Hey everyone! Mistrostrings here… after a long time! So, I posted a poll like a year ago and this story won to be written next. I wonder if anyone who voted on the poll will actually read this, but none the less I hope you like it.
:] Also- it's set in the same time period as Tim Burton's "Alice". So, late 1800s/early 1900s. Ya know. Da whole shee-bang.
Please rate, favorite, comment, star, praise, worship, whatever!
~mistrostrings
~.~.~.~
I like to paint.
Blue. Green. Purple. Sometimes yellow.
No wait, can I take that sentiment back? I hate yellow. It isn't because I am unhappy, but just because the color looks unfitting with blue, green and purple.
Don't disagree with me, you barbarian. It absolutely does.
I know what I'm talking about.
At any rate, I should probably tell you who I am. Not that it matters. If it should matter, most wouldn't bother to care. Nonetheless, I'll tell you because you've been reading this far and you're obviously interested... and now I'm just rambling; I do apologize, you must forgive me.
My name is Maggie. It isn't my real name, but it is what I like to be called. Father often says it is immature. Mother says Maggie is a name belonging to a pig. Who's complaining? I like pigs.
Madeline. That's my real name. I guess you're probably thinking; "Oh heavens, why is her nickname Maggie when it should be Maddie?" Well, MADDIE sounds like a pig name. And as much as I like pigs, I don't want a pig name.
Pigs are filthy.
I'm not yet twenty, but I'm not sixteen. You can pretend I'm forty if you'd like, but I'm just telling you that I'm not.
A lot of the time I'm not so quick to introduce myself to other people, but I can tell that you're different. And yes, reader, I'm talking to you if you're confused now. I'm talking to whoever or whatever is reading this because I have a story to tell.
It is extremely interesting.
And sort of silly and unbelievable.
Which is why I decided to tell it. Which is why I assumed you should know more about your story-teller before you read her stories. You don't want to be reading some horror story, now do you? I dislike horror stories. Who would purposely like to be scared? And besides, this is my story so I'm going to tell you exactly how it happened.
A story told by Madeline March.
Maggie March.
~.~.~.~.~
I woke up with an itch running down my legs. Curiously, I cracked open one of my eyes, inspecting the bed I was lying on. A brown, wool blanket covered the top of me. This isn't mine, I thought quietly. Raising a brow, I tossed off the blanket and swung my legs onto the wooden floor.
My unpainted and unpolished toenails looked up at me from my small feet. Frowning, I buried them inside my slippers. Toes are disgusting things. Groggily, I managed to stand up and slink my way to the door of that unwelcoming room.
I was staying at my Uncle Theodore's house that summer for one reason.
None.
My father and my Uncle worked together since they were boys, doing something that involved money. I never paid any attention, but father said that was alright considering I would fail at it anyway. Money is nothing but slips of paper to me. I'd rather make art out of it than lock it behind metal doors.
At any rate, my Uncle was just as unpleasant as my father. They both have long faces and thick black hair, of which I acquired, and eyes that could burn a hole in your forehead if you looked into them long enough. If anyone else had been working with them, it would have been a disaster. But the two were so alike, an exact pair nearly like brotherly twins, that it seemed to work out.
My family lived in the city. I liked it enough, because I liked the sound of noise when I went to sleep. My Uncle lived in a picturesque countryside house, one that I could only ever enjoy if I was alone. If I wanted to sit outside and look at the flowers, no one else could be in sight. They'd be too distracting and my thoughts would become jumbled. Which is why I hated staying at his house. It was big, but it seemed as if people lingered within every room. My Uncle found servants necessary.
As I made my way out of the room, not my room, because it wasn't mine, a maid stopped me short. "Miss March," she said with a bright smile on her face. "Your paintbrushes have been cleaned."
"Thank you," I said softly, nodding my head. "You didn't need to do that." People weren't normally supposed to touch my brushes, but she didn't know so I held back my tongue. Sometimes I snapped when I shouldn't. Mother calls it a 'problem'.
"Wasn't a bother, Miss!" She said, curtseying before she turned the corner.
I stood imagining for a moment that someone else's fingers were trying to clean the hairs on my brushes. They were incorrectly twisting them this way and that, running them under too cold or too hot of water… I snapped myself out of my daze. Mother said I overthink things. Another one of my 'problems'.
Wrapping my arms tightly around myself, I made my way down the large staircase. My slippered feet hit the tile floor at the bottom, and I spun around easily on it. "Don't fall miss," one of the servants said to me with a polite smile behind his thick moustache.
Laughing, I spun around again. "You ought to try it sometime when no one's looking." And with that, I began to hum a song I didn't know as I made my way to the kitchen. One should never hum songs they know, because then they stick with you for the rest of the day. It's terribly troublesome if you're in a business meeting and can't get one of your old Christmas carols out of your head. Never, ever, hum a song that you already know.
All good things must come to an end, they say, and of course I was stopped at the threshold of the kitchen by six unforgiving eyes staring right at me. "Madeline," my mother said, the sound of my real name wanting to make me vomit. "You are wearing your night gown."
I looked down, my green evening dress loosely hanging off of me. "Yes…" I said slowly. "That would seem correct." I knew she was less than impressed with the fact that I didn't care. And that I was still wearing it.
"Perhaps you should go change, dear." She struggled to find a genuine smile.
"I'm not a deer," I said sticking my chest out a bit more. "I'm a human. And if I could choose to be any animal, it would be a mouse."
My Uncle glared up at me from his coffee cup. "A mouse?" He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Of course you would want to be a pest." There was a long silence. "The only issue is, Madeline, that you don't need to wish to become that."
Of course, my father said nothing. He also sipped his coffee. My mother hesitantly glanced at my father, hoping he would actually say something. Of course, he didn't. And of course, neither did she. "Well, that's very nice of you, Uncle Theodore. I'm glad you took the time to tell me that I was perfect the way I was." He said things like that to me quite often. It was apparent I wasn't welcome in his home, but I didn't try and become someone I wasn't just to please him.
It hurt. A lot more than I'd like to admit, but… If I suddenly decided to stand up for myself, they would merely laugh.
I may have been a strong girl, but when people laughed...
Quietly, I made my way out of the room and back out to the grand staircase. The servant from earlier gave me a concerned look. "Miss Maggie-"
"I'm fine," I sighed. I kept walking until I couldn't see him anymore. Him and his big moustache. If only my Uncle could grow a moustache like that. Then I might actually respect him. "I'm going back to bed," I mumbled, though he probably couldn't hear me anymore.
~.~.~.~.~
"She's missing something," John said. Carefully, he took the brush from my fingers, dipping it lightly into the red paint. Before he touched my picture, he glanced over at me.
"Yes, go ahead. Don't touch her cheeks; I got them perfect."
There was only one person in the world I trusted. That would be my brother John. I trusted him, because he trusts me. It was as simple as that. No one asked any questions, and no one complained. He was sixteen that summer and a real brainiac. He found girls as far too dramatic, and he liked to spend his free time polishing his boots. He was very handsome with his dark features and pale skin, exactly like mine, and many girls lined up at our door in hopes of something they would receive. "They're all imprudent," he once said. "When I meet a girl who studies Shakespeare and can actually spell his name right, then I might actually pay attention to her." Needless to say, the girls in our city town were not highly intelligent. John was far better off without them.
He carefully raised the paint brush to the girl's neck. With a few light strokes, a ribbon was suddenly formed. The magic of paint. "Why would you give her a ribbon?"
"You made her look shy," he frowned with me, taking a step back to look at it. "She was showing too much skin around her face."
I snatched the brush from his hands. "I wasn't trying to make her a nun," I jutted out my chin and drawing a few extra threads onto the ribbon. "However, you did make her look a bit more sophisticated. Well done, student."
Mockingly, my brother bowed. "Thank you, teacher. You know I only cherish your opinion."
My hand paused on the painting. Gently, I lifted the brush off of it and set it in the water. I watched the red ooze out from the hairs, mixing in and turning the liquid into a gentle blush. Just like the girl's cheeks. "Why are we here, John?" I mumbled beneath my breath. "I mean, why should we have to sit around all day while our parents do... whatever it is they do?"
"We don't have to sit around," John said with a heavy sigh, tossing himself onto the bed that is not mine. "We could go outside or something." He sat up instantly at the idea, his brown eyes wide. "We could shoot bi-"
"We're not shooting anything!" I shouted, nearly tossing my painting at him. That was the one issue with my brother. He enjoyed a good hunt, where I saw all animals as endearing creatures. "Why are we even in this house? This isn't our home. There's no one we like here. This room smells like wood and soot-"
"We don't like anyone back in town either. And wouldn't wood and soot smell similar?"
Warningly, I shot him a look. "Regardless. Let's do something adventurous."
"I can't," he sighed.
"Why not?"
"I just polished my boots."
I glanced down at his abnormally sparkling black boots and grimaced. "It's almost disgusting how well you take care of them. You're worse than a woman with her hair before her coming-of-age ceremony." Laughing, he grabbed one of my dresses from my closet, pressing it up to his chest and spinning around with it. "Oh yes, darling," I chuckled. "You look absolutely lovely in that dress. It suits your eyes."
"Why don't you wear anything pink? Or yellow?" He said, glancing down at my green dress. "With you, it's always sad colors. You're a pretty girl, Maggie. You look depressed when you wear them and pink would look befitting on you."
I snatched the dress from his hands. "Who says I'm not depressed?"
"I do," he declared. "Because with a brother like me, no girl could ever be that miserable."
Playfully, I nudged his arm. "Don't give yourself so much credit. You've broken plenty of hearts." He stood silent, unable to disagree with that.
I tossed my dress back onto my bed before cracking him a smile. "None of it matters. I'm like a bird, and I'm going to leave this nest and fly around somewhere new for a while. Someone where I can be alone." John gave me a half-smile, obviously intrigued. "I'm going to take a trip."
He gently flicked a piece of my curled, black hair into my face. "Of course you're like a bird. With hair like that, you ought to have been named Raven. And guess what?" He said, suddenly tip-toeing towards me. "If you're a bird, then I'm a snake and I'm-"
Letting out a loud shriek, I rushed from the room. I knew where this was going. We used to play games like this when we were children. He would chase me around until I got tired, tackle me, and declare that I was now his personal slave and had to do whatever he asked. My mother called me a boy and said I should stop playing such stupid games. I ignored her, and I always ran around and screamed until he finally won. Which, he always did.
As I rushed down the stairs, laughing harder than I had in a while, I could hear my brother chasing after me. "Come back, birdie!" He laughed. "I'm going to make you my slave!"
"Never!" I cried, raising a fist in victory. "Today shall be different! Today will be the day that I win, and you, foolish snake, shall work for me!" Turning a sharp corner, I found myself facing the front door. Grabbing the rusty knob, I yanked the handle back and rushed out into my Uncle's perfectly green grass. Where to hide, where to hide? I thought.
My barefoot feet took my spinning around the side of the house to the large backyard. The yard was huge with a fountain, tables and trees. Hedges lined the side so we couldn't see the neighbours, though I knew a young girl often went there. Her hair was long and gold, and she liked to wear blue. I never spoke to her, but if she liked blue and wasn't wearing yellow, I assumed we would get along.
The woods were the only thing I could think of that might throw my brother off. "Oh birdie?" I could hear him call from the front yard. "Where are you hiding?" Without a second thought, I pulled up the hem of my dress and headed towards the trees.
The grass softened under my running feet. The dark clouds above me covered my body in shadows. Something was going to be different about that day. I was going to win.
I was going to find...
the perfect hiding spot.
