Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the OC's.
A/N: So, this happened. I can't deny I found Edward incredibly charming and interesting as a character.
If you're looking for someone to picture while imagining the OC, I mentally cast her as Alexandra Breckenridge, who played the younger version of Moira in season one. I figured she would be great in this type of role.
These chapters will be relatively short, I think, which I hope you don't mind, as I'm working on a bunch of other (original) projects. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
West Palm Beach, Florida – 1952
Celia filled up her lungs with humid Florida air and exhaled. The palm trees and looming skyline was awash in the golden glow of a balmy November evening. She allowed herself a moment to stifle another round of nausea before she started to weave through the foot traffic toward the road. Beneath her sunglasses, Celia dodged the curious and often puzzled glances that were thrown her way. She was used to the attention, of course. She was a woman well aware of her attraction to the male gaze, but she never rewarded them for it.
Red-haired and long legged, Celia embodied the sort of classic beauty that made women Hollywood starlets.
She had been a star of an entirely different kind.
This time, the glimpses she ignored were directed at the peculiarity of seeing a woman in a long overcoat in the middle of a muggy fall evening. She hated it as much as they seemed to; if only they knew that. She was roasting, and that in itself was making it more difficult for her to calm her stomach. Beads of sweat had begun to accumulate around her temples and at the back of her neck. She could feel them rolling down the small of her back and pooling underneath her arms. Nevertheless, Celia kept her chin up and her eyes forward. She had endured much more than this. It was nothing.
Lingering at the edge of the sidewalk, she set down her suitcases to hail a cab. It took several minutes, as the pedestrian traffic from the various flights dispersed around her. She inhaled and exhaled through her nose and wondered if it was outwardly obvious that she was drenched in sweat. A bright yellow cab halted in front of her, its breaks squealing. The driver, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, hurried from his seat to grab Celia's suitcases before she could reach for them again.
"I've got it, ma'am," he said. "You can get in."
Celia freed herself from her overcoat once the door had closed. She draped it across the backseat next to her. Although the cab was just as stuffy, Celia was grateful to replace the coat with a lighter shawl that she carefully draped across her back. It was black with lace around the trim—practically an ancient relic that she had mended time and time again, but no one else would know the difference. She leaned back into the seat with gentle care and turned her face toward the open window. The whisper of a breeze felt good against her overheated skin. Her cheeks were flushed. She hated to think that before boarding the plane, she'd figured the warm weather would be a welcomed change. Now, Celia found herself missing the brisk autumn weather of New York City.
"Where to, ma'am?" The driver looked at her reflection in his rearview mirror. She hadn't even heard him get back into the car.
"Jupiter," Celia answered. She felt the heaviness creep back into her heart. "Right to the carnival in town."
She dismissed the sneer that crossed his face. "The freak show?"
Celia stared down at her hands and pretended to rearrange the teal blue skirt of her dress atop a layer of crinoline. The driver's tone had matched his expression, incredulous and disgusted. Even if she didn't look, she could feel his dark eyes leering at her.
"Yes, sir."
"What's a pretty thing like you want with a place like that?"
"Nevemind that." Celia maintained her polite manner. "It's a matter of personal business."
He said nothing else as they sped away to the tune of a growling, sputtering engine.
Jupiter, Florida – 1952
The glittering skylines and ocean vistas melted away to the rural areas populated by small towns and residential neighborhoods. Celia watched it with her face as close to the window as possible, the wind stirring up her curls and drying the sweat on her skin. She was half-mindful of the inquisitive looks the cab driver continued to give through his rearview, which weren't as discreet as he would have believed they were. Celia did her best to avoid his eyes. It wasn't hard, given that her thoughts were so preoccupied that she had begun to stare unfocused at the passing landscapes.
She didn't like making these trips.
They were necessary for her own peace of mind, her conscience, but they left her feeling drained. She would have made it to Jupiter sooner—she should have, really, because it was almost the end of November and it was far too late for common courtesy's sake. More personal matters at home had delayed her trip. But, Celia figured it was better to show up late than to not visit them at all. She didn't expect them to understand. Celia didn't know what, exactly, she wanted to get out of these visits for herself and for the performing troupes. Her conscience, sure, but what good was it? It didn't help. She couldn't undo what had already been done.
There was nothing she could do to stop the repetitious cycle. She had tried. More times that she could properly count, she had tried, but Celia was powerless against something that even she couldn't explain. They were trapped—the both of them. And anyone who did not protect themselves, who treated it without care and superstition, were dragged down in its wake.
Celia wasn't sure what else she could do.
The next time the cab's breaks ground to a halt, they were parked near the front gates of the carnival. The sun had nearly disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving the sky blazing in orange and pink. Celia exhaled once more, staring at the clown face with its wide and gaudy mouth through the window.
Draping the overcoat across her shoulders, Celia ducked out of the cab with her purse in hand. The driver had already exited and was in the middle of retrieving her luggage from the trunk. Celia kept her back turned toward the garish clown head and pressed some neatly folded bills into the man's palm. It was more than he deserved, but it sent him scurrying away quick. The cab's wheels spit out bits of gravel and left a trail of dust in the air. Celia didn't turn around until it had dissipated. It was only then that she relieved herself of her coat, taking a knee to stuff it unceremoniously into the suitcase that wasn't as cramped. She would check into a hotel later, once her business was attended to.
Stepping through the front entrance felt familiar. Celia couldn't be sure whether or not it was a good feeling. She always seemed conflicted whenever she turned up at these places. She had called one of them home at a brief time in her long life. But it wasn't always pleasant. And it didn't come with a happy ending.
These shows were a dime a dozen—Celia had seen so many that they tended to blur into each other until they were unrecognizable. Some of the people, however, stayed in her mind even after she had left, each one unique and wondrous in their own right. The people were marvelous. Celia could never be fearful of them or repulsed. The places themselves, and the people who owned them, were what Celia kept a wary eye on. Beneath the sparkling colorful facades, there was always something nastier to be found.
Always.
And Celia knew this better than anyone. Appearances could deceive. They could draw your attention away from any dark secret that lurked, lying in wait.
The brash decorations, the striped tents reaching skyward, the lazy cycle of the Ferris wheel in the distance—all of it was run-of-the-mill, everything Celia had seen before. Surrounded by gold and red and twinkling lights, she found the place deserted. Crickets hummed in the grass while she crossed the empty pathways that wove in between rides and tents.
Like the daylight, the era of freak shows was fading. Celia had begun to watch their desperate struggle as they clung to an old world that no longer had a place.
The main tent was the centerpiece of the carnival, its highest peak rising above all others. Celia removed her sunglasses and stowed them away in her purse before she started for it. The nausea that had welled up in the pit of her stomach had been replaced by a knot of anxiety. She clutched the handles of her suitcases until her knuckles turned white. Her heels made soft patters against the hard-packed dirt. Walking in the midst of an abandoned carnival only proved to magnify the loneliness Celia tried every day to push the darker corners of her mind and heart.
A high-pitched peal of laughter caught the silent air. As Celia neared the main tent, she saw the glowing flicker of warm light from the inside. It spilled out onto the grass from an opened flap, the sounds of chatter drawing her closer. Celia thought it might be polite if she left her luggage at the door, but her feet intended to move on their own accord, fueled by her nervous anticipation. She breezed through the entrance of the tent and all sounds of laughter and conversation stopped. A tense silence followed, but Celia kept her calm exterior.
"We don't open for another two hours," a handsome young man—several years younger than Celia herself, if she had to guess—in a cap remarked, stepping forward from the group.
Faces met hers with a mix of confusion and awe. Celia tried to read them all, tried to distinguish them from the countless others she had met over the years. The young man before her had a deformity in his hands. He was trailed by a man covered tattoos whose abnormality was also in the hands and arms. Beyond them, an older woman with a beard occupied a table with two other women—one who was extraordinarily tall and the other was the tiniest Celia had ever seen.
"You look like you're ready to move in," the bearded lady said, a cynical laugh in her voice, her accent heavy and something Celia couldn't quite place.
"I don't mean to interrupt," Celia said at last. "I'm not here for the show."
Their dejected expressions made her backpedal. "Well, I could stay. But my business is with you, the performers. I would like to speak with all of you if I could."
"We don't want any trouble," the young man warned.
Celia settled her suitcases at her sides. "No trouble," she said. "You have my word."
She discarded her shawl, letting it drop to the dirt floor along with her purse. Celia took a breath and showed off the oddity that made her one of them. It felt like stretching. With a faint flutter, an impressive wingspan was laid out for them to see. Quiet gasps rippled through the small congregation of performers and brought the bearded lady to her feet. Celia smiled at them.
To anyone else, she might have looked like an angel. Tucked into her body against her back, the pair of wings went from her shoulders down to her waist. Opened fully, they created an extensive silhouette, each feather perfect in its place. They could have been angel's wings, if not for the color. Instead of downy white, they were iridescent—shades of peacock blue and green, ever changing to the naked eye depending on what kind of light Celia happened to be standing in.
The bearded lady pushed her way toward the front of the group, her mouth agape. She stood next to the young man, her eyes never leaving Celia's wings.
"It's all right," Celia assured. "You can look at them all you'd like." The only time she allowed herself to be admired was in the presence of people who could understand.
She flexed her wings, drawing them to her and then out again.
"Who are you?" the young man asked.
The group had congregated around her now, exchanging whispers and enthralled giggles.
She extended a hand toward him. "Celia Mordrake."
The chorus of gasps and hushed exclamations rose up louder than the response her wings had elicited. The young man shook her hand tentatively.
"Mordrake? As in, the Mordrake…?" the bearded lady trailed off, flustered, stammering, one hand on her chest.
"You mean Edward." Celia finished.
The young man was giving her a guarded, side-long look. She noticed the group had backed off a bit, keeping her at arm's length.
"So, what? Are you his relative or somethin'?" he asked. "Some descendant or whatever…gettin' a kick outta showin' up and scaring carnies? 'Cause we get it, all right? He's been here already."
"No, no," Celia replied. "I'm his wife."
A/N: Celia's oddity was based on a fake fan-made promo for AHS: Freak Show that appeared a few months ago.