Mr. Blythe just a month back! Face it, Tom, your girl's a slut!"
"You bastard!" Tom cried, and leapt at Feuilly, tackling the boy to the ground. They landed roughly, Feuilly's back slamming against the dirt.
The wind was knocked out of him. Feuilly exhaled roughly, the chest hurting. "Get off of me!" he cried when he regained his breath. "Tom, get off!" He secured his legs under Tom's stomach and kicked his friend off, sending the young Irishman flying. Feuilly had quite a lot of leg strength, considering how many manual labor jobs he had worked.
Tom landed like a ragdoll, but jumped up immediately. "Put up yer fists!" he shouted. "C'mon, ya cowardly bastard!"
Feuilly didn't want to fight. Now that he had some time to think about what had just happened, he was appalled at himself. The things he had just said – while true – were hurtful and cutting. And worse, they were aimed at his only friend. He still felt angry and mildly betrayed, but…he needed to stop. He was going to get fired if he kept up this fighting.
"Tom," Feuilly said, placing a hand on his own sore back, "please. I don't want to fight with you. You're my best friend – my only friend. I'm sorry I said what I said. That was out of line. Marybell isn't the girl for you, but it was rude to call her a slu – well, the word I said. I know you didn't mean to ruin the board. I'm sorry." He held up his hands in a gesture of peace and let out a yawn. "I'm just – I'm just so tired, Tom." He sank to the ground slowly, with Tom's suspicious eyes following him the whole way down. His head began to feel very, very odd suddenly. "I never sleep. Did I ever tell you that?" That wasn't what Feuilly had expected to come out of his mouth. But somehow it just did. It was like his brain had detached from his mouth.
"No." The tone Tom used was short and curt. Guarded.
"Well I don't. It's true. Sometimes I manage a few hours here and there, but I'm always plagued by these…these nightmares. Nightmares of men beating their children and this…this big frozen lake somewhere. And it's always so, so cold in those dreams. Even though my hair is the color of fire." Feuilly gave a weak chuckle. "Even though I have a head of flames, my dreams are icy and frozen." His eyes began to run a faraway look. He was off in another world.
"Masselin, you don't look well," Tom said. "I…I think we should get Mr. Blythe. Take you to a doctor, maybe."
"How odd," Feuilly mused. "You never call me by my full name. Just that little nickname, 'Selin. You know no one else calls me that? Only you. Oh, Tom. How funny friendship is."
"I'm callin' ya that because you're worrying me," Tom said edgily. "C'mon, 'Selin. We should get a doctor, yeah?"
"No, just leave me here," Feuilly said dreamily. "I'll be…" He meant to end his sentence with "fine." I'll be fine. Before he could finish his sentence, though, everything went utterly black.
XXX
The next time Masselin Feuilly awoke, the first words he heard were: "Sleep-deprived breakdown. The boy's empty as a used potato sack. Started spouting about friendship and things. He's gone. Electroshock therapy is what I recommend."
What pretty words, Feuilly thought, before the blackness took over again.
[123]
Every night, both of them had the same dream. When she would lie in her tiny bed, curling in on herself like a kicked animal, she would dream of it. When he would pass out in some alleyway, or stagger inside their shared apartment and crash on to the couch, or even stumble into the bedroom, snuggling down with her…he would dream of it too.
It was less of a dream and more of a memory, you could say. One neither of them could forget.
The ratty screen door slammed open, the broken screen shivering in the warm summer wind, the loose frame wiggling. A girl flew down the short wooden steps that led up to it, landing knees-first in the mire of the alley. She was clad in a stained brown dress. It was very plain, and almost inappropriately short. She scrambled to her feet, brushing the mud and dirt off of her knees, standing at attention with her hands folded behind her back.
She was a pretty young girl. Less than twenty, with a long mane of brown hair. She was pale and skinny, with bruises covering her face and arms. Her feet were clad in men's work boots. The boots hid a horrifying sight – feet that were cracked and dry, oozing blood and pus. It felt like she walked on knives on the best of days.
There was a large boot print on the back of her dress from where she had been kicked.
A man came to the screen door, throwing a dirty bag at the girl's feet. "Don't forget your clothes," he grunted to her.
"Sir," the girl said politely, with no hint of emotion.
"What do you want?" the man growled. He was large and intimidating, with deep creases in his weathered face. He showed no emotion either.
"Please, sir, give me another chance. It won't happen again, I swear," she assured the man. She was speaking of a "client" that had been particularly rough with her. She still bore a bright red mark on her face from where he had delivered a stinging slap. She had gotten scared and pushed him out of her room, but not before slapping him across the face and then pick pocketing him.
The man shook his head, his face softening a bit. "You're a good girl, and it's a shame you're in this business anyway, Sousy. Maybe this is a good thing for you. Maybe you'll get out of the business."
"Please, sir," Sousy repeated, letting a hint of her desperation into her voice. "You know that's not true, forgive the contradiction. I can't do anything but pick pocket and – and…this."
"Make a business for yourself, girl," the wizened man said. "You could make a fortune on a pick pocketing business, for all I know. But you can't stay here."
"I promise," Sousy tried.
"You promise what? That our reputation isn't already tarnished? Imagine what that man thinks of us now. That the girls don't like it a little rough? That's the business, kid, doing what the men want you to do. And you didn't do that. Not just that, but you slapped the man." He didn't mention the theft of the man's expensive watch and most of his money. One could almost say he was proud of Sousy for that. "There's just no way you can continue on here."
Sousy didn't reply. Her shoulders sunk, and she picked up the bag at her feet. "Well…I guess this is goodbye," she murmured.
The man sat down on the sagging steps, leaning against the creaky door. He motioned for the young girl to do the same thing. She sat next to him, and he put a fatherly arm around her. "You're a good girl, Sousy. I hate to see you go. You remind me of my own daughter – my dear Charlotte. And I would hate for Charlotte to be in a business like this. So when I look at you, girl, and see you here, it breaks my heart. You can't be more than…seventeen, eighteen?"
"Seventeen," Sousy said quietly.
"A seventeen-year-old girl should be finishing her education, darlin', not working in a whorehouse. Now look here: I don't even like running this place. Every time I see one of my girls take the arm of some man, grinning at him all saccharine-sweet, leading him up the stairs into their little rooms…it breaks my heart. But this business was handed down to me by my father, and my father was a good man."
Sousy leaned into the large man's side, and he tightened his arm around her. "If you hate it so much, why do you keep running it?" she said softly. "Why do you call your father a good man if he ran a whorehouse?"
"I run it because I have to," the man answered. "It's my income, you see, my job. No company would hire a scary old man if I just up and left. Maybe a packing company or a slaughterhouse. I dunno." He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "And the girls. They're my kin, I like to think. I fancy them my kin, my daughters. You know some of them haven't ever had a father in their lives. I guess that's what I am."
"A father who makes them have sex with strangers," Sousy growled.
"Yes," the weathered man conceded. Anyone else would have given Sousy a smack for saying something like that, but he didn't. It was enough that he was kicking her out. He needn't add injury to insult. He stood up, putting his hands on Sousy's shoulders. "Think of this a fresh start, kid. You won't ever have to be a…a whore again." For someone who ran a brothel, the man didn't like that word. "I'm doing you a favor, Sousy. I'm giving you an out. Some girls here don't have that. Natalie and Champagne? Hell, the kid calls herself 'Champagne.' You're destined for this life if that's what you call yourself." He gave a soft, bitter chuckle, and then turned serious again. What he was saying, he needed Sousy to hear. He needed her to understand it. "And Natalie! Pretty as a little rose, but dumb as a box of bricks. No skills but in the bedroom. Where's she gonna get a job?" He paused, looking into the girl's eyes. "But you, Sousy. You've got skills, I know. You're smart and tactful and kind. You can make a life for yourself." With that, he let her shoulders go, gave her a pat on the head, and disappeared back inside the ramshackle building.
With nothing else to do, Sousy slowly limped away.
She managed to make it down most of the alleyway before tripping, her feet nearly screaming with pain. She landed on her knees again, whimpering. "What has life come to?" Sousy wondered aloud.
"I could ask the same thing," a little voice agreed.
Sousy looked up from where she had been kneeling. A few feet away from her, a young boy was curled in on himself. He couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. He had short, jet black hair and cold blue eyes. Well, at least Sousy assumed both of his eyes were blue: one of them was swelled shut. There were deep purple bruises all over his face, and a red knot bulging on his jaw. His white shirt was torn open to reveal more angry bruises on his prominent ribs.
"Are you alright?" Sousy asked softly. She wouldn't normally ask a question like that of a young boy – he had probably just been beaten by the police for petty theft – but today was different; today they were both trash in the gutter.
"No," the boy answered in an equally soft tone. "I –I'm not." Tears filled his pretty eye, and he quickly closed it. The motion obviously pained him.
Sousy dragged herself over to the little boy, her feet like useless, heavy appendages dragging behind her. "I'm not okay either," she said. "We can be un-okay together." She smiled at the boy, but he didn't' smile back.
"I need someone to help me," the boy said seriously. "Someone to keep a secret, and who's not afraid to take revenge." He grabbed Sousy by the front of your dress. "I just saw you get kicked out of the whorehouse," he whispered.
Sousy extracted his hands, giving a bitter chuckle. "I'm not ashamed of that, kid. If you think that's some incentive to make me help you, think again."
"Fine," the boy said. "Will you help me, though? You're involved in the business of the underworld. And now that you've been kicked out with all your Earthly belongings, you have nowhere to go and nothing to do."
"You should write a novel," Sousy suggested sourly. "Am I a character or a person, kid? What do you want my help with, anyhow? Taking revenge!" She shook her head, scoffing. "You're a little kid. Go home to your parents."
"I'm twelve years old!" the boy shouted. "I'm not little! And I want revenge on the bastards who took my little sister." He clenched his fists. "We've got no parents to speak of. We were just sitting in an alleyway eating an orange together when this big group of men came and snatched my sister away. She didn't even have time to scream! They just snatched her up and ran off! I followed them and tried to get her back, but they dragged me to this alleyway and beat me." He crossed his arms. "Clarisse is only nine. She doesn't know about the cruelties of the world yet. But she's gonna. By God, she's gonna. She's sitting in an abandoned factory tied up with a bunch of other little girls. That was the only glimpse I caught before the men dragged me away. I don't know what they're gonna do to them, but it's something sinister."
Sousy sighed. "What's your name, kid?" she asked.
"Montparnasse," the boy answered proudly.
"I'm Claquesous. It's French. I go by Sousy so Americans can pronounce my name. Now look here, Montparnasse, you can't just go after your sister." Montparnasse's face twisted into an expression of indigence, shock, and fury. Sousy sighed. "She's their property now," she continued, trying to make Montparnasse understand. "She belongs to those men. That's how this city works. And don't you dare think of going to the cops. You'll be dead in the gutter if you set one foot inside a police station. Before you go crazy, now, kid, hold on just a moment. Those 'sinister things' aren't as bad as you seem to think. They won't make her prostitute herself. She's too young. Even the most horrible men won't have sex with a little girl. I got captured a time or two when I was her age, that's how I know. They just made me do some labor jobs."
The little boy glared at Sousy. "Oh, yeah?" he challenged. "If I can't rescue her, and she's 'their property,' then why are you sitting across from me? Aren't you 'theirs' now?"
Sousy shook her head. "You ask too many questions, boy. You won't get anywhere in this city if you ask so many questions."
"Answer me!" Montparnasse cried with surprising strength in his voice.
"Fine. Fine. The first time I was captured, I was eleven. This one boy – about thirteen or so – had taken a liking to me. He thought I was pretty, so he decided to be valiant and rescue me. Well. He – he didn't know the score. He wouldn't have done it if he knew the score. This knight in shining armor – Carlisle was his name – snuck into the abandoned restaurant where they were holding me and a few other girls around my age. He ungagged me and cut my bonds with this little penknife he always carried." Sousy shuddered. "I…I didn't know what was going to happen next, I swear. I wasn't even sure what the men who captured us were going to do with us girls. Prostitution, I thought. It's always prostitution, isn't it?" She shook her head and gave a bitter chuckle, lost in memory.
Montparnasse ran a bruised hand through his short, inky hair, shaking. "It's cold," he whimpered. "It's cold and I miss Clarisse." He dragged himself over to Sousy, leaning his head on her beast, wrapping his skinny, bruise-splotched arms around her. "I miss Clarisse," he repeated.
Sousy, surprised, wrapped her arms around the young boy. It was the first time she'd shown anyone affection without being paid for it in quite a long time. She hugged him to her chest. "Shall I continue?" she asked gently. "You might not want to hear it."
"If it will help me rescue my sister, I want to hear it," Montparnasse mumbled.
Sousy leaned against the wall, the back of her brown dress catching dust and brick flakes. Montparnasse tightened his hold on her. She splayed booted feet in front of her, shaking her head at the useless appendages on the ends of her ankles. "If you're sure. He pulled me to my feet, little Carlisle. We untied and ungagged the other girls, and pushed open the window Carlisle had come in through. We helped the other girls out of the window, and then it was my turn. Carlisle was giving me a boost, and I was about halfway out of the window when I heard my captors storming down the stairs. They said…they said, 'Alright, girlies. Ready for your training? We're gonna teach you to live on the streets.' And then they saw the piles of ropes and rags on the floor, and noticed all of us were gone. They saw my backside hanging halfway in the room, and Carlisle holding my feet." She took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Well, then?" Montparnasse prompted quietly. "What happened? To you, and to Carlisle?"
"Carlisle, he – he shoved my feet and I tumbled out of the window. I landed on the pavement and got a nasty scratch on my face for it. The people who had taken me, I could hear them talking to him. All of the other girls had run off by then, so it was just me left. I ducked into some bushes by the window, trying to think of all the ways I could rescue my Carlisle. I heard one man say, 'Sonny boy, you stole our property. These girls were gonna work for us. Messengers and errand-runners. Our own little accomplices.' And then the man gave this chuckle. It was dry and grim. 'When they got old enough, we'd take 'em as our girls, our wives, or sell 'em into the whoring business. But now they're all gone.' I peeked into the window, and saw him shaking his head and making that 'tsk, tsk, tsk' noise through his teeth. I caught Carlisle's gaze, and I could in his eyes, he was begging me to get out, to run off and save myself. But I was riveted."
Montparnasse tightened his embrace until it was almost choking. He looked up through his good eye, the pale blue sparkling with an unreadable emotion. "Go on," he said gravely. "You can't stop the story now."
"The man who had captured me looked at my Carlisle and shook his head," Sousy narrated, hating the story. It dredged up so many horrible memories; many of these memories had haunted her nightmares for years, and some still did. She had tried so hard to forget them…. "He was grinning." Each sentence felt like a giant rock in her throat. "He was just grinning and shaking his head. 'You made a mistake, sonny boy,' he said. 'A grave, grave mistake.' And then he pulled out a tiny handgun," Sousy choked out. "And…that was it. The man….he – he fired and Carlisle crumpled to the floor. My Carlisle was dead before he had time to cry out. But…I did cry out. I screamed so loudly it would shatter eardrums." She shook her head. "It's not like I had never seen a corpse before. I'd been living in the streets since I was six; once an old man died in front of me. But…but I had never seen someone I loved just…die like that."
Montparnasse was shaking. When Sousy looked down, she wondered if he was crying, but saw that the only emotion he was shaking with was pure rage.
"I swear to God," Montparnasse vowed, "the man who killed your Carlisle will die. I'll kill him with my bare hands. And I will get my sister back. The man who captured her will die. I'm never going to be in the underworld. I'm never, ever going to be as horrible as those men."
If only that promise had been true.
XXX
Sousy was twenty-two now, and 'Parnasse was seventeen. He had since found the man who'd killed Carlisle all those years ago and hacked the guy to pieces…while he was alive and screaming. It had happened when 'Parnasse was fourteen.
Ever since that day in the alley, the two had always been together. They took care of each other. Montparnasse held her hand as she found out the infection in her feet was so bad that her left leg up to the knee would have to be amputated, as the infection had traveled. He had held her hand as the amputation happened, even though she was knocked high to the sky by morphine. He had hugged her as she sobbed when she'd received her creaky, cheaply made wheelchair.
She had taken Montparnasse in, treating him like a little brother. She had tended to every wound he got, soothed every intense nightmare he had, and made sure he had at least one meal in him each day. Schooling was out of the question. Life on the streets was the only education the two needed.
Eventually, they had found a little place to live, a tiny apartment on the street level in a poor neighborhood. Chicago was a tricky city to live in, though both of them would never leave. It was their childhood. Each dingy alleyway held some memory.
Montparnasse had vowed to kill the men who had taken his sister and killed Carlisle. He had somehow found the latter two years after that vow, and committed his grievous crime with a sadistic grin on his face. He had recounted the entire thing to Sousy in graphic detail, the same grin on his face for the entire story.
He still hadn't found the man who had taken little Clarisse, and Sousy worried for the day he did.
Montparnasse had promised to never be a denizen of the underworld, but the underworld was a very seductive place. It drew 'Parnasse in with promises of elegant clothing like had never had in his childhood, with the looks of fear and admiration he received walking through the streets, and with the knowledge that booze could numb his pain whenever he thought about his life too much and too long.
He never found Clarisse. She would be fourteen now.
Sousy watched her –what was he to her? A brother? A friend? Or, at least in his own eyes, a beaux? Regardless, she watched her whatever-he-was as he slowly destroyed himself. It broke her heart.
"Claquesous, my darling!" the young man slurred, breaking her from her long, intense reminiscing. "My darling, my darling, my life and my bride," he continued drunkenly, quoting from book of poetry he had found under her pillow.
"What is it, 'Parnasse?" Sousy asked wearily. "You know you won't win me over by quoting Poe at me." She shook her head and gave a bitter chuckle, sliding off of her uncomfortable, rigid-backed chair and into her wheelchair. Her "constant companion." The chair was always near her when was on any piece of furniture. She wheeled herself over to where Montparnasse was lying on their bed, staring at the ceiling.
It was technically her bed; 'Parnasse actually had a bed in the other room, but he never used it. He always snuck into bed with her in the wee hours, snuggling up to her like a child. It was the only weakness he ever showed.
"My darling, my darling," Montparnasse mumbled in reply. There was a long silence before he uttered, "I love you," under his breath.
"I'm not your darling, 'Parnasse," Sousy sighed. "And you don't love me. It's just the drink speaking." She said this, though she knew that he was being completely honest – drunk out of his mind or not. He had fallen for her years ago. He'd drunkenly confessed his love to her more times than she could count, and each time she responded with: "It's just the drink. Go to bed, 'Parnasse." She wasn't sure how she felt about it.
She could easily see herself loving him, on the one hand. They'd been taking care of each other for five years, and she knew each and every thing about him. He was most certainly handsome. He'd grown his hair out so it curled long and black, and he always kept it tied back with an old red ribbon. He wheeled her around town with a proud smirk on his lips, and if anyone dared make fun of the vicious 'Parnasse "wheeling some crippled broad" around, he would make them pay.
But.
With a capital B. He was five years younger than Sousy, and she was sure there was some law in place for loving someone so much younger than you. Even without this little hindrance, it was life of crime that kept her at bay. The fact that he would just as easily wax poetic on her beauty as he would disembowel some poor sap he'd caught in the streets. He was a psychopath. Grief from his sister had ruined him. He was sadistic and elegantly cruel. Crime wasn't a problem for him.
But it was a problem for Sousy.
She had lived in a world of crime since she was six years old. She was frankly tired of it. After all, crime – the underworld – had led to the amputation of her left foot. When she'd been in the prostitution business, she'd been running down the alley behind the ramshackle whorehouse. She was late for a meeting with a "client" and didn't want to disappoint. She'd stepped on something sharp. Sousy had never been sure if it was a pile of broken glass, or an overturned box of nails, or something equally biting. All she knew was that she had felt a sharp pain in both of her bare feet, and kept running. Whatever it was that was in her feet had gotten infected. Bearable pain at first, but then she couldn't even walk.
And now, she couldn't walk again.
Montparnasse looked up from the bed, rolling on to his side so he was facing Sousy. His pale blue eyes – just as gorgeous as ever – were surprisingly clear. He reached out and took her hands. "How many times must I tell you?" he asked softly. "It's not the drink. I love you, I swear. Don't you love me, too?"
Sousy squeezed his hands, and he gently pulled her wheelchair over until the wheels softly pinged against the brass bed frame. "I love you," she said carefully, "but I can't love you. You're…much too young. And you're a relentless…sadist." She knew she could say the words with no fear. She and 'Parnasse had been through too much. "Unless you change, it will never happen."
Montparnasse sighed heavily. "Change isn't in my nature, Sousy," he said softly.
"Then…we will remain as we are," Sousy said stiffly, formally. She hefted herself up on to the bed, making sure her wheelchair was still in reach. "Shove over," she said quietly. "I'd like to sleep."
Montparnasse wrapped his arms around her. "You could love me if I changed?" he murmured into her hair.
Sousy dragged the meager blankets over the two of them, thinking long and hard about Montparnasse's drunken question. Finally, she settled on: "Yes, 'Parnasse. I guess I could. But you'll never change, so what use is it to ask the question?" She would never admit it, but she loved the feeling of his arms wrapped tightly around her. Hell, she loved him. She always would. But he was just so –
"I can change," Montparnasse whispered. "It's not in my nature, Sousy, but I can change. Or at least…I can try. I swear on…on Clarisse and Carlisle that I will try." His voice was hard with conviction.
"Will you?" Sousy turned over so that their faces were mere inches apart. "Do you mean it?" She didn't dare let herself admit it, but there was a flicker of hope within her. Carlisle and Clarisse were sacred names among the two. He wouldn't just swear on the two if he didn't mean it.
"I mean it." With that, Montparnasse gently took Sousy's face in his hands and kissed her.
For a moment, Sousy almost pulled away. But then she stopped, and kissed Montparnasse back. His lips were warm and soft against hers, languid and sure. She tangled her fingers in his long hair, which was still up in its usual tail. He moved his hands from her face and wrapped his arms around her tightly.
Finally, he pulled away. "Do you trust me?" he asked.
Sousy smiled softly and shrugged. "Can I really?" she asked, before leaning in and kissing him again.