Scarborough Fair
Gentle Claes cultivates her makeshift plot for flowers. Thus they bloom, burn, and are reborn innocent...albeit with thorns. Tribute chapters for seven of the SWA girls, each one with their own significant bloom.
Quote:
"The Red Rose Whispers of Passion.
And the White Rose Breathes of Love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove."
Chapter One-White Roses: Henrietta
They left her. She was, after all, just another body: Albeit one that offered great pleasure. They listened to her screams, heard her moans, her cries. Each one precious, each one earning a new spark of nirvana for those who'd stepped out of the borderlines of humanity-where angelos, those of God and of the Devil, feared to tread.
They were less then monsters; less then human. For while she sobbed for her parents, she knew they lay dead next to her-still around the broken china, still on the floor in pools of red, surrounded by her birthday cake.
The child had been celebrating her twelfth birthday just that day. Her two older brothers and older sister had smiled as the little blond haired girl had carefully made her wish, and blown out the candles. Her brothers had smiled, dark eyes twinkling, and her mother had laughed as she kissed her daughter's brow. Her father had handed her a bouquet of pink carnations, and white roses, claiming, as teenage boys would soon be standing in line at the door to give his little girl flowers, he wanted to be the first lucky one.
It had been heaven. She had made her wish to find love.
And then, they had broke in. And the shooting began.
Chaos had exploded; the table overturned. Rough, unfamiliar hands had seized the wounded twelve year old to the floor.
And , after awhile, they left her lying there, in the remains of what had used to be her dining room. The balloons had been popped, the presents overturned or smashed, and everywhere, everywhere, were discarded flower petals.
Even as the little girl lay in agony in a small, dark puddle, wishing for death, they carpeted her. Some of the petals had fallen in the many bloodstains around the floor.
And thus, innocence had died.
The papers were all over it, people shook their heads and tsked, much as people often do, when they passed by the remains of Mr. Pimontto's home. He'd been such a kind government official, and his young family…..
No one knew what happened to the little girl. But no one wished to find out. It was enough to know that the Pimonttos had all been discreetly carried out by the Police in body bags; enough to know that only member had been 'lucky' enough, as the press put it, to be wheeled away in an ambulance.
The remains of her home were carpeted by bouquets of the simple white roses; everywhere, everywhere, were the cream-colored flowers. But the little girl saw none of it. Her eyes were blank and empty. If they took in anything of the flower, it would have been the color.
The color of death.
She confided in her doctors a longing to be dead. She could vaguely remember the anxious physicians trying to keep her in good cheer, even as she slowly began to waste away, behind those white halls. She could also remember a handsome young face-a face that reminded her of her brother Pietro's visage.
His eyes had been dark, and haunted. There were numerous lines underneath the eyes that suggested a great deal of darkness seen in too little years.
But there had been pity glimmering there. Pity, sympathy, and, though she thought it might be a trick of the light, empathy. There was darkness in this boy, too. A darkness that threatened to be consuming, insatiable, and inescapable. She had watched the boy as the doctors wheeled her in to yet another surgical procedure. She had asked no questions-it wasn't as if she cared what happened, anymore-though the doctors had sent each other guilty looks when they thought she wasn't looking. They wheeled her into surgery on a cold, clanking gurney, with the strange new boy walking beside her, holding her hand.
"Everything's going to be all right, now. Shh. Shhh. I'm sorry. I want to help you.
I'm so sorry….."
When they came to the doors, the young man had slowly let go of her hand. As the doctors busily began to wash their hands, and began rummaging in large drawers for what sounded suspiciously like metallic appliances, the little girl mused over what the man had said.
Why had he been sorry if he wanted to help her? What help could HE give?
Someone gently reached for her arm, and carefully began to slide the needles in. As another nurse began to slide a breathing mask over her mouth, the child stared at the ceiling, distracted for just one moment from the misery of her existence.
He'd been kind. Not fake-kind, as so many of the doctors and nurses around here had been. There had been genuine understanding in those eyes.
What did he want for her?
Wanting to get rid of the light glaring in her eyes, she squeezed them tightly shut, still remembering the boy's face as the drowsiness began to sink into her system. It was the last thing she ever remembered.
There was a solitary white rose by her bed when they'd quietly wheeled her into a bed. A sympathetic nurse had left it by the newborn assassin's side before silently tiptoeing out the small room. The irony never left.
When she woke, her mind was blank. Quiet. The screaming had stopped. The only thing she took care to notice as she slowly sat up in bed on her own effort-hardly stopping to consider it-was that there was a window behind her bed that had sunlight streaming in from behind her in the lonely room. There sat a fading white flower in a vase, which looked like a somewhat sad attempt to cheer up an otherwise cheerless room. Beside her bed, there was another window, this one entirely made out of glass.
The girl started as she heard the door creak open, and her head slowly swiveled towards it. An unrecognizable figure in a dark suit had opened it, his face weary, but eyes alert.
"You're awake."
For a moment, the two simply looked at one another. The young man dark eyes met hers, and for whatever reason, awkwardly flickered down.
"You thirsty?"
The young girl simply looked at him. But even though she can't really understand that she has a voice, let alone what a voice really is, a response flickers out of her quickly, as if she's given it a thousand times before:
"No, thanks."
The man looks at her.
Then, he slowly crosses the room, and carefully lays something down on the child's comforter. She stares at the small, weird contraption, faintly pondering what the thing that reads SIG-Sauer P-239 on its side could be.
The man breaks the silence once again as he steps back, his eyes daring to meet hers once again.
"My name is Jose."
And thus, he had a name. And the white rose received her thorn.
A petal flickered from the weary plant still sitting by the windowside.
She understands why she must kill terrorists: Because the SWA says so. But more importantly, it's because Jose says so. She doesn't really hate terrorists-but Jose does, with a quiet fury that puzzles her. Because Jose hates them, and perceives them as a threat, that's all the excuse she needs to fire when it comes to a confrontation.
He gives her things from time to time. She feels spoiled; like the world has become a perpetual Christmas, sometimes. He gave her name-Henrietta-which she knows is special, because Jose picked it out for her. He gave her a camera, a photo album, and a diary, which are among the dearest things she owns. She never asks Jose for anything, however, though the knowledge that she COULD is amazing. Thus, she does better then her best in trying to please him, and works hard each and every day to become stronger-to better keep him safe.
He'll bring her nice things when she does well, and sometimes, even when she doesn't. He gave her a lovely coat, which she loves, and a lovely Summer's hat, which too, is a prized possession, though the feelings that came behind that seem infinitely more important to Henrietta.
He'll take her places. He'll listen to her play the Violin. And, every now and again, he'll bring her flowers. Pink carnations, poppies, pleasant bouquets, blushing red roses, even some seeds for her and Claes to plant-but never any white flowers, and, for this, Henrietta is grateful, though she doesn't THINK she told Jose she doesn't like them. At least, she can't remember mentioning it.
Day by day, life goes on, as it somehow does in the halls of Italy's Renowned Social Welfare Agency. Though, as Elsa has put it, tomorrow could very well be the last day of their lives, Henrietta believes that can apply to anyone, and tells herself to work harder.
Jose doesn't have a girlfriend-not one she knows of-but the idea of him having one is heartbreaking. The white flower of innocence blooms again, but for different reasons, now. Now, she tends thorns she never had to keep the gardener safe from any unruly or greedy beings.
But no one can call her malignant. No one can call this young killer impure or a monstrosity. Seeing her smile, seeing her laugh, breathe air, and enjoy life, despite all that's befallen, what else can anyone call her but amazing?
The white rose blooms preciously.
Next: Sunflower: Rico