I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.
It is starting to own me, I think. Ha.
Mein Junge
"It seems quite hot to be wearing gloves, I think."
The voice was unfamiliar, heavily accented in clipped, foreign tones. The ten year old boy huddling under the shade tree reflexively flinched away from it, looking up distrustfully at the sudden intrusion.
He couldn't see very well for a second. The blindingly bright Florida sun hung high and punishing in the sky above him.
But what he could see was the outline of a tall, thin woman standing over him. Holding a cigarette in one hand, a big white bag in the other.
He glanced around surreptitiously to see who she was talking to.
They were alone.
"You've been crying," she said, taking a drag from her cig and exhaling the smoke up into the still air. "Why?"
He shrugged, biting his lip and ducking his blond head back down away from her.
Her white bag had a red devil face on it. It was frightening, disconcerting, with sharp teeth and cruel, laughing eyes.
He looked away from the knowing face that seemed to stare right into the center of his guts.
It was watching him hungrily. He thought that it wanted his soul.
"Is it because of your hands?"
The voice distracted him again and he peered up from under his furrowed brow, fearfully, angrily.
She was staring at him, her face calm and serene as if they were talking about the weather or baseball instead of his horribly ugly, freakish hands. There was no cruelty in her voice but he didn't see any gentleness in her face either.
He nodded slowly, not sure at all of her motives.
"Let me see."
Putting down her bag, she knelt, in her fine red dress and shoes. Knelt down on the grass and sat her back against the tree. Shoulder to shoulder with him, legs stretched out, ankles crossed casually, modestly.
And held out her pale, thin hands with their red tipped nails. Like they had been dipped in blood.
He stared at her, heart pounding, stomach queasy.
"Your hands, boy. Let me see."
Though spoken in soft tones, it was a voice not to be denied. If he did not relinquish his hands to her, she would simply take them.
He stuck out the trembling monstrosities swathed in oversized brown work gloves.
She placed the cig between her lips and held it lightly with her front teeth.
And took his hands in her own.
Pulling off the gloves, she dropped them indifferently to the ground. Revealing the fused, deformed fingers of the Lobster Boy.
He grimaced then, his bruised face flushing in shame and his entire body went rigid as he waited for her to laugh or sneer. Or scream in fear and disgust.
But she never did.
He dared a peek at her face again.
And found, to his surprise, a delighted smile.
"What wonderful hands," she murmured to his complete shock. "What wonderful, amazing hands, mein junge."
To him, they felt shaky and clammy, while hers seemed warm and confident and strong. She stroked his palms lightly with her fingertips.
"Now, why would such exceptional hands make such a handsome little boy cry, eh?" she questioned quietly.
He ducked his head again, refusing to speak as long as he could.
She waited.
He clenched his jaw, ground his teeth.
The woman was still waiting.
"Because the other boys laugh at me! They call me a freak!" he burst out angrily. "And then when I fight, the headmaster blames me and beats me and I don't get supper!"
He glared at her with his dark eyes, all his anger and resentment bubbling and boiling over the surfaces of his skin.
His ma'd always taught him good manners. But she wasn't here now because she was too much of a drunk to be a ma to him anymore.
So he didn't care. For one empowering, wildly free moment, he just didn't care.
The woman huffed indifferently at his outburst, appearing not in the least disturbed at all by his insolence.
"Well, you are, you know."
His lack of understanding shone plain upon his young face.
"You are a freak," she agreed bluntly.
He wilted then, his whispering trust snuffed out in a second.
She was just like all the rest.
He ducked his head down once more and yanked his hideous hands away from her grasp, ready to reach for his gloves.
But she wasn't finished yet.
"No, no, mein junge, you misunderstand," she susurrated gently, slowing reaching back out for his hands. "It is no bad thing to be a freak. It is a gift, a precious gift for you to be proud of."
He looked up again, thoroughly confused. Her laugh was light and she patted his cheek with a gentle touch.
"Your hands are very special. These small-minded idiots here just can't see it."
Idiots. She'd called them idiots. He almost smiled. Almost.
"How long have you been here?"
He got the feeling she already knew but he was no longer bold enough to challenge this strange woman who dared to speak to children as though they were humans.
Instead he just shrugged.
"Coupla weeks."
She sighed and gazed out over fields beyond the rundown orphanage.
"And what do you do with your hands here, little lobster boy?"
His frown deepened. He couldn't tell if she was making fun of him or just identifying him.
But she was waiting for his answer nevertheless.
"I work in the field," he answered glumly. "It's not so bad because I get gloves to wear and they hide my hands, but the other boys . . ."
He trailed off, remembering what they'd snarled amid the kicks and punches. That tonight when he fell asleep, they were going to cut his monster hands off and feed them to the mutts.
The lady smiled again, showing all her teeth. It was gruesome. And beautiful.
"Ah, you see, that is no place for such one as you, mein junge. But I, I can take you away from this dump to a place where other people will think your hands are special. They will smile and cheer and clap and shout your name in joy! They will come from all over to see you . . . and your hands!"
He panicked then, terrified, blurting out against his worst nightmare.
"No! No! I don't want anybody to see them! I don't want anybody to look at them!"
She drew back, just a little. Her eyes searched him and he felt like a trapped, defenseless mouse being stalked by an ageless, dangerous viper.
But she only smiled again, gentler this time, and spoke.
"Well, maybe after a big, hot meal and a good night's sleep, you'll change your mind, eh? At the very least, if you come with me, you won't have to work in the fields and be bullied anymore."
He bit his lip, still worried.
"But . . . what will I have to do?" he questioned fearfully.
He'd heard mutterings from the other boys about 'favors' and he already knew he wanted no part of that kind of thing at all.
And he also was well aware that he had no other escape available to him.
The woman clucked her tongue sorrowfully and the boy was once again hypnotized by her piercing gaze.
"Oh, nothing, nothing, mein sweet junge. I am no monster. You won't have to do anything you don't want to."
She seemed to be telling the truth. So far as he could guess.
"And if I don't like it . . . I can leave?" he ventured, trying not to sound afraid.
She nodded leisurely, seeming to consider his question with care.
"Ja, ja. You can leave," she glanced around, her tone nonchalant and mild. "I'm not sure where you would go . . . but you could leave any time you like."
He didn't want to get beaten up anymore. He didn't want to do 'favors' for people. He didn't want to be laughed at anymore.
There was only one thing holding him back.
"I can't," he slumped down again, completely defeated. "If I leave, my ma can't find me."
He stubbornly bit back a sudden welling of tears and felt his insides burning with bitterness and frustration.
His ma was never coming back. She was gone and he was alone.
But . . . what if she did?
The lady was smiling again.
She seemed to smile a lot for a woman who was talking with a little, worthless freak like him.
"Ah, very smart, mein junge," she nodded sagely. "Very smart indeed."
She paused.
"But I know a secret you do not."
He gazed at her, vaguely wondering if she was crazy.
"I know where your mother is," she sing-songed, touching a finger lightly to his nose, smirking as he swiped it away in annoyance.
He frowned.
"You're making that up! You don't know my mother!"
She blinked in feigned shock, laying a hand to her chest in exaggerated innocence.
"Well, of course I do, mein junge. She is Ethel Darling, the greatest bearded lady of them all!"
Her voice rose theatrically for a moment as she flourished just a bit.
But the little boy who had watched what his mother was and had become, could not be bought so easily.
"She's a drunk," he retorted sullenly.
And the friendly smile vanished from the lady's face as her eyes went to steel and she nailed him to the tree with her fierce gaze.
"Yes. She is. For now. But not for long. She's going to get cleaned up so she can perform again. And be your mother again. She has told me so with all of the little pieces of her broken, wasted heart."
The woman didn't blink, didn't look away from the thin, scared, lonely, yearning boy beside her.
"And if you are any kind of good child, you will believe that about her and help her regain her former glory. You will love her because she is your mother and you are her son."
He had no words left with which to argue.
She stood then.
Straightened her dress, primped her curled, strawberry blond hair.
Grasped her bag in one hand.
And reached out to him with her other.
"Come, Jimmy Darling, my little Lobster Boy. Let me take you away from here. Let me take you to your mother."
He stared at her, wondering what she was going to do with him. Trying to figure out her puzzles.
And when he couldn't do it, he got up slowly and took her by the hand.
And went to go see his mother.
Well, that's my take on how Jimmy came to be a part of Fraulein Elsa's Cabinet of Curiosities.
Maybe she has shown some kindnesses over the years, is it possible?
Oh and check out the pic of the infamous bag. ;)
Thanks to Jurana Keri, brigid1318, shyangel101, and partyperson25 for the kind reviews.
Thanks to InsanityatBest for adding your support as well.
Well, everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.