A/N: I wrote this fic as an experiment, to see if I could produce a wish-
fulfilment, girl-falls-into-ME story (Run! Run from the clichéd plot and
cardboard characters!) without spawning a completely horrible and
unreadable Mary-Sue. Now, in a way this is the culmination of all the
stories I wanted to write when I was twelve or thirteen - before I knew of
the existence of fanfiction - and, as it isn't a parody (although it's
quite funny in parts), many elements of Sue-ishness remain. Therefore,
please do not flame me for my eval!Mary-Sue. The test is whether or not a
fic of this type can still be an engaging and entertaining read - not just
for the writer - even if it adheres to a stereotypical basic plot that has
been so badly molested in this fandom. I have to say that I have enjoyed
writing this fic - my inner teeny rejoices at being given a voice after
years of oppression --and I hope that you enjoy reading it. Even if it is a
Mary-Sue.
Violet Hallyton was thoroughly confused. This was not because of the cripplingly-difficult maths homework that her teacher had set, knowing full well that it would take forever to do and thus dog his students during their Easter holiday, nor was it due to the somewhat disturbing noises coming from the attic, where her brother George had a stash of pirated CDs and a (supposedly) secret collection of pornography. No, Violet was confused because she kept hearing voices.
They began as a faint niggle at the back of her mind, rather like the irritating feeling one gets after having forgotten something vitally important that is desperate to be remembered. Although, Violet reasoned, she would surely remember having forgotten something that vital - an argument that made little sense and still didn't explain the invisible fingers scraping down the blackboard of her brain. This state of affairs went on for a few days, and slowly Violet grew able to ignore the uncomfortable sensation that the voices brought. Gradually, however, the voices became more persistent, and snatches of unintelligible conversation began to filter through. The first time she heard the jumbled-together words like that, she wasn't even aware that the voices were, in fact, in her head - sitting at the dinner table, she thought that her father had mumbled a question. Responding "what?", she was confronted with two blank looks from her parents, and a snigger from George. At this point the confusion set in.
If she had been vaguely aware of the voices before, now they were a constant and bewildering presence. She wondered if perhaps her fillings were picking up a crackly radio signal, but this idea had to be dismissed when she remembered that she hadn't any fillings. Despite having a remarkably sweet tooth, Violet was fastidious about her oral hygiene. Therefore, the explanation for the voices must lie elsewhere. She considered confiding in her mother, but Mrs Hallyton was always busy helping to run the pub above which the family lived; besides, she didn't suffer fools gladly and would likely have been annoyed at Violet for telling tall stories. Violet was what a teacher had kindly termed an 'imaginative' girl, prone to bursts of whimsy that, before she learnt to distinguish fantasy from reality, had often landed her in trouble for lying. Her father she didn't even consider as a confidant, and George rarely responded to her with more than a grunt. He was at a peculiar age, said her mother in an attempt to excuse his blatant hostility, but Violet thought that he was just plain rude.
That left her best friend - but Beth had been whisked off to the South of France for the hols by her disgustingly wealthy parents, and Violet had no other friends in the tiny village of Nobottle, the peculiarly named settlement in which she had spent all of her fifteen years. Thus, she decided that the best course of action vis-à-vis this worrying phenomenon - save consulting a doctor - would be to ignore it until the voices got bored and went away. This was easier said than done, of course, but she was determined to give it her best shot. Violet could be very stubborn when she wanted to be.
~*~
"Why are all my clothes so hideous?" muttered Violet to herself, gazing at the heaps of discarded garments scattered haphazardly about the room. presently she was wearing a slightly-too-small nightdress, emblazoned with a puppy-dog that was supposed to look cute but appeared more rabid than endearing. Staring at herself in the mirror, Violet sighed, tugging the hem of the nightie down over her chubby knees.
The most distinguishing feature about Violet Hallyton - apart from the voices in her head, which were surely imaginary and thus hardly a feature at all - was her rotundity. Not only was she rather a plump girl, she also had a moon face from which stared out two exceedingly wide, round eyes the colour of (chocolate, said Violet, who thought it a romantic image and had a weakness for all things sweet and melting. In truth they bore a closer resemblance to the slime that they'd found at the bottom of the pond when her father had drained it last summer) - well, mud. Despite her undeniably spherical nature, she was not unpretty - although admittedly a far cry from the tall, thin women with flowing golden locks and eyes like sparkling emeralds who adorned the covers of her mother's books, with titles such as 'Midnight Vixen'. Violet was round. What was more, she had nothing to wear, and the voices in her head were making a break for freedom. She rubbed a hand across her forehead. Today had not got off to an inspiring start.
"Violet!" her mother's high-pitched voice echoed up the hall, jolting her from her self-indulgent reverie. "Hurry up and come downstairs! Your father needs your help in the garden." The girl winced; she'd hoped to escape unnoticed and spend the day reading in peace. Obviously her parents had other ideas. "I'm coming!" she yelled back, adding 'slave-driver' under her breath for good measure. Then she wound her way down the narrow hall - the pub was over four hundred years old and an utter maze of corridors that led nowhere and blocked-off staircases - and entered the kitchen. Her mother was preparing breakfast for the few guests who would soon be staggering down to the dining room. The village of Nobottle was one of the oldest in England - mentioned in the Domesday Book as 'North Battyl', it was something of a tourist attraction and there were always visitors (generally American, for some reason) in need of accommodation. 'The Green Dragon' pub did a thriving trade during the spring and summer months.
"Get some breakfast" ordered Violet's mother, although her tone was kindly. "The sooner you go and give your dad a hand, the sooner you can come back inside and relax"
Violet was not much of an outdoorsy person, which was unfortunate given that she lived in the middle of the countryside. It wasn't that she had anything against nature, as it was certainly pretty when admired from afar, it just made her sneeze. Buttering a piece of toast, she wandered from the kitchen into the sprawling wilderness of a garden that was her father's pride and joy.
"Good morning, darling!" Mr Hallyton called to her cheerily, propping his spade against a stripling ash. He wiped a hand across his face, leaving a big smudge of mud to which he seemed remarkably oblivious. "I want you to do some weeding for me, please. There's a bin-liner over there, get stuck in!" Violet rolled her eyes. She had though that her weeding days were over, or at least that had been the impression given last time she'd been forced to help out in the garden - pulling up a bed of prized magnolias 'because they looked kind of weedy' was not a way of endearing herself to her father. Still, best to get it over and done with. She pulled a black bag from the roll and flapped it wildly until it opened. As she did so - standing with arms outstretched and cartwheeling through the air - the voices returned. This time, they seemed to come not from inside her head, but from behind a bush further down the garden.
"psst, Pip, this way. I saw them take the barrels out of the cellar this morning."
Violet blinked. It sounded suspiciously like someone was planning to steal the pub's beer - although she couldn't think why her father would have put any in the garden. There was no party booked for the afternoon, was there? She didn't think so. Whilst she pondered this, bemused, she spied from the corner of her eye two shadows flashing across the garden. She whirled round, ready to let out a cry of 'Stop, thief!' - but there was nothing there. Her dad furrowed his brow at her.
"Are you all right, Vi?" he enquired, looking puzzled.
"Um, yes, fine, I was just.dancing" she finished foolishly. He grinned.
"Dance away, darling, as long as you get the weeding done whilst you're at it."
Her attention was no longer on her father, however; the door that led into the utility room had just creaked open.
"Back in a sec!" she said brightly, dropping the bin-liner and hurrying across the dew-damp lawn to the house. The utility room was dark and silent.
"Hello?" called Violet softly, hoping that a burglar wasn't about to jump out and hit her over the head with a sack of potatoes or something. As she expected, there was no response - at least, nothing spoken. However, the niggle at the back of her mind had returned, and it seemed to take the shape of suppressed giggles. This was getting far too weird for her liking. She entered the small tiled room, flicking on the light as she shut the door behind her. The fridge loomed large in front of her, and it was amazing how menacing the herb-rack could look in this gloomy half-light. Her ears tingled as she strained to hear.
Nothing. But - wait! One of the potato sacks seemed to be moving, shifting as something, someone, pushed it aside. Violet shrieked, then felt exceedingly stupid as her cat stalked past, its tail held stiff in the air. It must be the fault of her over-active imagination. With a sigh of relief, she flicked off the light and returned to the garden.
Although her fondness for nature was limited to that seen from the window, Violet couldn't help but like the far end of the garden, which backed on to a brushy copse that adorned the crest of the hill on which the pub was built. It was usually quiet down here, save for the rustling of the undergrowth as small creatures skittered through, and the faint cries of birds filtering down from above. The trees created a natural canopy, and the ground was dappled with a golden-green light that gave the place a mystical air. She bent down in a spurious search for weeds - although the place was overgrown and she knew that her father had meant for her to concentrate on the actually flowerbeds nearer the house. Oh well, maybe here she could get some peace.
As she squatted on the snarled ground, whispers arose from the tangled mass of ferns to her left. She snapped her head round, expecting to be confronted with nothing. Perhaps a doctor would be a good idea after all. To her surprise and horror, however, a small face was peering out from the greenery. It looked almost as shocked as she did, but that wasn't exactly helpful. Violet whimpered. The thing - it looked like some sort of gnome - responded in kind. Suddenly, her head began to buzz as though a swarm of bees had flown in through her ear, and the small clearing began to spin alarmingly. Spots danced before her eyes and her knees gave way. Oh bugger, thought Violet, before everything went black.
Violet Hallyton was thoroughly confused. This was not because of the cripplingly-difficult maths homework that her teacher had set, knowing full well that it would take forever to do and thus dog his students during their Easter holiday, nor was it due to the somewhat disturbing noises coming from the attic, where her brother George had a stash of pirated CDs and a (supposedly) secret collection of pornography. No, Violet was confused because she kept hearing voices.
They began as a faint niggle at the back of her mind, rather like the irritating feeling one gets after having forgotten something vitally important that is desperate to be remembered. Although, Violet reasoned, she would surely remember having forgotten something that vital - an argument that made little sense and still didn't explain the invisible fingers scraping down the blackboard of her brain. This state of affairs went on for a few days, and slowly Violet grew able to ignore the uncomfortable sensation that the voices brought. Gradually, however, the voices became more persistent, and snatches of unintelligible conversation began to filter through. The first time she heard the jumbled-together words like that, she wasn't even aware that the voices were, in fact, in her head - sitting at the dinner table, she thought that her father had mumbled a question. Responding "what?", she was confronted with two blank looks from her parents, and a snigger from George. At this point the confusion set in.
If she had been vaguely aware of the voices before, now they were a constant and bewildering presence. She wondered if perhaps her fillings were picking up a crackly radio signal, but this idea had to be dismissed when she remembered that she hadn't any fillings. Despite having a remarkably sweet tooth, Violet was fastidious about her oral hygiene. Therefore, the explanation for the voices must lie elsewhere. She considered confiding in her mother, but Mrs Hallyton was always busy helping to run the pub above which the family lived; besides, she didn't suffer fools gladly and would likely have been annoyed at Violet for telling tall stories. Violet was what a teacher had kindly termed an 'imaginative' girl, prone to bursts of whimsy that, before she learnt to distinguish fantasy from reality, had often landed her in trouble for lying. Her father she didn't even consider as a confidant, and George rarely responded to her with more than a grunt. He was at a peculiar age, said her mother in an attempt to excuse his blatant hostility, but Violet thought that he was just plain rude.
That left her best friend - but Beth had been whisked off to the South of France for the hols by her disgustingly wealthy parents, and Violet had no other friends in the tiny village of Nobottle, the peculiarly named settlement in which she had spent all of her fifteen years. Thus, she decided that the best course of action vis-à-vis this worrying phenomenon - save consulting a doctor - would be to ignore it until the voices got bored and went away. This was easier said than done, of course, but she was determined to give it her best shot. Violet could be very stubborn when she wanted to be.
~*~
"Why are all my clothes so hideous?" muttered Violet to herself, gazing at the heaps of discarded garments scattered haphazardly about the room. presently she was wearing a slightly-too-small nightdress, emblazoned with a puppy-dog that was supposed to look cute but appeared more rabid than endearing. Staring at herself in the mirror, Violet sighed, tugging the hem of the nightie down over her chubby knees.
The most distinguishing feature about Violet Hallyton - apart from the voices in her head, which were surely imaginary and thus hardly a feature at all - was her rotundity. Not only was she rather a plump girl, she also had a moon face from which stared out two exceedingly wide, round eyes the colour of (chocolate, said Violet, who thought it a romantic image and had a weakness for all things sweet and melting. In truth they bore a closer resemblance to the slime that they'd found at the bottom of the pond when her father had drained it last summer) - well, mud. Despite her undeniably spherical nature, she was not unpretty - although admittedly a far cry from the tall, thin women with flowing golden locks and eyes like sparkling emeralds who adorned the covers of her mother's books, with titles such as 'Midnight Vixen'. Violet was round. What was more, she had nothing to wear, and the voices in her head were making a break for freedom. She rubbed a hand across her forehead. Today had not got off to an inspiring start.
"Violet!" her mother's high-pitched voice echoed up the hall, jolting her from her self-indulgent reverie. "Hurry up and come downstairs! Your father needs your help in the garden." The girl winced; she'd hoped to escape unnoticed and spend the day reading in peace. Obviously her parents had other ideas. "I'm coming!" she yelled back, adding 'slave-driver' under her breath for good measure. Then she wound her way down the narrow hall - the pub was over four hundred years old and an utter maze of corridors that led nowhere and blocked-off staircases - and entered the kitchen. Her mother was preparing breakfast for the few guests who would soon be staggering down to the dining room. The village of Nobottle was one of the oldest in England - mentioned in the Domesday Book as 'North Battyl', it was something of a tourist attraction and there were always visitors (generally American, for some reason) in need of accommodation. 'The Green Dragon' pub did a thriving trade during the spring and summer months.
"Get some breakfast" ordered Violet's mother, although her tone was kindly. "The sooner you go and give your dad a hand, the sooner you can come back inside and relax"
Violet was not much of an outdoorsy person, which was unfortunate given that she lived in the middle of the countryside. It wasn't that she had anything against nature, as it was certainly pretty when admired from afar, it just made her sneeze. Buttering a piece of toast, she wandered from the kitchen into the sprawling wilderness of a garden that was her father's pride and joy.
"Good morning, darling!" Mr Hallyton called to her cheerily, propping his spade against a stripling ash. He wiped a hand across his face, leaving a big smudge of mud to which he seemed remarkably oblivious. "I want you to do some weeding for me, please. There's a bin-liner over there, get stuck in!" Violet rolled her eyes. She had though that her weeding days were over, or at least that had been the impression given last time she'd been forced to help out in the garden - pulling up a bed of prized magnolias 'because they looked kind of weedy' was not a way of endearing herself to her father. Still, best to get it over and done with. She pulled a black bag from the roll and flapped it wildly until it opened. As she did so - standing with arms outstretched and cartwheeling through the air - the voices returned. This time, they seemed to come not from inside her head, but from behind a bush further down the garden.
"psst, Pip, this way. I saw them take the barrels out of the cellar this morning."
Violet blinked. It sounded suspiciously like someone was planning to steal the pub's beer - although she couldn't think why her father would have put any in the garden. There was no party booked for the afternoon, was there? She didn't think so. Whilst she pondered this, bemused, she spied from the corner of her eye two shadows flashing across the garden. She whirled round, ready to let out a cry of 'Stop, thief!' - but there was nothing there. Her dad furrowed his brow at her.
"Are you all right, Vi?" he enquired, looking puzzled.
"Um, yes, fine, I was just.dancing" she finished foolishly. He grinned.
"Dance away, darling, as long as you get the weeding done whilst you're at it."
Her attention was no longer on her father, however; the door that led into the utility room had just creaked open.
"Back in a sec!" she said brightly, dropping the bin-liner and hurrying across the dew-damp lawn to the house. The utility room was dark and silent.
"Hello?" called Violet softly, hoping that a burglar wasn't about to jump out and hit her over the head with a sack of potatoes or something. As she expected, there was no response - at least, nothing spoken. However, the niggle at the back of her mind had returned, and it seemed to take the shape of suppressed giggles. This was getting far too weird for her liking. She entered the small tiled room, flicking on the light as she shut the door behind her. The fridge loomed large in front of her, and it was amazing how menacing the herb-rack could look in this gloomy half-light. Her ears tingled as she strained to hear.
Nothing. But - wait! One of the potato sacks seemed to be moving, shifting as something, someone, pushed it aside. Violet shrieked, then felt exceedingly stupid as her cat stalked past, its tail held stiff in the air. It must be the fault of her over-active imagination. With a sigh of relief, she flicked off the light and returned to the garden.
Although her fondness for nature was limited to that seen from the window, Violet couldn't help but like the far end of the garden, which backed on to a brushy copse that adorned the crest of the hill on which the pub was built. It was usually quiet down here, save for the rustling of the undergrowth as small creatures skittered through, and the faint cries of birds filtering down from above. The trees created a natural canopy, and the ground was dappled with a golden-green light that gave the place a mystical air. She bent down in a spurious search for weeds - although the place was overgrown and she knew that her father had meant for her to concentrate on the actually flowerbeds nearer the house. Oh well, maybe here she could get some peace.
As she squatted on the snarled ground, whispers arose from the tangled mass of ferns to her left. She snapped her head round, expecting to be confronted with nothing. Perhaps a doctor would be a good idea after all. To her surprise and horror, however, a small face was peering out from the greenery. It looked almost as shocked as she did, but that wasn't exactly helpful. Violet whimpered. The thing - it looked like some sort of gnome - responded in kind. Suddenly, her head began to buzz as though a swarm of bees had flown in through her ear, and the small clearing began to spin alarmingly. Spots danced before her eyes and her knees gave way. Oh bugger, thought Violet, before everything went black.