I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.
But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.
In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails
Stronger Now, Until You're Not
The sinking sun was warm on her back as she made her way back toward Massimo's apartment.
Her body felt strong and confident, the bag of groceries held easily as she navigated her wooden legs along the cobblestone street.
The building was in sight, just down the block and she remembered suddenly the first time she had left the apartment alone.
She had been terrified and nervous, fearing she would fall.
Fearing she would become lost. All the buildings side by side, might suddenly change appearance and she would forget which one was Massimo's and she would never find her way back to him.
Fearing a pedestrian along the street would see that she was a legless freak and laugh and point. Or glare with revulsion and disgust. Or shout of her disfigurement for all the world to see.
She had glanced up at Massimo's apartment balcony, expecting to see him there, watching over her in her journey.
The modest balcony had been empty.
And so she removed her gaze from up on high, drew in a deep breath, and concentrated on negotiating the cobblestones alone.
Striving to appear calm and confident and unconcerned with the enormity of this, her first independent excursion.
And did not see her guardian angel carpenter, discreetly hidden within the shadows of the door just beyond the balcony.
Watching her with a small, proud smile and gleaming eyes, and a pounding, hopeful heart at her endeavor.
When she returned, heady with the freedom and victory of her accomplishment, he was sitting, turned away from the balcony, calmly pursuing a newspaper.
Closed it across his lap and listened raptly to her excited recounting of her expedition.
She did not think to ask what he had been reading in the paper. Which was good because he would have found himself very hard pressed to answer her at all.
For he had not absorbed a single word the entire time she had been gone.
Along with cooking, dancing, and walking, Massimo Dolcefino had been teaching her Italian.
She was not very good at it.
But he was very patient.
It had begun simply.
He had picked up an egg while cooking, pronounced it 'ei' in her native German and then once more 'uovo' in Italian.
Interested, she repeated it carefully and said it in her mind over and over again, using the word as frequently as conversation would allow.
And when she would ask for an 'uva' instead of an 'uovo', he would smile and say, "No, cara mia, I will not mix grapes into this, it would make the food drunk. And that is an entirely different meal, not for tonight."
And she would laugh instead of feel embarrassment.
She practiced with him, she practiced alone.
She did not practice with the curious store owner who never failed to watch her from the corner of his eye as she made her purchases.
But she relished it all the same. The language, the feel of it upon her tongue.
Though it sounded clumsy to her ears, Italian words spoken in her German accent, it sent whispering tingles down her spine when she spoke them to him. Especially when Massimo's dark eyes betrayed his deep, visceral reaction to her vocalizations of his native speech.
And she decided then that she would practice an entirely different set of words, with a meaning and message that Massimo could not deny to take to heart.
She practiced in private where only she could hear. She would whisper it to herself as she imagined she would whisper it to him.
She gleaned the words separately from him, at different times, so she could keep her true intent to herself until she was confident and ready.
Words like 'light' and 'love' and 'want'.
As she grew stronger, he had encouraged her to do more for herself.
So that she could feel confidence and pride. So she could be dependent only on herself.
So that she might be a whole, functional person.
He was always encouraging.
Sometimes it was easy between them.
Sometimes it was not.
"I need my hair brush."
He looked up from his reading. Over the top of his round glasses and gestured.
"It is there, on the table."
She smiled sweetly at him.
"Will you bring it to me, please?"
He smiled back, clearly appreciating the sight of her lovely form, wrapped in a Chinese-cut lounge blouse, silken and peach colored, with a soft mint shaded sash and embroidered ties. The ankle length pants were of the same luxuriant fabric and cut, a real treasure in a land of heavy, grim greyness.
She was lovely.
She was sweet.
She was tired.
He gazed at her for a moment without speaking.
"It is on the table."
The table was ten feet away.
So very far after such a long day.
She took a heavy, deep breath.
"Massimo, I am very tired. Would you please bring me my hair brush?"
His voice was gentle as he returned his gaze to the open text before him.
"Cara mia, you do not need me to get you your hairbrush. Put on your legs and go get it yourself."
Her winning smile faded as she realized that he, quite uncharacteristically, was refusing her.
"Why are you not helping me? Do you not care?"
The hurt was evident in her voice and his keen ears picked it up easily, she had no doubt.
"Yes, I care. More than you could ever know."
His voice was infuriatingly mild, his face smooth and expressionless as his attention remained affixed on the print before him.
"And I am helping."
He was not going to get her hairbrush.
She glared at the wrinkles in his forehead until her eyes were tired.
He did not burst into flame or explode into a million tiny pieces.
Even more, he never moved or looked up at all.
Finally Elsa put on her legs, got up, and retrieved her own hairbrush.
To his credit, Massimo Dolcefino did not smile or smirk at all.
Until she left the room.
Then he did.
Just a little.
And now she did things for herself.
She got her own hairbrush.
She ventured out into the world and procured ingredients for their meals.
She cooked them herself and worked beside Massimo, learning how to create more and more dishes.
She nodded and spoke cordially to people when she was faced with them out in the world.
Such as she was now.
A tall, slender man in a dark suit and matching hat walked down the street toward her.
She raised her eyes to meet his, to make eye contact, as she forced herself to do each time.
So she would not fear the outside world or its inhabitants.
And as she looked into his face, she froze, muscles clenching, breath catching in her seizing lungs.
The bag tilted and a bundle of carrots tipped out onto the sidewalk.
On wooden legs and with numb hands, she knelt to retrieve them, her unblinking eyes affixed on the nightmare that moved before her.
The nightmare in gentleman's clothing, wearing a gentleman's face.
Who cast her, a mere woman, not a second glance.
And moved around her on his way to his destination.
Leaving her there, trembling on the cobblestones.
Heh heh, sorry, sweetie, no spoiled brattiness for you, nope. Massimo won't have it. ;)
By the way, I love the pajamas she's wearing here. If you want it to see it, google images '1930 American Women's Pajamas at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston'. It should be one of the first images that pops up. I really wish I could wear this, but I'm not built for it. Oh well.
And as for her odd encounter? We'll get to that, don't worry.
Thanks to brigid1318, GG (throwing out hints, are we? hee hee), Mango Marionette, Foreverglfan88, and YellowBrickQueen for your wonderful reviews.