Chasing Demons
Weeks passed. Franziska was not getting any more sleep than she used to, but now when the bleeding man appeared at the end of her bed in the middle of the night, she knew how to stifle the screams. She had not told Miles about it; after all, she was old enough and more than mature enough to handle this by herself.
Sunday was the only day of the week when Miles and Franziska were expected to take a break from their usual studying. After all, Sunday was the day of rest. Sometimes on the walk home from the church, Franziska wondered if her father really believed in religion or if it was just to maintain their image as the perfect family.
Papa was not home that day, in fact he had flown back to the States early that morning so he could investigate and prosecute yet another perfect trial. It was a warm afternoon by the time the mass was finished and Franziska almost skipped out of the church with Miles trailing behind her, hair slipping out of the perfect braid Miles had made her that morning.
Miles's legs were longer and he caught up to her eventually, even though he sounded slightly out of breath. "Franziska, what would your father say if he saw you running around the streets with your hair flapping around your face like some sort of common street child?"
"He wouldn't say anything because he's not here to see anything. He's not coming back for weeks, maybe even months!" Last night had been a worse night than most. Franziska had needed to cover her mouth with her pillow, because if she screamed, it would surely wake Papa up and then he would know about her foolish nightmares.
"You know what it means when he does come back, don't you, Franziska?"
Every time she thought about what it meant, her stomach made a strange sort of flip, and something inside her ached. She had no idea how to explain the foreign feeling.
Last night, just before dinner, her father had summoned her to his office. She had wondered if she had done anything to anger him this time, but had not been able think of anything.
The door had been slightly ajar, but she'd knocked anyway, because she knew her father hated to be disturbed. She'd heard the rustling of papers, and then Papa had said 'Come in' in that deep voice of his, and tentatively, she entered, not knowing what to expect.
He'd stood up when she approached his desk, back straight and tall. "You have grown again, Franziska," he had told her, and she had not known if she were meant to reply in the usual manner. But in this instance, it seemed that he had not been expecting any response. "You look a lot like I did when I was your age…nothing like your mother."
She refused to believe her father had meant to hurt her with those words. Some days she spent longer than necessary preparing herself in the mornings as she stared in the mirror, hoping that one of her facial features (the shade of her eyes, the curve of her nose?) would remind her of long gone mother's. Now she knew why it never happened. Her father had told her that they looked nothing alike. The words were not meant to feel as though they were cutting her up from inside. He was simply telling the truth.
Not that she could not know for sure, though. There were no photos.
Then her father had dropped the bombshell: that the next time her father came home, it would be to take Miles back to America.
Last night she had dreamt of her mother for the first time in a while, the scent hovering around her in the room familiar, and when her mother touched her shoulders, they were no longer gestures of frightening comfort, but tightening fingers determined to snatch her away from Miles, Papa, Germany…everything she had ever known.
Miles was still standing next to her, awaiting the answer to the question he must have poised a few minutes ago now. "I still don't know how to braid my own hair, Miles Edgeworth," she pointed out. Surely if she did not know how to do that, Miles wouldn't be able to leave.
"It's not as hard as you think it is, Franziska," he assured her, firm hands grasping her hair where it was coming loose, undoing the hair ribbon and redoing the braid. "You can do the two plaits, right? Well, it's sort of like that. If not, you can just wear the plaits all the time, you know. In fact, I'm sure if you were to ask one of the servants, they would be happy to do your hair for you." He frowned, as if he knew that a perfect hairstyle was not all that Franziska was worried about. "Or, you could just say that you will miss me."
Hah. Of all the foolishly foolish things for a foolishly foolish fool to foolishly admit to, dependency on another person had to be one of the most foolish. She was Franziska von Karma, and she did not need her little brother around to take care of her. After all, she was well more advanced than he was in his studies, even though he studied so hard, and she was well on track to becoming a perfect prosecutor, just like Papa. All in all, she was a daughter to be proud of.
She would miss him. That would be the best way to describe it. He really was just like a brother to her. An older brother to hold her hand and assuage her fears when she needed it most and a younger brother to boss around and to teach the ropes of the legal system to, at least, until his learning had caught up with hers. She would miss him, but she would never, ever tell him so.
They walked back to the von Karma mansion together in silence: Miles not wanting to push the point any further, and Franziska adamant not to tell him how she really felt. Her mother, Miles…would everyone she loved end up leaving her too?
The summer soon turned into autumn; red, brown and yellow leaves fell all over the grounds of the von Karma mansion. Miles was standing outside the ornate double doors, back tall and proud, the very same stance that reminded Franziska of Papa.
It was Papa's return that Miles was awaiting. Franziska was to stay inside until the time she was called upon, studying in the library. But instead, she watched Miles through the window and observed his perfect patience. When he turned around, even though it was barely a fraction, the golden sunlight of the late autumn afternoon shone through his hair, and usually in this light, Miles would look beautiful.
Today, to the untrained eye, Miles looked determined.
To Franziska, he looked afraid.
She knew that a perfect daughter would stay where she was told and not even think about leaving the house to run outside when her father might come home at any moment. Sometimes, though, Franziska had trouble remembering to be perfect all the time, and without even thinking about it, her hands slipped off the window frame and she ran out of the hallway and into the cool autumn breeze.
Miles jumped as the door slammed, then whirled around to find the source of the noise. He looked down and Franziska looked into his eyes. She heard him swallow, then say, "Franziska. Go back inside."
She stood her ground. "You can't boss me around." With Miles gone, she would no longer have her brother. Who would she be then? Just the person she had always been brought up to be—Franziska von Karma, prodigal daughter of Manfred von Karma.
Miles lifted his head up, arms folded across his chest. "It's best if you're not here, Franziska. I've already said my farewells to you."
His words ignited something inside her, a sort of ravenous fire that threatened to burn her from the inside out if she didn't drop her perfectly practiced cool demeanour and just start screaming. "You moron!" she screamed, her hands balling into fists and clutching the front of his suit. "You call that a farewell? It was nothing! You foolishly foolish fool who foolishly thinks you can foolishly get away with such a foolish farewell!" The insults were getting foolishly redundant, but she had difficulty stopping the words from slipping over her lips.
With a cry, she let go of Miles's jacket, almost bowling him over as she ran to the shade of a large oak tree, her hands slamming into its trunk. She punched it again and again and again, acorns in their branches rustled until the bark of the large oak scraped against her skin and she could almost feel splinters embedding themselves into her palms.
Her punches had all happened so fast, and in what seemed like barely a matter of moments, Miles's hands were covering her own, arms wrapped around her protectively. "Franziska," he groaned as he knelt down behind her, grip tightening, "what would your father say if he saw you'd hurt yourself so foolishly?"
Franziska was about to retort that she didn't care, that she would go to America with Miles, that it was completely unfair, no matter how much of a spoilt brat that made her sound.
She never got a chance. "What would you father say, indeed?" a familiar voice asked. It was not hers, it was not Miles's, it was…she swallowed and looked up, Miles's arms still wrapped around her in what could only be described as tight hug.
Her Papa stood in front of her, and he looked even more severe and punishing than ever. As Miles took a shaky breath and made to stand up, she grasped his hands even tighter. No matter what her father did or said to her, at least she'd gotten her proper farewell.
Miles did not end up leaving that afternoon. Franziska knew her father had planned only to visit home for an hour at most and that he had important business to attend to back in the States, but she had just given him a more important reason to stay home: the discipline of his daughter.
This time as she waited outside her father's office, she knew exactly what she had done to anger him. She hesitated before raising her hand to knock on the door. What would he say to her and, more importantly, would she say anything to him?
His voice invited her inside, but this time he did not stand up when she approached him. He had not been attending to any paperwork like he usually did when he was in his office; instead he had been sitting there, patiently waiting for Franziska, and she hoped he hadn't kept him waiting for too long. There was disappointment etched into the lines of his face and Franziska hated the overwhelming feeling of failure that enveloped her.
"You know that I am a very busy man," Manfred reminded her, knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of his desk. "I hope that you can provide me with an adequate reason as to why I am still here."
Franziska knew that her father hated wasting time and hated having to stay at home because he didn't trust his daughter to follow his instructions when he was not around to enforce them. For the first time in a while, words failed Franziska, as all she could think about was how Miles could stay for one more night. "I-I…"
"Franziska, I did not raise you to speak to me in incomplete sentences. If you are incapable of providing a reason, then I shall supply one. I cannot leave my daughter while she remains to be of inadequate temperament: hot-tempered and rash, unable to control her own feelings. These are traits unbecoming of a von Karma. I expected more of you, Franziska. Now you will tell me the reason for your foolish actions earlier."
Franziska bit her lip. She had already let Papa down so much, and he knew the truth would do little to please him. Then again, if she just apologised for what she had done and admitted she had behaved in a way that was inappropriate because she had been restless, Papa and Miles could still possibly leave tonight.
Then there was nothing to stop the truth from escaping her. "I want to go to America, Papa!" she declared, and even though she knew all along it would be entirely the wrong thing to say, a chill still went down her spine when her father's lips tightened. That was never a good sign; it often was an indicator that he was about to lose his temper, something that she knew happened more than he would admit to.
"America is a dangerous place, Franziska," he replied. "I raise you in Germany so you are safe from all the perils that could await you in the United States. Every day I deal with murderers, rapists, kidnappers, the scum of the earth; every day more homicides are committed, more woman are taken advantage of and more young children are abducted. Do you want these things to happen to you?"
Of course she didn't. But those things happened anywhere, even in Germany too. After all, what was the point of studying to become Germany's best prosecutor if there were no criminals to convict? "Please, Papa." She had never resorted to begging before, but she knew that her Papa would not like it. But even that knowledge did not prepare her for what happened next.
Papa's hand slammed into the side of her face, sending her sprawling backwards onto the floor. She let out a gasp of surprise, her own hands coming up to her cheek, skin tingling more with shock than with pain. Papa had just hit her. He had never even laid a hand on her before. Unbidden, tears sprang into her eyes, and even though they made her feel ashamed, she let them fall, the movement of her tears on her stinging cheek making for an odd sensation.
"You are just like your mother," he said, looming tall as he walked over to her and stood before her as she lay on the floor. "A resilient little bitch." She has never heard him talk about her mother before, and now he had, and the words had been so harsh.
Still crying, she picked herself up, doing her best to straighten out the crinkles in one of her favourite dresses. Papa did not look at her until she turned the handle on the office door to leave, as it was clear her father was not going to talk to her and dismiss her.
When he did look at her, however, she saw the look in his eyes, and even though the rest of his face was as calm and collected as always, she could tell that he was sorry.
She knew that under normal circumstances, she could expect her father to follow her if she left without his permission. These, however, were not normal circumstances, and Franziska found herself climbing the staircase that lead to Miles's room, knowing exactly how to evade the housemaids that would tell her she wouldn't be allowed.
The door was wide open, and she could see Miles standing by the window. It struck her as odd, as Miles didn't seem like the type to enjoy sunlight; he was always brooding in dark corners. Her footsteps were not light when she entered the room, and Miles heard them. Pressing his forehead against the window, his back turned to her, he said, "Go away, Franziska. I have nothing to say to you."
That didn't stop her from striding into her brother's room. She had not been in here in a long time, and the room was even more meticulously neat than usual, but that was to be expected, as Miles was meant to have left earlier that afternoon. His suitcase still lay closed on the covers of his bed, briefcase lying next to it.
He turned around then, nearly lost his balance and leant against the glass for support. With his other hand, he pointed at Franziska, then the door. "Franziska, I said—God, what did you do?" His hands cradled Franziska's face; she supposed he could still see the imprint of Papa's hand on her cheek.
She started crying again, although, she wasn't sure if she entirely stopped in the first place anyway. "I asked him if I could come too…I just wanted you to stay for one more night."
He stroked her hair, fingers undoing her braid. "I have to help your father, you understand." He swallowed, then continued. "He's done a lot for me; he took me in when no-one else was willing to. You have to be a good girl for him, Franziska, not cause him extra stress and worry."
"But I'll miss you." She had avoided telling him for the past month, but now that he was really and truly leaving, she knew he needed to know.
"You'll see me again someday," he assured her, and he held her tighter, giving her enough room to lay her head on his shoulder.
"If you stayed, I would see you every day."
He didn't say anything, and she knew that he was trying to prevent himself from making any promises he couldn't keep. She wondered if she would ever see him again, and vowed to herself that one day, she would go to America with Papa and Miles. She'd do anything to show her father that she was worthy enough, that she could defend herself against anyone who tried to make her do anything she didn't want to do.
Maybe she would learn how to use a whip.
After parting from the last hug she would receive in a long time, it was already late at night, past the time she usually went to bed. When she went to bed that night, she could already feel her mother standing in the room with her and the stinging slap on her cheek. For the first time, she heard her voice as well. "Resilient little bitch." It echoed through the emptiness of the room, and she just managed to stop herself from yelling out. After tonight, she reminded herself bitterly, she wouldn't have anyone to hide her screams from.
The words scare her more than anything any of the previous ghosts had ever done. Was it really true, what Papa had said about her mother? After eight years of never even bringing the topic up, why now? Would she ever know her who her mother was?
Did it really matter, in the end? She was Manfred von Karma's daughter, and surely that ought to be good enough for anybody. But she was not his perfect daughter, perfect daughters did not do what she had done today. Who was the other half, the other person who had created her so imperfectly Franziska?
She had never been happier for the bleeding man to appear in her room, because he always chased the ghost of her mother away. She'd almost grown used to his frightening appearance, and she was sure he did not mean to scare her.
In fact, some nights, she swore he was watching out for her.
