Esmeralda had always been a fast learner, but here and now, the only thoughts to flood her mind were ones of escape and longing. Something she had learned was unobtainable just recently. Freedom was so close, just passed a threshold, through the trees and onward. Who knew how far the property went out as she stared into the morning light. The cold morning light filled the skeleton thicket, catching sparkling patches of snow among damp bracken and fallen limbs.
She was huddled on the couch with all her limbs drawn close and tight. Her knees were to her chest and her arms were wrapped tightly around herself. That same dingy chemise held loosely about her frame, poor at staving off the cold draft of Phoebus' cabin.
Beside her, was he; the one responsible for this nightmare she currently lived. Every passing moment, the anger within her grew. She feared any moment she would lash out. That this fear she couldn't shake would driving her into madness. It came in waves. Sometimes as an ugly whisper at the back of her mind, a voice that blamed her for what was happening. Other times, a more forgiving approach. One of hope and patience. When the right time arrived, she would know it and it would be hers.
Secular as she had been most of her life, Esmeralda found herself quite often within prayer. To whomever, wherever, with powers beyond her understanding, she prayed. Even now, she closed her eyes to the cold window and pictured herself back at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart with all its marvel and its ascending spires and angels. She prayed until the tears fell and her heart wrenched. She prayed until she felt sick and ignored. How could a loving God allow something this horrible to happen to her? What had she ever done to another? She was a good person! What did she do to deserve this?
The anger returned, twisting her empty gut with anxiety and fear. She hadn't been able to keep anything down as of late, though, she tried. She felt like a starved animal, backed into a corner with little hope of surviving. The things she loved floated perpetually in her mind in hopes of deterring this anger that was not much her own character. Dancing. Sweets. Holidays. She sang her favorite song, silently and in the safety of her mind, albeit. She thought of her brother. In actuality, they weren't at all related by blood, but they had grown up together in an orphanage. They still kept in contact, but as the years progressed, Clopin was his name, had wed and started a family. Esmeralda was only a reminder of the ugly past he derived from. She didn't blame him now. If she could forget those years, as well as this one, she would.
A flash of red caught Esmeralda's attention as a cardinal flitted onto a thin branch. Its little body shook, puffing out its feathery chest and adjusting its wings. Around it, other birds darted through the branches. All were waking from with the morning light.
Phoebus did not sleep, which in turn, meant Esmeralda did not either. Though her body ached for rest, she could not.
Even if she could, only nightmares would await her.
Her green eyes continued to watch the small red bird as its mannerism appeared sporadic and random, at best. Not a care in the world, she thought, despite how brightly nature had colored it. Here it was amidst winter no less where no floral or fern could conceal it. Not long, another bird appeared at its side. One duller and less brazen in color. While the remaining winter birds flew to and fro, the two remained in place and within close proximity of one another. Mates, she told herself, remembering of a time she thought she had found one as well.
Glancing over, she eyed Phoebus who was drawn to the flashes of the television. He was watching the news, ensuring that her disappearance hadn't made headlines, or so she assumed. Another snowstorm was on approach, drifting down from Canada. They were predicting a blackout and several feet of snow. Regardless of the weather, she would be stuck here. Snow or shine, she would be here.
In this cabin.
With this thing, this man.
She couldn't stand it. The sight of him alone made her stomach wrench and her skin crawl. Knowing he was always just feet away at all times was suffocating. She needed out. The walls were closing in. The ceiling, sinking. She couldn't stay here any longer.
She would rather die.
Morning came for Claude Frollo and his adopted son, Quasimodo. He had told the boy everything. From the most insignificant to the more startling of details. Their throes of passion and lust. The drunken night in which it all began. His taking of her within his very class room. There wasn't a moment Claude did not reveal to his son, not a heartbeat unmentioned.
With Lina gone and her whereabouts currently unknown, Claude found it the opportune time to bring his son up to speed. It was relieving, in the least, to finally admit to another soul the things that tormented him from inside. The secrets he had harbored with Esmeralda were burdening. Now that she was missing, he feared that he had imagined the entirety of it. Telling another made it feel all the more real.
Over a cup of untouched coffee, Quasimodo mulled over his response. The kitchen was an eerie silence between the two men. A meaty paw reached up and ran a course path over his red stubble. In the right light, Quasimodo could be a handsome fellow. Unfortunately, not many souls could see the charm and intelligence within him like Claude did. He feared the boy would be unwed until death came for its dues.
Sitting back in his own wooden chair, Claude ran a pale thumb down the side of his warm mug.
"I believe I owe you an apology," he fretted. "For what it's worth, this all transpired after your mother and I found our differences."
"I understand." His son muttered, refusing to look anywhere but down at his steaming cup. He was hurt, decidedly. Claude did not blame him for that. Another pause filled the kitchen, heavy with guilt and remorse.
"Do you love her?" The question from Quasimodo startled Claude. In truth, he didn't know how to answer it. "Be honest, not just with me, but with yourself, father."
Claude considered this. He had no intentions to lie on the matter for he had already told Quasimodo everything in its absolute. He cleared his throat and knitted his brow in thought. Yes, he loved her, but in a sense, it frightened him to admit that to anyone including himself.
"In a way, I do," he began, fearful of the emotions that came with such an inquiry. "I love who I am when I am with her. I'm young again."
"It's more than that," Quasimodo whispered, holding Claude's gaze with his own. "You know it is. Tell me."
Claude's mouth fell dry as the words tried to take form. "I-..," he took a deep, quivering breath. "Yes, I guess I do love her."
The day was cold as it was long for Esmeralda. She hardly spoke a word. Phoebus, on the other hand, would not shut up if only for a moment. He prattled on about Fallujah, Qatar, and the Bagram airfield where spiders of some variety chased his shadow. The stories meant nothing to her. They weren't wondrous. They did not ignite her curiosity or feed her imagination. It was noise to her. Useless noise.
Still residing within the living room, Esmeralda sat quietly on the floor before the fire. She stared into the flames as if enraptured by the lapping blaze. From behind her, Phoebus gave way to laughter, having muttered something delightful to himself. He hushed quickly after that and muttered something too soft for Esmeralda to understand. He spoke to himself often and to empty spaces of the room. At night, he shouted and threw things, startling Esmeralda awake from below. He still forced her to sleep in the basement with his grotesque paintings watching none too far. The tragedy in that was she preferred those decaying eyes and soulless visages to his own company. Like she, they were a result of his madness. Perhaps, they were one and the same. The morbid and the maiden.
As the hours ticked on, a thought stirred her, slowly evolving into a sinister plan. Decidedly there wasn't a moment Esmeralda wasn't planning something to a degree.
The fire before her had the tools for prodding and airing the fire. All were made of iron, sans the broom. She eyed the shovel and the poker while Phoebus began singing boisterously behind her. He was drunk and attempting to cook. She could hear the gurgling as he decanted glass after glass, accompanied with the sizzles of sauteeing vegetables. Outside, the sun had sank below the treetops and the cardinals had long disappeared her sight. Perhaps she could wait until he was far too polluted to act on her plan?
No, she realized. There were plenty of times he had inebriated himself and still kept a watchful eye upon her. That and he was strong, much stronger than she. It would have to be the element of surprise.
Glancing over her shoulder, she watched him toss a second swig back before slapping the glass back onto the counter. With his back towards her, this was the moment. She faced the fire and took hold of the poker as quietly as she could.
The television was too loud to hear her approaching. She was in the kitchen now, having no recollection of moving from the fire with the poker in hand. She was in a trance with Phoebus now before her. Holding the weapon tightly in her hand, she reared the weapon back like she would a baseball bat and swung.
Hard.
She felt the blow like vibrations through the iron handle as it made contact with the base of his skull. A strangled cry escaped his lips while his arms flew up to respond to the pain. He slumped against the counter top as blood seeped out of a split along his scalp. Esmeralda stepped away while Phoebus struggled to stay on his feet. On wobbling knees, his hands tried to hold onto something but instead knocked bottles and glasses off the counter. They fell with him, shattering along the floor. A moan fumbled over his lips as he fought to stay conscious.
Every part of Esmeralda's being screamed for her to run. But she remained. She didn't want to knock him unconscious. She wanted him dead. She wanted the surety that he wouldn't come for her again and again or worse, take someone else in her stead.
Glancing around the kitchen, she searched for a knife. Something large and sharp to plunge deep into his heart. Her movements were frantic as she scoured the drawers and cupboards but as soon as her eyes caught the glinting refraction of a sharp blade, there was movement behind her.
The blow came swiftly across her skull. A flash of white light blinded her before she regained her vision but it was coupled with befuddlement. What had just happened? She felt herself drifting, falling into...
She landed on cold stone, damp and reeking, not the expectant tile that fashioned Phoebus' kitchen floor. This was different.
Everything was very different.
Around Esmeralda was a thunderous cacophony. Trumpets were blaring. Voices were crying in joy and madness. Confetti rained around her as she glanced up from her sprawl. A stranger dressed in brightly colored trousers and a unsightly mask with a wide smile reached down and took her by the hands. He lifted her to her feet and pulled her into a dance.
"Where am I!?" She shrieked as he spun her in a circle. The voices bellowed in a simultaneous cheer. Her eyes scoured the unfamiliar faces that surrounded her, all cheering and dancing alongside. "What is this!?"
Whether he was listening or even heard her, there was no indication. He released his grip and disappeared into the sea of bodies where more brightly colored costumes and masks reigned. The crowd churned and roared. Barrels were rolled out and from spouts poured a dark liquid from which they drank greedily.
Esmeralda was on the brink of tears. She stilled among the thriving drone, digging her nails deep into her flesh, but the sting did not wake her. What had happened to her? Was this a dream? Was she dead? Hissing, she released her arm and glassed down to the crescent indentations along her skin. It was here that she noticed her attire had changed dramatically. The chemise was gone and in its stead a was bright red bodice with a sweeping skirt to match. Her feet were bare and around her hips hung a royal purple silken sash with sewn in charms and trinkets that chimed with every move. The panic was rising now while her heart hammered against her rib cage. Lifting her gaze once again, she scanned the area around her. Tall buildings lined all sides of her with a great massive one straight ahead. By the heavenward archways and stretching architect that almost reached for the sky, Esmeralda knew she was looking upon Notre Dame de Paris.
"Come one!" A voice rang out, "Come all!"
Someone clutched Esmeralda by the elbow urgently and cried, "You're up! Hurry! Hurry!"
When she glanced down, an old woman hunched in posture gripped her tightly with small bony hands. A cloak was drawn over her crown, shadowing what was evidently a hideous face. Startled, Esmeralda yanked free and stepped away.
"I don't know know what you're talking about!" She told the old hag.
A gnarled finger jutted forward, pointing passed Esmeralda, through the crowd and towards a wooden stage not far.
"See the finest girl in France!" The crowd sang and Esmeralda was pushed forward, passed the crowd and towards that very stage.
"No!" She yelped, trying to twist free from the gripping hands "Stop!" But she was already at the edge, being hurdled onto the platform by the sea of patrons. She landed on her feet, but buckled at the knees. The crowd exploded with cheers and howls while the band erupted into a song. Standing slowly, she turned her head towards the sea of faces. All eyes were trained on her and her alone.
They clapped and jutted fists into the air. More confetti rained and the instruments blew and bellowed while she, dumbstruck, stared in awe at all that surrounded her. She must be dead. There was simply no other way to put it. Either this was her personal hell or she was stuck in limbo, she wasn't sure. It all felt very real. Even the stinging still lingered from her nails.
But it was when she turned, to regard the tent before when her heart stopped.
Beneath a scowl shrouded in shadow was her beloved.
"Claude?" She whispered in shock, though more to herself than anything.
It appeared that he had heard her and his face furrowed with sheer confusion. Did he recognize her? Why did he appear aloof at her appearance?
He turned his head to the side and muttered something to a bystander. Her eyes followed his, landing on another familiar face; Phoebus.
Her heart plummeted with an audible gasp. Audible, certainly, for the chaos that had once reined the square had fallen to an eerie and unnatural dissonance between the instruments and patrons.
It was her personal hell. She hadn't escaped him at all. He had followed her here! Whatever this place was, he was here!
Turning at once, she fled the stage, hopping down into the crowd who had fallen quiet, even the band had stilled. Shoving through the bodies, Esmeralda made her way to the only sensible place for such a state; Notre Dame.
[A/N]: Good evening and good morning, depending upon wherever you may reside! I hope this all made some sort of sense to you. If not, I assure you, it'll make more sense when Claude comes around. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and much love!
