A/N: So I went back and re-read the first few chapters of this story.
And I hated it.
Very, very much.
So I had to edit it. And this is the product.
No one had noticed them disappear.
It had been a gradual thing, really, so she didn't blame them. First she called in sick once or twice every month. Then once or twice every week. Then finally, she stopped coming altogether, and concentrated instead on her job at the local pub. It wasn't exactly respectable money, but it was money, and she needed it desperately, and so it sufficed temporarily.
She wasn't a loud girl, even before the war started. She had never been one to attract attention to herself, to raise her hand and answer questions in class. She had never been particularly close with any girl; friendly with all, but friends with none. So when no one noticed when she left, she didn't blame them.
A few wives had come visiting when her mother stopped showing up at the neighborhood knitting circles—for the war effort, and for the excellent gossip exchange it presented—on the weekends. But when they were received with ill welcome, and not ushered in warmly as proper etiquette demanded, they sniffed haughtily at the vulgarity of that Elliot girl and stopped trying. She didn't blame them.
The only time she blamed them was when she was piss drunk.
Kind of like now.
The plus side of working at a bar, she drawls—if one could drawl inside their own head? She isn't sure on the logistics, but then again, she is drunk—is the free alcohol. It was so easy to smuggle home a bottle of vodka in her purse, sneak it in there when no one was looking. The downside were the clients; not exactly the definitions of class, if you got her drift.
But it was all tolerable, as long as she kept in mind that in two more weeks, she'd be able to pay the rent! She drags her eyes from the bottle of gin in front of her to stare at the messy heap of bills on the counter; each stamped painfully red, glaring at her and accusing her for not paying them yet. The landlord has not been friendly as of late; after his first three or four visits, she'd taken to ignoring him when he knocked on their door, which, curiously enough, did not please him either.
She snorts a bit of gin up her nose as she tries to take a swig, and emerges from the bottle, coughing.
Her mother rolls over on the couch, and she freezes, is silent.
"Are you alright, dear?" Her mother slurs.
"Perfectly fine," she says, and she can't help it, but some of the bitterness inside her squeezes out, overflows despite her attempts to dam it up, and spills over into her words. She regrets it instantly—no, that's a lie, she doesn't regret it at all. She's bitter, damn it, and she has every right to be.
"Good," her mom murmurs, oblivious—rolls over, and passes out again.
She gives a short laugh, with no humor behind it.
There is nothing funny about this life, she thinks again, her head pounding. Nothing funny about the trash pile they call an apartment, nothing funny about quitting school before graduation to work and pay the bills. Nothing is humorous about her broken hearted, empty shell of a parent, nothing is funny about alcoholism. Nothing is funny about this whole fucking war.
She's thinking too much.
When she thinks too much, it starts to hurt and her eyes start to burn and she can't cry can't cry can't cry because she has to be strong for her mother, because her mom will wake up if she does, and her mom always hates seeing her cry.
She downs the last of her gin—that blessed number of emotions—and falls asleep, still dressed from her day's clothes, at the counter of her kitchen.
She wakes to the sound of knocking at the door. It's not the angry pound of their landlord, Mr. Birmingham, or the falsely sweet rap rap rap of the ladies from the Society. She's curious, wary—stumbles over the door, opens it a peek.
And then she gasps and tries to shove it shut.
"No!" She cries, but she really is no match for the policemen, trained professionals, here on eviction notice.
They barge into the room, a swarm of them, and one of them swears under his breath at the condition of it, and she wants to cry so damn bad because there's nothing she can do to stop it. A dim part of her is laughing, even though there's nothing funny, because in two more weeks—fourteen more days—she would've had the money.
"Look at the state of this place," one of the burly men says, gesturing around as he bends to search the cabinets. "Damn shame. They were nice people. Decent."
"Don't touch that!" She snaps at him, striding over and pulling him away from where she hid the alcohol. "You have no right to go there!"
"Actually, miss, we do," he says apologetically, prying her fingers off his arm and confiscating the alcohol. "We've got a search warrant." He gestures at what is apparently their leader, who is indeed brandishing a legal looking document. This other man looks away quickly when he sees she is staring.
She pauses, stunned, but recovers quickly, rounds on the leader.
"Give us two more weeks," she says, begging now. "Two more weeks and I'll have the money, I swear it! I can work overtime, give me one more week, please, just don't kick us out!"
"Sorry, Anne," the man mumbles, still not meeting her gaze. "I've got orders to carry it." He nods at some more men behind her, and she whirls around and suddenly her heart breaks.
They're lifting her mom up, her mother. She's still passed out, is muttering incoherently, her head lolling about as the carry her out of the room.
"Put her down." She hisses, and the sheer anger in her voice is enough to make the leader flinch.
"Orders," he repeats, less firmly.
"She's my mum," Anne says plaintively. "I've got nothing without her."
"She needs help, Anne," he says, gentle like. There is pity in his eyes—pity she wants to cut out forcibly, pity she wants to destroy. Pity is useless, and it makes her feel like shit. She hates it. "You both do. You've been marked as truant for the last month—" So they do notice, the detached part of her thinks.
"—your mom hasn't shown up at her job, you've quit school when you're underage to support you both, you're squandering your money on alcohol?"
She looks up at the man, gasps because suddenly she knows why he hadn't wanted to look at her, why he knew her name.
"Ian," she says, and the man winces, and she knows she's right. It's Ian Brinksman, her father's partner when he worked with the police force, before he left for the war. "Ian, don't do this. Please, Ian."
"I've got to, Anne," he whispers. "Hell, I've got to. It's the right thing to do. You both need help, and you'll get it."
"Where are you taking her?" Anne asks.
"To a rehab center," Ian replies, sighing. "To help her cope with the alcoholism and the loss of—"
"They're not lost!" Anne bursts in angrily. "You just wait, they'll be home any moment now, they're coming back, and when they do, you'll be sorry, you'll have to answer to my Pa, and you'll be sorry, Ian, you will regret this all!"
"Anne, they're not coming back," Ian says. "Thomas has been missing for eight months now, your brother for over a year. Anne, they're not coming back."
She's not hearing this. She can't take this. Not on this day, not when they're loading her mother on a truck and taking away all the bottles and all that remains of her life and sanity to who knows where. She shakes her head, back and forth, in speechless denial, and then finally, the helplessness and hopelessness and despair of it all hits her, and she starts to cry.
The detached part of her thinks, as the tears stream down silently, that at least her mother isn't nearby to witness it.
In a very different place, in a very different situation, Peter Pevensie sits bolt upright in his bed, awakened yet again by the Dream.
It's haunted him for a while now, always coming at night, consistent for the past two weeks.
There's nothing special about it. Just a girl. Always the same girl. There's nothing that special about her, either; medium height, medium skin tone, brown hair. Slender, but not overly skinny. Not fat, either. Just a typical girl. Always the same typical girl.
He sees her as if from an aerial view; from the top of her head. She's always just standing still, at the edge of a cliff. He never knows why, but he hopes it's not because she's thinking about jumping.
It always changes, so that he is directly in front of her, staring into her face. She's got freckles and delicate features; so fragile and fine, softly fitting perfectly together. She's pretty, charming, but not beautiful.
Nothing is outstanding about her except the eyes.
Grey and broken.
He always catches just a glimpse; just one haunting glance; at these eyes, before the whole image fades and he wakes up, with Aslan's voice in his ear, saying: "Find her. Catch her."
It's the Dream, and he can't get rid of it.
Anne swallowed audibly as she approached her new home, with her foster family waiting inside. It was towering and large, a mansion compared to the little house she used to live in. Each eye window seemed to regard her with curiosity as she came nearer, observing the newcomer with puzzlement. Anne turned away. She was not going to be examined like some science experiment gone awry—at least not willingly.
The black car pulled up into the driveway in front of the small castle, and rolled to a stop right before the steps that led to the elegant door.
"Mr. and Mrs. Wellington are waiting to meet you inside," The stern faced woman in the front seat of the car said in short, clipped tones. "Do be polite. They are not accustomed to teenagers. I shall be parking the car."
Anne nodded and removed herself from the vehicle, clutching her one bag of worldly possessions tightly in both hands. She slowly stepped up to the door and raised her hand to knock. The black car pulled away from behind her.
She was greeted immediately by a warm, smiling woman with curly graying hair piled atop her head in coils upon coils of elegance. The lady was dressed regally, in a dark blue gown with silver trimmings and two pearl drops hung from each earlobe. The Wellingtons were clearly a well off family.
"You must be Anne," Mrs. Wellington said happily, tugging her inside. "Welcome. Oh, you must be famished. Would you like anything to eat? We have tea prepared, and biscuits and butter if you would prefer. My name is Clara. It's so nice to meet you."
"It's nice to meet you, too," Anne whispered softly, glancing around at her magnificent surroundings.
"This is my husband, James," Clara gestured at a tall, gray haired gentleman dressed in a fresh, crisp suit behind her. "James, this is Anne." Mr. Wellington nodded his head in greeting, and Anne returned the gesture.
"Now, would you like anything to eat, Anne? I'm sure it was a long journey here. We have things other than biscuits and butter and tea, you know. Would you like a sandwich? I'm sure we have something in the kitchen."
Anne hesitated. "Sorry, Mrs. Wellington, but can you show me to my room? I'd rather rest a bit, please."
"Oh, silly me! Of course, Anne. You must be very tired as well. Oh, and dear, please do call me Clara. Mrs. Wellington makes me feel so old. Come with me, Anne dear. I'll lead you to your room."
"We don't have any children here, so some days might get frightfully lonely. My apologies in advance, Anne dearie. But if you ever do get bored, you have our permission to visit the Professor. He's about two kilometers northwest of here. He's got four children, the Pevensies I believe they are called, residing there as well. Temporarily, of course. But anything is better than nothing, no?" Clara smiled again. "Oh, look at how I'm babbling. I'm sorry; it comes when I'm nervous. I'll let you rest now. Goodnight, dear."
"Thank you," Anne whispered as the door closed. She looked about, at the vast expanses of her elegantly decorated room, and could not help but feel that she preferred the small coziness of her old house to this. She flung herself down on the bed and waited for sleep to claim her.
But sleep did not come, although much time passed. At last, after many hours of simply lying there, Anne swung her legs off of the bed and stood up slowly. She had a sudden craving for exploration.
Her room was rather drab and boring upon second glance. There were pretty oil paintings, rich in color, of random people, smiling hugely, with faces that she did not recognize and happiness that she barely remembered ever feeling. The furniture—a dresser, a closet, and a table—were made of fancy mahogany wood. The only interesting feature of the huge area was a full length, clear and gorgeous mirror on the side wall. It was framed by what looked like gilded gold, wrought and carved to show scenes of a battle long past. A lion, roaring with its powerful jaws wide open, claimed the top. Warriors with magnificent swords and iron shields fought bravely against distorted, grotesque creatures all around. It was truly breathtaking.
She directed her attention to the girl in the mirror, staring back at her with haunted eyes. This girl had once been beautiful, she thought sadly. This girl had once had sparkling, lively eyes and vibrant, thick hair and glowing, radiant skin. She had been in the prime of her youth, and beautiful in that peculiar way that all happy people are. Now she was but a shadow of the past, torn and broken. Those eyes were deadened and the hair limp and the skin pale and drawn from exhaustion and worry.
She reached out with one trembling hand to gently touch the dream girl's face, to bring herself back to reality, to awaken. It was all just a bad dream, she told herself as the fingers neared. Her mother wasn't a depressed drunk. She herself wasn't working day and night to try and support her family. Her brother and father weren't MIA. No, everything was alright. All she needed was to wake up. It was just a nightmare, after all.
She pushed hard against the mirror, against that girl's porcelain face and delicate features, wishing to make it all disappear.
To her consternation, where there ought to be a hard surface, cold glass bringing her back to the cold truth, there was nothing but air. Her hand went right through the mirror, rippling the silvery sheen, and then disappeared into nothingness.
Anne gave a yelp of surprise as she lost her balance and tumbled through the mirror into a new world.
A/N: Alright, there we go! Still emo, but a little better, yes? Please read and review, as alwaysss!!!