A/N: Love Spring Awakening! Had the chance to see it in February and only just now did I feel like writing something. With this story, I don't know how long it will be, I aim to explore the possibilities if Wendla escaped the abortionist. Moritz, however, is regrettably dead as dead can be.
Please let me know what you think!
"Cause tomorrow and today
Are only here so long
When there's nothing left to say
I hear that life moves on"
- "You are Goodbye" by Holly Conlan
Melchior, I'm so sorry. Mama took me to the doctor, our child is gone, were the only words written on the mangled scrap of paper Wendla held in her trembling hand as she tripped over the threshold of the cellar door into the dark alleyway outside one of her town's less respectable taverns. Her hand scraped against a bit of exposed brick that made up the freezing ground, but at this point nothing could stop her now, and she could have cared even less that she was wearing no shoes or stockings. Wendla was running like a bat out of hell, and the biting cold whipped at her face and exposed arms and legs, but she did not let it slow her down. Behind her she could hear the enraged shouts of the "doctor" and his assistant, but Wendla determinedly ignored him as she skittered around a corner towards the entrance of the alley her mama had led her down earlier. The bitch. With her head feeling woozy she crashed into one of the metal trash cans lining the entrance, not stopping like she normally would have when she knocked it over. It had never felt so good to run, never in her entire life had the feeling of her legs carrying her away from a pursuer felt so amazing. The cold air was making her chest ache, and when she caught her arm on the wall as she rounded the corner out of the alley she only let it slow her down slightly. She had to get away, that was all she had to do. Get her note to Melchior, then if she was, she thought, she would perhaps not fight so much. Snow had begun to fall earlier in the evening, and there were piles of it accumulating on what was already there. She barreled through it, biting back a hysterical laugh as she heard the assistant bang into the same trash can she had knocked over only moments before. Her arm stung where he had tried to jab her with a needle, to sedate her, to calm her, only he had not succeeded. Upon feeling the needle filled with what was intended to make her sleep Wendla had dived off of the makeshift operating table, kicking the doctor in the face. A thin trickle of blood ran from the mark, the needle had dragged down her arm as she took off, and whatever he had put in her was beginning to make her feel sleepy and uncoordinated.
Now on the main street Wendla stopped, if only for a moment, and put her hands on her knees to catch a few ragged breaths. She knew she must not stop for long or she'd be caught, and when the cold air made her lungs ache even more she screwed up her face and, ignoring the burning in her legs, resumed running once more with a powerful burst of speed. The only thing she could think was a rhythmic repetition of "my child… my child… my child." The words kept her legs moving in a steady, but panicked beat. The hour was late, it must have been, for there was barely anyone on the street, but the sound of heavy footfalls and angry breathing right behind her propelled her forward even faster, and when she reached the end of the street she flew around the corner, her feet flying out from under her as she hit a patch of treacherous, unseen ice. She braced herself for the worse, like hitting her head, but instinctively, and much to her surprise, her arms curled protectively over her stomach, locking in a tight cage of protection for her unborn child. She came down hard on her elbow, causing pain to jar up her arm, but with a cry of relief she sprang back up, preparing to continue her run. The pain ran up her arm and she felt she might be sick, but at least she could still move! What happened next shocked her the most.
The doctor's assistant rounded the corner, and having seen Wendla fall, slowed down so he could maintain his footing, but as he did so his foot caught on the drain that was not quite covered with snow. Wendla couldn't stop her jaw from dropping as if by the grace of God the man's foot caught and sent him sprawling forward, where he landed at her feet. With a growl his fingers closed around her pale, exposed ankle, causing her to squeal and lash out at him, clipping him in the chin.
"No!" she screamed as he clung to the hem of her dress, pulling her down to the glossy ice. She was screaming and kicking for all she was worth, while he was growled and began to prepare another syringe. He was a big, burly man, and Wendla had always been a bit on the small side, but she managed to keep him from pulling her into a grasp that she would not be able to escape. She flailed furiously at him, howling like a wounded animal when he managed to hold one of her arms still so he might inject a sedative into her. She imagined what her mama would say about the scene she was causing in the gutter. With a man and not wearing stockings, no less! But the impending sense of everything being over kept the needle just a few inches far enough away from her. Growing tired of the girl's fight, the assistant stood, one hand still closed firmly around her ankle. She was almost upside down and still caterwauling with alarming force and volume. She was a pretty little thing, he thought, and it was a shame she might not live through her surgery. With a tired laugh he aimed for a spot just on the back of her smooth, exposed thigh and prepared to inject her with an very high dose of morphine. At the last moment, however, she managed to swing a fist up and into his groin. He dropped her on her head with a wounded scream and turned and vomited on the road. Wendla's face registered only the shock of being free, and with her dress even more mangled, she picked herself off the ground and resumed her sprint down the street, cries of "freedom" bouncing around inside her panicked mind. One of her hands went to her stomach, and with a grimace of satisfaction, she picked up speed.
XXX
Refusing another drink, Ilse moved towards the entrance of the tavern in her home town with only a slight sway in her step. She had decided to stick around after Moritz's funeral, she wanted to see if there was anyone else who might need her help, any one of her old childhood friends. Ilse ran a hand through her short hair, tugging at it in slight exasperation. She still blamed herself for what Moritz had done to himself. She could not help but think what could have been different if she had only run from him at a slightly slower pace, if she had demanded he walk her home no matter what. No, instead she had given in to the childish impulses she had taught herself to avoid, and she had run like a puppy that had been scolded by a cross and dismissing master.
The cold air burned her now smoke-filled lungs, there had been many lit pipes in the tavern, but it did help to calm her spinning head. She was glad, also, for the pair of too big shoes she had acquired somewhere she could not quite name for lack of remembrance.
Her thoughts drifted to Melchior and Wendla as they always did. They had been two of her best friends, and now she could not help but think she was letting them down tremendously. Melchior had been sent off to a reformatory school and she had not seen Wendla on the street in almost two months, though their dual absence alarmed her the most. She had checked with Wendla's other friends, Martha, Thea, and Anna, but they had not seen the girl anywhere either. Ilse knew Wendla had to have been shocked my Mortiz's death, but it seemed unlikely that her parents would allow her to disappear from public for so long. She had gone by her house a few times, but the shutters had always been drawn, no matter the weather or time of day. She wrapped her arms around her thin body to keep out the chill, but she was unwilling to go return indoors. The world was so peaceful, so quiet, and though she was as much of an atheist as Melchior she could not stop herself from muttering a quiet prayer of concern for her friends.
"Please, keep them safe, wherever they may be, whatever they're doing-" she said, the breath leaving her body in puffs that flew into the air in front of her face, only to disappear in moments. Her thoughts and sentiments were cut off when the door banged open behind her, accompanied by the din from within the tavern.
"Ilse!" cried a man named Leon, gesturing for her to return. He held a pint of something in one hand and had the other stretched towards her. Ilse rolled her eyes in annoyance.
"One moment, Leon!" she said, her voice chipper as she could force it to be. She saw him shrug, his tall, skinny figure illuminated from behind by the firelight from the boisterous tavern. When the door slammed shut again she turned back to the street, surveying the quiet shops on the other side. It must be what, one or two in the morning? she asked herself. She took a step towards a small pile of snow closer to the edge of the road. She closed her eyes and spun once, fascinated by the cold air that swirled around her in response, stirring flakes of snow onto her face. With a serene smile she surveyed the heap of precipitation in front of her, considering for the briefest moment her jumping into it. Of course, if she did that she would be cold for the rest of the night, and even she had to be practical sometimes. However, something in the white bank struck her as odd. There was a single, bare footprint embedded in it, and it was beginning to be covered by the snow. Ilse made a face. How odd… she thought, her thoughts beginning to trail off until she noticed another print right in front of it, equally as small and sloppy, as if the person had been running. There was also a faint stain of read in both the prints. Now she was intrigued, and she decided to follow the prints, as they seemed to round into the small dip between the tavern and the neighboring store. It was not quite an alley, but there were all trash bins and other strange things stored in it.
"Hello?" Ilse called, squinting into the darkness. The thought of getting Leon to come with her did not even cross her mind until she was well into the miscellaneous bits of hardware and garbage. From behind a spare sign for the hardware store the alley belonged to protruded a small, bloody foot. Ilse bit back a gasp and raced forward, kneeling the instant she was close enough to touch the person. She decided it was either a small child or a young girl, and when she threw the sign to the ground she realized she was right in her assumption.
"Oh, Wendla!" she muttered, biting her lip to keep back tears. Even unconscious she looked absolutely petrified. Her light brown dress, which had once been long, Ilse guessed, was ripped jaggedly, exposing her thin legs to the cold. There was a dark purple bruise blooming across the elbow of her right arm, which was bent awkwardly beneath her. Her left arm cradled her stomach, which seemed slightly bigger than the last time Ilse had… Ilse's thoughts stopped. "This is why you've been hiding! Wendla, you foolish girl!" she muttered at her friend's lifeless form. Wendla's dark brown hair fanned out behind her on the bright white snow, and even as she lay there unconscious her teeth chattered at the cold. Ilse tugged on her, rolling her over completely. Wendla's arm fell limply from the protective, but weak, grasp on her abdomen, and Ilse could see a scrap of paper. She felt a sense of foreboding as she pried it gently from Wendla's hand. She uncrumpled the missive, from the look of it Wendla had put it to Hell and back, and read it quickly. Her jaw dropped and she let out an audible gasp of fury. It turned to a shriek, she knew the supposed doctor Wendla wrote of, she had her fair share of friends that had gone to see him. Discrete, reputable, and deadly more often than not. By the look of it Wendla was still with child, yes, Ilse was sure the baby was unharmed. She couldn't help but curse Wendla for her naivety, but she also knew she had little time to sit and cry over the almost spilled milk. Wendla was safe, away from her mother, away from the man who might kill her, but this was only for now. The only man with a bigger reputation for butchery was his assistant, a man no one really knew by face, only his height was ever identifiable. Six foot six, head and shoulders, and Ilse doubted he would allow a patient to escape.