A/N: Thought something from Brahms POV might be fun. Greta's POV will be next, explaining her change of heart.
Let me know!
Also, look for an updated for His Prized Possession soon. ;-)
Disclaimer: Obviously, the first 1/2-3/4 of Greta's dialogue is directly from the movie and not from me. I actually was watching it as I wrote it to make sure it was all matched up correctly.
I
Brahms stood in the shadows, staring at pretty Greta as she stared into the billiard room. The doll lay shattered within. It left him with a feeling of amazing conflict. His face had been marred a second time. It was a brand new injury. A brand new humiliation. A part of him had shattered with it. His sense of safety. The security his mummy and daddy had provided him with.
But at the same time there was a feeling of satisfaction. Triumph. Smug glory. That thing that had stolen his mummy's and daddy's love and attention. The little boy that they had loved more him. The hated thief that had stolen all of pretty Greta's kisses.
It was not something he could articulate. After all, in the warped mind of the loomed figure stalking his prey from the shadows, he was the doll. He was the child. Mummy and daddy, they never spoke to the man, but they loved the boy. The boy they had wanted but were cursed never to have.
His hands trembled with rage. He wanted to kill the man again. Again and again and again. He wanted to bash his skull to the floor. He wanted to hear the bones crack. He wanted to watch the clean wood turn red with his blood. He wanted to see the brain matter paint the ground.
"I came back for you, Brahms," she said. He moved toward her. Every muscle in his body was tense. Every cord pulled taught across his lean form. He readied himself, prepared to pounce at the slightest sign she meant to flee. At any hint of a lie. "I told you I wouldn't leave you and I didn't, did I?"
She was scared. Her voice trembled. He continued to slink toward her. His head bent, his shoulders hunched. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. The skin beneath his beard itched. Daddy had wanted to teach him how to use the razor years ago.
He's that age now.
No! He's a boy! A little boy! Our Brahms is a good little boy. A sweet little boy!
She had collected the doll in her arms and kissed the perfect white skin. He remembered it well. He had reached up to his face in the walls, curled into a little ball in his favorite listening spot. His finger tips trailed along the uneven flesh. The stomach turning deformity the flames had brought to his face.
He came to step in front of her. He did not believe her yet. That man, the food man, he had tried to take his pretty Greta away. She had tried to leave him. She was scared. People got scared of him. All the others, they had that look in their eye as well. Emily Cribbs had when she wanted to go home. The other nanny… the one he told mummy he didn't want, the one they tried to give him anyway. She had that look in her eye when he went to her room the first night of her stay, and bludgeoned her to death with his favorite novel.
"I told you I wouldn't."
His breathing increased. He sucked in large breaths through his nose. He could hear it loudly in his mask. She smelled like peaches. Peaches and vanilla. Electricity coursed through his limbs. Raw, violent passion. It was a need he could not understand. Animalistic, emotional. There were no words he could use to describe it.
He is of that age now.
He is a boy, Charles! How can you suggest such a thing?
He won't understand.
I will hear no more of it. Oh, Brahms, sit up straight, Brahms.
His fingers twitched. His lips parted. His body hardened. He longed to put his hand down his trousers. It helped with the discomfort. Maybe… maybe she could use her hand…
"Brahms!"
He jumped back, startled. His eyes found hers. His heard pounded against his ribs. Just a little closer. He just wanted to be a little closer to her. Her skin… it was so soft. In the attic, he had spent hours crouched down beside her, gently trailing his fingers along the gentle flesh of her inner thighs. Daddy had never been able to explain it to him. He had never been so confused.
"It's time for bed now," she said. He thought a moment. They had been in bed when he asked her for his help. Mummy and daddy would be angry if he were up so late. But mummy and daddy were gone. They were not coming back. He had not cared about bedtime for some weeks now. He tilted his head. He wanted to stay awake.
"Brahms, I said it's time for bed," she added harshly. She moved away and back down the hall a few steps. "Let's go!"
He stared after her. Mummy had told him she was his to love and care for now. The doll was broken. For now. She was his. He did not want to go to bed.
"You know the rules," she added sternly.
Yes, there were rules. If she would obey them, so he would he. He wanted the rules to be followed. He did not want anything to change. He moved forward obediently, past her and up the stairs to his old room.
He had not slept in it since the night before the fire. Mummy and daddy told him it wasn't safe. If the police came, he could not be seen, because of what he did to the girl. Daddy had brought him his new bed. He liked that one.
He walked up the stairs anyway. He held the attic opener firmly by his side. Sleep did not weigh on his eyes. Sleep was the last thing he wanted to do.
"Put that down now Brahms," Greta told him gently. He hesitated but placed it on the toy box. Longingly, his eyes lingered on it.
"Are you ready for bed?" she asked him as she began to pull down the covers. So much time had passed since he was tucked in. Mummy and daddy always tucked in the little boy. He had been forced up into the walls. His walls. He liked his walls.
A nod lifted his head and lowered his chin.
"Under the covers."
Obediently he followed her instruction. His eyes found her pretty face. His body still ached. The discomfort remained. If only he could understand it. Looking at her, from the moment she stepped into the house, it had done something to him he could not understand. Smelling her hair at night, watching her remove her clothing. The soft, swells of her body. The gentle curves. The smooth skin. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to feel it. He wanted it pressed closer to him.
She leaned over him, face close to her. His heart rate accelerated. His body continued to produce sweat.
"Be a good boy Brahms and go straight to sleep," she told him softly. He could smell her. He wanted his kiss goodnight. He waited for it patiently. Like a good boy. She pulled back ever so slightly. So slowly.
"Kiss," he spoke quietly. Sometimes when he got very angry, his voice sounded so frighteningly low. It had always scared mummy. Daddy did not like it, but it did not scare him as much. He knew better than to let that scary low groan leave his throat. But he struggled to keep his voice high. It was a soft little great, almost lost behind the porcelain mask his mother had given him on one of his eighth birthdays.
"No kiss tonight, Brahms," she said softly. His eyes widened. Rage once more swelled within him. It all but consumed him. He moved his head a fraction, eyes searching her face for an answer to the question 'Why?'. "That's your punishment, I'm sorry."
Punishment?
What punishment?
He had helped her like she asked. He had killed the man that killed the boy. He had tried to stop the food man from stealing his pretty Greta. She deserved a punishment for trying to leave him.
He stared and she smiled. She tried to leave him but he was already sitting up. He grabbed her arm with a vice like grip, but he was careful not to hurt her. Sometimes he was surprised how strong he was. There was a time when he could run at daddy and punch him in the stomach and chest and his daddy would not budge. The last time he punched his daddy for making him angry, he had fallen backwards and hit his head. He had jumped back in surprise. Tears had come to his eyes. He had retreated back into the walls. It was one of the last times he touched his parents.
He needs to understand his strength. He's getting to that age.
Mummy had not let his daddy tell him about that either.
Slowly she began to turn back toward him.
"Kiss," he prompted again. He would have his kiss goodnight. He had done nothing wrong. She was the one that deserved to be punished. He laid his head back down. His eyes were still wide. His heart pounded violently.
She leaned toward him and his hands moved upward. He seized her by the arms and pulled her closer to him. Her lips touched his mask. It pressed to his lips, it was cold against the portions of his face that still felt touch.
He did not want her to move from him. He wanted her to remain close. He pressed his face harder to her. It was a strange feeling. It was a confusing sensation. The pressure built. His heart still pounded. She tried to move away from him but he leaned forward. His back lifted from the bed as he tried to follow after her.
Her hands moved to his arms and pushed him back gently. She was no match for his strength, but she managed to turn her face away from his.
"Brahms!" she yelled. He halted again. He did not want her mad. "You got your kiss. Now, it's time for bed."
His hands remained on her shoulders. His finger tips flexed.
"Brahms," she whispered. She reached up and touched his porcelain cheek. "Be a good boy, and you'll get more kisses in the morning."
He tilted his head again. His eyes darted across her face.
"Stay," he said. Her head turned to the door.
"I am going to go to bed in my own room, Brahmsy."
His finger tips pressed harder.
"Stay."
Once again, his voice echoed against his mask. She examined his face.
"OK, Brahmsy," she smiled. She gently ran her fingers through his sweaty hair. He reached up and pulled the hair back down over his left side. The mask was just not high enough on that side. Some of the burns might show.
She moved to lie down but he lifted the blanket. He wanted her closer. He wanted to feel her. She hesitated again and her pretty pink tongue wet her lips. He blinked once as she crawled into bed with him. He pulled the blankets over her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Her head pressed to his chest. Her hair smelled like peaches. He breathed in deeply.
She had a Brahms doll. He had his Greta doll. It was how he would hold it at night. It wasn't this soft. It wasn't this pretty. It didn't smell this good.
Her hand gripped his bicep and she lay there silently. He tightened his hold on her. He breathed in more deeply.
"Go to sleep, Brahms," she whispered. He simply was not tired. He waited, staring up at the ceiling. A little smile came to his lips. Even with the discomfort, the tightness in his muscles, the burning in his bones, he was overcome with a sense of joy that he had never experienced before.
Contentment. His mummy had read it in a book once. He'd never felt it though. This was what it must feel like. She fell asleep long before he did, but it was just before the sun came up. Slowly he extracted himself from her. He laid her head down gently on the pillow.
She was a deep sleeper. He had learned that when he snuck into her room to cut her hair. After that, he spent many nights seated in the corner, watching her sleep. He had wanted to go to her but he had been too afraid.
It would have been months more before he ever showed himself to her, even after his mummy wrote to him saying she was really his. All his. But then that man had broken the boy. The food man had tried to steal his pretty Greta.
He bent down once more and breathed in deeply.
"Pretty Greta," he whispered. He moved along the bed and retrieved his weapon. He crept from the room silently. It was easier, being barefoot. The food man had to be seen too first. There was a room for him. It was where the Heelshires of old would hide their riches. Secure, steel, and with many working locks.
Then the body. He had to get rid of it. Bodies began to smell once the soul left them. And someone would come asking about them. The bad man and the food man. He had to make sure they were out of sight. He had to make sure that little door was bolted shut again… and he had to make sure Greta would be good.
So much to do. So much to do.
He could think of little else but the pulsing of blood as it coursed through her veins. The feel of her soft body. How many nights had he dreamed of holding her close. Feeling her close to him.
But it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted to play.
Chores first, Brahms, then you play.
His mummy used to say it to him when he was the boy. Before the other boy came. He never liked it then. He understood now. And he had to get to work immediately now. Because he so badly wanted to play.