SOrry this historic meeting is a little shorter than you want it to be, but it reflects how Mrs. Lovett wants it to be. Besides, I have to hurry before vacation tomorrow. After that, there won't be any more updates for at least a week. I've received several messages from people trying to guess who the last person will be. I can't make any promises, but I think you'll find the person is unexpected. In the meantime, enjoy the Goodie of the Day: raspberry ice cream. disclaimer: nope, dont' own. that goddess of musicals was a facade.
Mrs. Lovett closed her eyes softly to collect her thoughts. Her chest rose as if to breathe, but Sweeney heard no air passing through her lungs. Opening her eyes, she gazed at him with purpose and clarity. She was a woman with a mission, and when Mrs. Lovett made up her mind, there was no stopping her. Though she appeared calm in face, her body language displayed nervousness; she was slouching backwards, with her right hand stroking her left forearm. Her shoes twitched, as if her toes wrinkled. There was an awkward and unusual silence that resided over the two, the haunting memories of the past preventing either of them from speaking. She knew she had to speak, she must, but she had no idea where to begin. Sweeney waited, growing impatient, for her to begin her lecture. She turned her head, searching the room for a source of inspiration. Her gaze fell upon the burning oven, an inferno that seemed to mock them both. So much history passed through those flames, so many lives lost to its closed quarters. Its fiery passion gave her the inspiration she tried to grasp.
"You know, Mr. T, I used to stare a' that oven for 'ours," she said suddenly. The comment caught Sweeney off guard. He merely grunted a response. "I would jus' watch those flames dance by and wonder, 'wha' am I doing this for?' Only later did I realize tha' the question was whom am I doin' this for." Now Sweeney was beginning to feel nervous. If he was alive, he was sure that he would feel hot with embarrassment, but he only felt the neutral, unnatural coolness of his body. "I've spen' a while trying to figure out wha' to say to you, and I realized tha' the answer wa' always there in front o' me. I had always stared a' the truth every day for the past year." She paused briefly, and then turned towards Sweeney, facing him head on. "My life, my wants, my bein' lived just like tha' oven; I was always feedin' myself, not with pies, but dreams, and they kept my soul on fire. Just like this oven only wanted more pies, I only wanted to dream, to imagine a life tha' I could only fantasize about.
"I wanted t' leave Fleet Street more than you can possibly imagine, Mr. T, but I stayed because you stayed." She paused, and turned her eyes away briefly with embarrassment. After a few moments, she turned her gaze back to Sweeney. "From the moment I first saw you, saw your emotional, passionate nature; I could never stop thinkin' about you. I was once in love with you, Sweeney." It was the first time she had ever used his first name. He couldn't be taken more aback; she loved him? Of course, he should have seen the signs, the way she always smiled at him, always being polite and gentle. He always thought it to be out of fear of him, but out of love? He wasn't sure how to respond, except to the one detail he noticed in her statement.
"Once?" he asked.
"Like I said, it's in the past, 'n it no longer matters."
"But this is so unlike you. Once you make up your mind, there isn't any changing it. I was at least that observant to notice." She turned away from him and walked towards the oven. Her dress, worn as ever, dragged across the bleak stone floors, giving her a haunting elegance as her shadow elongated from the fire. After a brief pause she continued.
"We have so much more in common than you think, Mr. T." Sweeney felt tension in his throat and chest.
"No, Mrs. Lovett, I'm nothing like you," he spat, the very idea inconceivable to him.
"No, Mr. T, I'm just like you. And tha' is what was the death of both of us," she said quietly. "There wa' this silly little quote I read once. I thought it was corny, yet I always 'ad a way of findin' it somewhere and rereadin' it: honor the past, celebrate the present, reach for the future. I know, silly, but now I see 'ow prevalent it is. You 'n I are on the opposite ends of the spectrum: you hol' onto the past, I hol' onto the future. The trouble is tha' both of us could never let go of wha' we held dear; you could never move on, and I could never let go of my imagination. Neither of us seized wha' we already had.
"So you see, you 'n I are both alike: we both desire wha' is unreachable, impossible, 'n cannot accept the truth." She paused for a few moments, watching the flames dance before her eyes, their orange glow barely contained in the steel beast. Sweeney couldn't begin to guess what she was thinking at that moment. She turned her head to face him, her eye darkened from the shadow.
"I was blinded by my obsession ov'r you, Sweeney," she said, barely able to choke out his name. "So much so that I didn' see the monster I became so you could accept me. I didn' see my morals diminish 'n my reasons becoming distorted. All I could think of, all I could believe in was the idea tha' you and I would live happily togeth'r. I believed tha' if I went along with you, stood by your side no matter wha', then it would happen one day. But it didn', and I butch'red too many men to count because of this belief. It sickened me to do my work, and it disgusted me when you showed me Pirelli. But I 'ad to contain myself, I 'ad to act nonchalant, because I knew I needed your trust. After I…died…I realized tha' I was foolish, and 'ow damaged I really was." She paused to collect her thoughts, and strained to hold back tears. Never before had she been so open, so honest to the man she once revere as a god. She fought to hold back tears that were aching to fall. But she couldn't let them; she had to contain herself. At last she continued. "I remember tha' there were nights when I felt like I couldn' take it anymore, where I wished tha the chaos would stop, but I somehow always woke up to a sunny day the next mornin'."
"Did you ever think about, you know?" said Sweeney, gesturing a throat slice with his hand.
"Did I ever think about killin' myself? No, that's pathetic," she said quickly and coldly. "But there were days tha' were more difficult than others." She again paused, seeming to collect her thoughts (or was she reminiscing?). Sweeney couldn't tell, he didn't want to ask her. "You, Mr. T, were so enthralled by the past tha' you didn' see the world around you."
"I know, that's what Lucy told me," he said bitterly. He told himself that he wouldn't bring up Lucy, and he wished that he hadn't mentioned her. He shut away any thoughts of her, lest he bring her up again.
"Well, she was right, you know. You were so consumed by your past tha' you didn' try to make a future for yourself. You tried to 'old onto something tha' no longer existed, a life that 'ad faded to the abstract," she said.
"I could have had a life if you never lied to me!" he wanted to scream. But he saw the logic: a life with Lucy would never happen again. Even if he did try to have a life with his insane Lucy, things would never have been what they once were. Her body was alive, but her soul was dead. Sweeney asked himself: would he rather live with his Lucy alive and driven into madness, or live with his Lucy dead, buried virtuous and sensible. The more he thought about, the more he realized he wanted the latter. The Lucy he saw while he was alive wasn't really Lucy, but a soulless, wandering mind with no logic or goals. Trying to bring back the life he once had with her would have driven him into madness. He thought of Lucy, glowing with beauty and grace, her smile gleaming in the sunlight, her words sweet and warm, lost to chaos. He couldn't have let that happen. He had to remember all that was good about Lucy, he needed to honor her.
"What are you saying, you want me to just forget her?" he asked, sarcasm dripping every syllable.
"Tha's not what I'm sayin' at all! I'm sayin' you need to remember her, to honor her, but she cannot consume your life. You need to make a future for yourself. You need to move on. Remember, and forgive." They eyed each other for several moments, trying to read each other, but that was nearly impossible, their dark eyes closed so the world will never read them. After several moments, Eleanor blinked and turned her gaze away.
"I didn' wan' our meeting to end this way," she said.
"It's over?"
"The lesson's done, the time's up," she stated. There at the end of the bake house, sure enough, was the large, pure white door, seeming to mock their conversation. Tension still mounted, like there was something still left unsaid. Whatever either of them needed to confess, it had to be then. Sweeney took the liberty of breaking the silence.
"Eleanor," he said, and slightly winced when he said her name for the first time, "I'm sorry…for everything. I wasn't who you wanted me to be, and that's nothing I could ever take back."
"Sweeney, I may not love you anymore, but I still forgive you." He nodded, and preceded towards the door, not sure how to say goodbye. He turned around to see her face for the last time. She looked so lost, like she was delicately balancing between holding herself together and breaking down. She had lifted the mask she held all these years, letting Sweeney see who she truly was, and it drained her of energy. Her knees felt weak beneath her heavy dress, her eyes felt heavy, and she felt lethargic. Honesty was so burdensome. He gave her a nod goodbye, and she returned the gesture. He half-smiled in a way that was almost a smirk.
"Well, Eleanor, at least the pies were good," he said.
"You were never one for humor, Mr. T," she said.
"Guess I'm still not," he smirked. He turned away and walked towards the door. The tension seemed to melt off of his shoulders between Mrs. Lovett and him, but he suddenly grew anxious. His last person lay beyond that door, and who it was became anyone's guess. His steps slowed, and he focused on their echoes. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. It was strange how silent he was, with neither breath nor heartbeat. He clothes felt heavy, and he became increasingly aware of their texture. A challenge lay before him, one last hill to climb. The journey was almost complete, and the end lay beyond that door. He reached for the handle and was surprised for the first time to feel cold. The brass was smooth and hard, but undeniably cold as ice. After being used to what seemed like an eternity of unfeeling, the sudden jolt of temperature send a shock to his arm. He drew his hand back as if he touched a burning stove. Hesitantly, he reached once more for the handle, the sounds of the licking flames behind him. The handle was still shockingly cold, but more bearable. He twisted the handle with ease and opened the door. The other side was not white, but the darkest, deepest black of night. It was a frightening change, one that sent a wave of apprehensiveness down his spine. Cautiously, reluctantly, he stepped inside. The door closed behind him, and he was sent into the darkest corner of imagination.