3. Marjana
Saturday, June 6, 1903
It was the crow's fault, really. It pecked at the ladybug and ate it without giving the poor thing a chance to figure out what was even going on. One moment, it was scurrying up the windowsill, helping itself out by vibrating it's tiny wings, holding on to the wood against the morning breeze; the next - it was gone. A little speck of goop left behind where the crow had crushed it.
It was poetic in a way.
Or ironic.
Or a simile.
One of those.
Albert's books would use a fancy word for the whole of it. There was probably even a German word a mile long that perfectly encompassed the concept that the ladybug was just a girl off the street, who had only recently been able to afford shoes; and the crow was the soul wrenching ominous doom that could strike at any given moment. It was the crow's fault, really. It was a living reminder that no matter how much she fought, crawled, and clawed her way up the vertical of her crumbling sanity, a single cruel whisper from the depths of her feverish brain would be the end of her. Again. And again. And again. Over and over. And always twirling.
It was the crow's fault, really.
If it hadn't shown up, it would have been a good day. Maybe. Before it showed up, it was Saturday, a day when Albert visited. He would come with one of his books, smelling of leather and paper and sweat and soap and...home. He would bring a daisy. And he would read out loud in the garden until it got too dark.
His voice always dropped a touch when he read, savoring the words as they formed on his tongue and escaped his lips. Sometimes, when he read about a feast in a fairy tale, his words had flavour and texture - crunching, crisp, hearty, sweet. It helped remember a world from the before time. A world that still existed beyond the river in brownstones and distribution offices, cafes and lodging houses. At Tibby's and Jacobi's and Yin's dumpling house. At Irving Hall. At the Purple Palace. At the Refuge.
The Refuge.
Refuge.
Another fancy word.
A fancy lie.
There was no refuge in that goddamn hellhole.
It was the crow's fault, really. Before it showed up, it was a quiet morning. But when it decided to eat the ladybug, the only sensible thing to do was to scold it. The kindly ladies that sat and played cards at the far end of the room didn't get it. This was important. Someone had to tell the crow that he was being a right, proper cock. And it's true, he was. The ladybug just wanted to see the sky up close. Who could blame her? It was such a pretty shade of blue that day.
The kindly ladies didn't like the language. Let's be honest though, what they really didn't like was being interrupted from their cards. The old one, the one with the lazy eye, she liked to up the ante with bonbons, very much like the ones Albert brought every Saturday in a small paper bag. They were very good and the lemon ones tasted oh so fresh. They just disappeared too quickly. Overnight. It was okay though, it was the hunger probably. She didn't remember having them all, but they would be there when he left and gone the next morning. So she must have eaten them.
So the kindly ladies, their cards dropped and forgotten on the table at the back of the room, well...they had very unkind hands. Hands that grabbed and pinched and scratched and were stronger than they had any right to be. Hands that showed up with soap to clean out that filthy mouth. Hands that refused to let go even when told very clearly that it was the crow, who needed to be reprimanded.
Breakfast was soapy. Soapy hiccups washed down with cloudy tea. Toast and beans. Definitely not like the beans at Tibby's, sweet, saucy and rich. Enough to go two days on. These ones were dried out and cracked. They'd probably never even heard of gravy. It was best not to tell gravy or they'd become even more sad. Sad beans made for a sad stomach. Maybe Albert would bring a sandwich. Sometimes they let him.
Just a few more hours. Then it would all be okay.
Unless Albert wouldn't show.
He always showed
But what if he wouldn't?
She told him to stop coming, to remember her with a daisy in her hand and a smirk on her lips. He had said he'd never forget the purple scarf she liked to tie her hair up with when she pulled out a worn deck of cards to sell rubes their fortunes. Too bad she couldn't see her own. Too bad she couldn't see the crow until it was too big, its thunderous wings eclipsing even the brightest, nicest thing Albert had ever done. She protected that kiss like an oyster hides its pearl. She curled her whole being around it and his other kisses, hoarding them; wrapping her whole essence around them. But the crow pecked each one, tugging at them out of her grasp until it chewed up every single one, leaving her with a handful of mangled, twitchy shreds that had once been a swarm of beautiful butterflies.
If he didn't show, it would be a good thing. He wouldn't have to hide his sad smile or try and kill time by reading to her. He wouldn't have to pretend not to notice what the unkindly hands did. He wouldn't have to pretend to recognize the mask she wore for him, because the mask was old, the features faded, chipped and broken in places. She tried her best to give him the face he so liked to touch and gaze upon. Too bad that beneath the mask was an inky, sticky darkness that seemed to get into everywhere and was impossible to fully scrub away. Or cut away. Or burn away.
She couldn't find the mask. The crow must have taken it when it ate the ladybug. And now the darkness was out, spreading out in sticky tendrils. It got into her eyes and chokes down her throat. It curled inside her chest, contracting her ribcage, crushing it in on itself. It squeezed her lungs until she couldn't take a single breath. It shackled her hands and feet, sticking to the metal cuffs that the unkindly hands brought out.
Sometimes, if she screamed loud enough, it scared off the shackles.
Sometimes, if she screamed loud enough, the orderly shut her up. He had a very heavy backhand. The darkness stuck even to that.
Sometimes, despite the orderly and the shackles and the sticky darkness, if she screamed loud enough, it all went away for a moment.
A small sting in her neck. A reassuring whisper. And the darkness would suck its tentacles back. And everything would go...soft.
Just before dinner of crow and ladybugs and rats and wriggly worms, a gentle voice calls her by a name that sounds right only when he says it.
"Hey, Poppy." The smile appears, smelling of paper, leather, sweat, soap and something else...something she doesn't remember anymore "I hope you're hungry, I managed to sneak in a pastrami on rye. Mr. Jacobi made it fresh, just for you, sweetheart."
Not wriggly worms after all.
"There's a new story by Jules Verne that I found. You haven't heard this one before" it's not too dark yet. There's enough time for an adventure.
"It's okay, we can just sit here. It's too hot in the garden." too hot and the cuffs don't unlock.
Just before he opens the book, his fingers reach out and pass over the mask. It's an old one, the features faded and the surface covered in a broken spiderweb. The darkness pulls back, afraid of his touch.
His lips brush over the part in her tangled hair.
The darkness recedes deeper, hiding in her belly.
Before long, he's combing her matted tresses with a small bone comb he carries for that very reason. The darkness churns in her stomach, but doesn't try and poke him.
"I missed you" a dry, papery rustle, not unlike ladybug wings, slips out and inspires him to smile.
"I missed you too" his fingers work a stubborn clump of hair loose.
"It hurts" not the hair, but the darkness that chomps away from the inside, trying to tear its way back out.
"I know. Davey sent something that'll help" his fingers keep going through her hair until the orderly gets bored and wanders away. Probably to find a rat.
A pop of a cork.
A sharp floral smell.
"Here, love" he touches a finger to her lips and the smell sears her brain. She can taste it on his skin that he hates doing this, but it's the only way to put her demons to sleep. "That's all could get" he sounds so sad, so apologetic that he couldn't bring more of the poison. She tries to hug him, but the cuffs are too heavy. Her wings are broken. Tired. The lazy eye with the lemon drops gambled them away a year back. Pretty wings they were. Purple.
It takes but a few moments and everything goes still. The crow stops pecking. The darkness curls up, purring, sated for a time.
"Thank you" she hopes she said that out loud. Sometimes she forgets to actually say things out loud and they get stuck in her head instead.
"You're welcome, sweetheart" oh good, so he heard. By now, he probably got good at hearing her thoughts. Or her thoughts got loud enough for him to hear.
"Can you please read to me now?"
"Yeah, Poppy"
It was the crow's fault, really. But despite all that nonsense, his voice picked up the story, dropping a touch like it always did. He painted the most fantastical pictures of flying balloons and automatons, the images so vivid that she could almost smell them. He read until it grew too dark to see the pages and then kept going. He was so warm, the heat radiating from his body and keeping her safe.
"I'll see you next week, sweetheart. Only a few sleeps and we'll finish this story, alright?" he sometimes got this warble in his voice. His throat was probably dry from all that reading.
"Seven sleeps" she had to count it on her fingers. For some reason, it was always seven. It never changed.
"Seven sleeps" his voice echoed, reverberating through the night fog rolling in thick and shimmering. Purple. His hands are strong and truly kind. The definition of kind. Everything that the nurse's hands aren't "Let's get you back to bed" the hands eased her to her feet, then scooped her right up because the feet weren't there. She forgot them again. He walks back to the room with the crow window, holding her tightly, while she listens to his heartbeat.
He smells of paper, leather, sweat, soap, and... "Good night, Skitts" she murmurs as he carries her.
Oh right...that's what that last one was.
Home.