Disclaimer: Still not mine, which is a good thing, as this girl scares me.
Warning: There's nothing all that bad, mind, as this is PG-13. But if you're at all averse to murder, mistaken identity, or implied mutilation, please check yourself at the chapter's title.
Meryl did not start out the way anyone knew her later in life would have expected. She never skinned kittens or dropped rats in boiling water or even shooed mice into the stove. Granted, when she finally learned to read, it was from de Sade's writings, but only because there were no other books handy. It was all the result of an accident, really.
She came from a poor family and lived a doglike childhood, forever squabbling with a litter of more siblings than she could count. The weak were easily eliminated; she once saw two older brothers shove another's face into a blanket in order to get at the bread in his hand. Afterward, they paid more attention to the bread than the fact that the smaller boy neither cried out nor made any attempt to push the blanket away. Meryl herself never took things to quite that extreme, preferring instead to steal food and eat it on her own, thereby sparing herself the fighting that would undoubtedly have broken out at home. When she was old enough, she left that litter and moved into the even larger litter known as the world. If nothing else, she knew how to survive.
For a time, she had a fairly decent and undeniably dull job sewing shirts. That changed when, on her way to the seamstress's to collect another load of mending, she was accosted by a large woman in a gaudy dress.
"Where have you been?" the stranger demanded frantically, seizing Meryl's arm and sending the girl's basket skittering into the road.
Instinctively, Meryl pulled away to retrieve it, but the woman gave her a stinging slap to the side of the head that nearly sent her sprawling into the street as well. She rose indignantly, prepared to retaliate in spite of their obvious difference in size, and then hesitated, noting that the woman's eyes were bright red in her beefy face. Meryl knew better than to argue with an irate drunkard.
"Come on, girl, you've got customers waiting," the stranger slurred, grabbing her arm once again.
Meryl sighed. "I'm not who you think I am," she warned, but allowed herself to be dragged along, planning on flight the instant she was released.
Somehow, it didn't quite work out that way. She was all but wrenched through a doorway and up a flight of stairs. "Now this gentleman's an easy one," the woman was saying. "Nothing but the knife, and only a bit at that, d'you hear?"
"Jesus, wait a minute," Meryl burst out, her voice pitched several octaves higher than usual. "What's happening, you're going to kill someone?" Her breathing had grown shallow without her realizing it. The woman had opened another door; she clawed with her free hand at whatever was within reach-- the air, the doorframe, the woman's impassive face--but received nothing for her efforts save splinters, a snort of laughter, and a viselike grip on her other arm as well. And then the woman shoved her inside.
Shaking madly, Meryl fisted her hands in front of her, ready for a fight. Strangely, the room seemed to be empty, except...except. Involuntarily, her arms fell slackly to her sides. "Mother of God."
Her eyes desperately settled on the first thing they noticed that was remotely familiar, which turned out to be a bed. A bed that had apparently had a few modifications made to the headboard and footboard, but a bed nonetheless. So she was in a bedroom, that much was clear, but a bedroom for what? The walls were decked with mechanisms that made her jaw drop. Some of them were familiar, like the handcuffs, though why they were lined with velvet was beyond her. Others, she couldn't begin to imagine uses for. She was still staring in openmouthed wonder-terror when a man came in through an entrance she hadn't seen and politely removed his hat. "Hello, Chantal, are you ready?"
"Dear God, what is this place?" she blurted out.
He looked amused. "Chantal, really."
"I'm not Chantal," she said hoarsely, but he laughed quietly and hung up his coat with the unconscious dignity of a man with money.
"Come now, no games today."
"You've got to let me out," she protested, grasping his forearms. "I don't know what this is or what I'm doing here."
He stepped back, a small frown tugging at his mouth. "No more of this, Chantal, or I'll send for the mother to punish you."
"The mother?" she whispered, certain she could feel her stomach shriveling into a tiny ball. "You mean...the fat woman?"
"Naturally," he said impatiently. "You know that full well. May we proceed?"
Meryl didn't even want to think of what kind of punishment that mass of depravity was capable of bestowing. "Yes," she muttered, keeping her voice even. "Let's proceed."
Afterward, she remembered very little, save the unspeakably nauseating sensation she had experienced when he placed the knife in her hand, and the feeling of mingled surprise and relief that had replaced it after she noticed his reaction was not at all what she had expected. It had been comforting, in a confusing way, and enough to keep her from screaming. He had left as decorously as he had come, kissing her chastely on the forehead, giving her a polite thank-you and a handful of money. She was sitting in the middle of the bed, still dazed, her earnings in her pocket and one hand loosely clasping the knife, when the door swung open again.
The young woman who stormed inside really did resemble her greatly. Meryl blinked, then grinned. That was it, then; she was saved. She was about to rise with a laugh to explain the whole misunderstanding and ask if she could please leave now when her double yanked Meryl by the hair so roughly she fell off the bed.
"So, you're the wretch," she spat. "You'd take my place, would you? I'll have none of it"
And Meryl didn't have a chance to protest before the blows came raining down.
But she hadn't grown up fighting for nothing. Meryl knew where to strike, and, forgetting she still held the knife, did so. The girl named Chantal collapsed without a sound.
The two of them locked eyes for a moment, neither one comprehending the sudden pool of blood flowing over the floor. Chantal was the one who broke the gaze, by way of a sudden dimness that stole over her eyes and rendered them as good as sightless. Unable to think of a better resolution, and having thrown all rationality to the winds in light of the rather awful day she was having, Meryl half-crawled, half-staggered to the door and screamed at the top of her lungs.
After what seemed like years, the fat woman from before stepped casually over the threshold. "Oh," she said mildly. "I suppose you really weren't Chantal after all."
Whimpering incoherently, Meryl pointed at the body.
"Excellent, then. You can stay. Chantal always kept a few books lying about; you'd do well to read them."
The shock of that remark stunned Meryl too much to even cry. "I can't read and I don't want to stay."
"Well, that's just too bad. You cost me one of my most popular workers, and now you'd best do something to pay me back for it. Now get dressed; the day's not over yet."
There were a few peculiar sets of clothes hanging in the closet. Meryl removed one and, once she established how it was meant to be worn, donned it. Her hands did not tremble.
After the initial shock wore off, she caught on well and was soon addressing the woman as Maman, the way the other girls did. Another of the fetishists taught her to read, and Chantal's books did provide her with a great deal of material she was able to use later.
She wore a domino at first, and it did look striking but it was always discarded in the end. After a few annoyingly extensive searches, she got rid of it altogether, settling instead for having one of the other girls put a few blood-red streaks in her hair. Always one to make the best of a situation, she experimented with her new job and soon there wasn't a request any client could make of her that would cause her to blanch. Maman extolled her versatility.
Occasionally a client would turn her arsenal against her, rendering her unable to work for several days. Maman always saw to it that the offender was located and treated accordingly. The woman's temper was easily piqued, but she was always just.
And so it was hardly a surprise when Maman was found dead, her flabby throat slit nearly all the way through, head lolling dumbly on one shoulder like an oversized cabbage. As a matter of course, the girls went their separate ways. Meryl packed up as much of her arsenal as she was able, rented a room, and began looking for work.
It was difficult. Her appearance drew more stares than offers and she hated the idea of having to pass for normal. One particularly slow night, she passed a bordello she had noticed before that was dominated by a gigantic windmill. Wearing a dress that could hardly pass for normal, red and black hair hanging loose around her face, Meryl wandered into the garden to see what was to be had.
And was chatting it up with a gentleman within seconds.
"Your name's Domi, eh? Is that short for Dominique?"
She flashed him her scarlet curve of a smile that tended to send most potential clients backing away muttering excuses. When this man showed no sign of doing so, she nibbled his fingers contently, biting down just hard enough to feel him suppress a shiver. "No."