A/N: A short Flowers in the Attic one-shot that I'd had saved for a while. From Chris's POV.
Warnings: Hints of incest, but if you read the book, this warning is hardly necessary.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
ooOoo
I watched as she danced, pirouetting rapidly in angry circles. Her leotards were sticking to her stomach, her untied hair whipping around her face.
The music was Swan Lake; a slow ballad. But she wasn't following the music. She was in a world in her own.
Her grand jetés carried her across the attic. I watched as she powerfully leapt up and split her legs, and then landed a few seconds later before repeating the movement. Watching the muscles strain in her pale, thin legs hurt and pleasured me at the same time.
She didn't notice me as I leaned against the wall, gazing at her as she danced. She didn't care about her surroundings. She was lost in her passionate movements, lost in her ballet.
I could see her pain expressed with each sharp motion of her body. Everything was sharp. The flow that she usually had was gone. She was too angry to concentrate on that.
I had watched her dance so many times before. Sometimes I would just stand a few feet away from her while she flowed to the music. When she came out of her trance she would sometimes try to convince me to dance with her. Other times I would just stand on the stairs and stare, entranced by the way her body moved. She would never notice I was there, for when the music stopped, I would disappear down to the twins, her unseen spectator.
Her platinum locks flew through the air, creating a revolving curtain around her face. I saw her hand come up to quickly brush the hair away without stopping her movement. She didn't want it to be up, pulled up neatly.
Nothing was neat in our life anymore.
It was amazing to watch her, anger pouring out through her dancing. She soon launched into another series of sharp pirouettes, nearly toppling over after only a few. She was off-balance as she danced, but she wouldn't stop.
She couldn't stop.
She took a few quick, crooked steps forward before propelling her body upwards, her back leg arcing up and her front leg sharply jerking up and pointing.
Her fall was inevitable, and she knew it. My Catherine Doll knew everything about her dancing.
The collapse was graceful. She landed in a pile on the floor, her limbs jumbled underneath her. A broken sob wrenched out of her throat as she used her palms to push herself up.
A few long strides brought me to her. Her hair covered her face like shining gossamer, the thin strands allowing me to see the tears running down her porcelain cheeks. Her eyes were shut tightly against the wetness.
"Cathy," I whispered softly before dropping down and sitting on the floor next to her. She didn't speak to me.
The record ended. The only sounds in the attic were her sobs reverberating through the room.
She drew her knees up to her chest, wincing as she did so. I watched as more tears fell from her eyes.
"Cathy…that was a bad fall. Let me see your legs," I prodded gently. I didn't want her to be as hurt physically as she was emotionally.
She reluctantly straightened her bare legs out. She had been in such a hurry to start dancing that she had simply dropped her clothes on the ground and pulled on her leotard and skirt, not bothering with hair ties or tights.
I ran my fingers over the smooth skin of her legs, examining the areas that caused her to wince when I touched them.
"You'll have a few bruises," I said as my fingertips skittered over her leg, "and your ankle may be sprained," I allowed my hand to linger around her ankle, "but you'll be okay."
She brushed her hair out of her face and looked up at me with puffy, tear-filled eyes. My heart was breaking for her as I saw the anger and pain dancing her in her blue orbs. She blinked her eyes a few times before closing them again.
"It's just not fair, Chris," she rasped. "Momma gets to go to parties and galas with her new younger husband while we are locked up in here. It isn't fair."
My defense for Momma was automatically on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. My love for Cathy was stronger than my loyalty towards Momma. And it was Cathy who needed the comfort, while Momma happily flitted off to her balls.
Cathy sunk into my shoulder and buried her head in the crook of my neck. Her low, hoarse voice came out even more muffled, barely audible.
"When she came in here with that smile plastered on her tan face and her hair so perfectly styled, I wanted to scream. She didn't even look at the twins. She never does, Chris. And she hardly looks at me anymore. I can see her trying to tear her eyes away from me.
"She doesn't love us anymore," she whispered.
"Don't say that, Cathy," I told her softly. But instead of the calming affect that I had hoped my words would have on her, she snapped her head up fiercely and glared at me.
"You know it, Chris. You know it. Stop lying to yourself! Stop lying to me! She isn't our Momma anymore. She's the woman who visits us every once in a while when she has time. She's the woman who buys us clothing two sizes too small. She's the woman who, if she could, wouldn't come at all!"
"Cathy, she still loves us! She just…doesn't show it," I offered weakly.
Cathy's eyes were cold as she looked at me. Tears were still involuntarily making paths down her reddening cheeks.
She bit her lip before speaking, her bleak eyes already speaking volumes up pain. "You know I'm right, Chris."
She started to stand up, but I wouldn't let her. Her glare intensified as she looked at me again and tried to shake her arm out of my grip.
"Don't leave, Cathy," I said quietly. "I'm trying, okay? I'm trying…but I can't say those things that you do. I have to believe in Momma."
She looked at me sadly. "You don't have to, Chris."
"Yes, I do. I need to. For you, for me, for the twins."
She laughed bitterly. "Don't believe in her for me, Chris. I've already lost all faith. And the twins…they know that we're their parents now. They know that she is a woman going through motions with her children—and not even the correct ones."
"I need someone to believe in," I admitted, almost inaudibly. "I need to believe that she'll get us out of here soon."
"Believe in me, Chris," she said softly.
I looked into her eyes. The harshness had been replaced with the softness of a young woman. Her lips were parted just barely as she searched my eyes pleadingly.
"I can't give up on her," I shrugged sadly.
"Just say you believe in me, Chris. Say that you believe in me, Cory, and Carrie."
"Of course I do," I answered, surprised by her need for reassurance. "I always will, Cathy. I always will."
"Good." She reached up to gently cup my cheek, her fingers feathering over my face. "I'll always be here for you, Christopher Doll."
It surprised me that I had come up here to comfort a broken Cathy, and she had ended up comforting me. I suppose it was another sign that she was growing up. But Lord knew that I had seen enough signs to let me know, and I probably couldn't handle seeing much more.
Cathy wiped her tear-stained cheeks off with the backs of her hands. She sniffled quietly and forced a small smile.
"We should go down to the twins," she told me quietly, a motherly responsibility filling her eyes.
She was being strong, being strong for me and the twins. It was a role reversal. I was used to being the strong one while the twins cried and Cathy threw temper tantrums. I guess the attic had matured as all.
"They have their eyes glued to the tube," I replied. "They most likely don't even notice we're not there." I brushed a lock of silken hair out of her eyes. "Why don't we just…sit in the attic for a while?"
"Sure," she said as she slipped her hand in mine and stared tilted her eyes up to peer through the smeared glass of our precariously open window. In only a few seconds her head was resting on my shoulder, my cheek pressed against her soft hair.
I squeezed her hand lightly and kissed the top of her head while wind blew through the cracked window. She grasped onto me as the paper flowers fluttered loudly behind us, claiming the noiseless attic as their own.