Disclaimer: Mrs. Lovett belongs to Sweeney Todd, Sweeney belongs to Lucy. In other words, I own nothing but a supreme love for Nellie Lovett.
"I saw her as totally amoral… and a survivor…"
-Helena Bonham Carter
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Every night she cried herself to sleep. Body shuddering with choking sobs, she chanted.
"You're a survivor, Nellie Lovett. You're a survivor."
She repeated this until her voice rasped and tears nulled her insomnia. Arms crossed over her chest, Nellie Lovett hugged herself. Because there was no one else to hug.
Because sometimes surviving wasn't enough.
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Sometimes, when Mrs. Lovett opened the large oven door to check the pies, she wanted to jump into the furnace. Let the flames consume her like they had Ben Barker. She would stand in the heat of the oven until her skin tightened and smoke drew tears in her eyes. Then she'd close the door.
Mrs. Lovett didn't believe in tears by the light of day. By day she believed in Sweeney, that light might somehow reach him. When he accidentally brushed her hand when she brought his tea, Nellie hoped. By day, when she wasn't so alone, she could trick herself into believing that he wanted her.
Mrs. Lovett was too practical to think he could love her. She would settle for lust if she had to.
"We could get by," she murmured into his ear when she knew he was gone. In a trance. With memories of Lucy.
"We could get by…" The room would echo with her earnestness, drowning out the desperation in her voice.
And then she'd return to the bake house full of burning pies. And she'd curse and swear until that wasn't enough. Then she'd drop the too heavy tray of pies to the floor and march upstairs. There were more things to throw. Nellie threw bowls and knives and flour and dough –anything, until Toby woke from his drunken stupor.
Then Mrs. Lovett told the lad nothing was wrong. Nellie Lovett was very good at lying.
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She nursed herself with lies.
"You're a survivor, Nellie. You'll get by."
She wept herself foolish. But better to be mad in dreams than sane and still living in such a portal of Hell. Madness was just another way to escape, to get by, to survive.
But when she rose each morning from her tear dampened pillow, Mrs. Lovett-so practical-had to wonder if it was worth it. She walked to her oven, took his tea, like always.
She brushed his fingers and pretended it was his accident. Still, he looked at her. And his face, though never a smile, was not a scowl. Nellie Lovett was a young thing again and Sweeney was just Ben and she would love him till she died. His eyes left hers as he took the proffered teacup. Mrs. Lovett gasped silently for breath.
And she would continue to get by.