A/N: Trigger Warning: Things get more violent in this chapter (eventually), and as much as I am loathe to give things away, I don't want anyone to go into a panic attack. I, myself, have been assaulted in a few different situations and ways, so I totally understand. If you have any problems reading accounts of sexual assault, I urge you to stop reading at the first line break in the story and scroll to the bottom; I'll hammer out a tame PG summary so you get the important plot info.
If you have been on the receiving end of something like this and need someone to talk to, don't be afraid to reach out. To me, if you like. Get help and don't ignore it. And never forget: You Are Loved!
If there was anything worse than being stuck in a strange country by yourself, it was being stuck in a strange time period, in a strange country, by yourself when you didn't speak the language!
Once the sun had risen, Ang crept out from the random doorway in which she'd spent the rest of the night and followed the sound of wood wheels on cobblestone. What she hadn't anticipated was how magical Paris was in the wee morning hours, when most of the world was still asleep, and the only movement came from the working class, opening their market stalls, offering breakfast and menu ingredients to the early worms of the city. She inhaled deeply and let the sweet, comforting aroma of fresh bread and pastries fill her nose.
She spotted the bread cart wending its way through the gathering crowd.
There goes the baker with his tray like always, the same old bread and rolls to sell.
Ang snorted to herself and ducked her head to hide her face-splitting grin and the laugh that wanted to follow. She was such a dork!
The low rumble in her stomach reminded her it had been hours, perhaps a full day, since her last meal. The headache she'd mistaken as a lack of caffeine was identified as a dehydration headache; she hadn't had a sip of water since arriving here. Glancing down at her arm, she pinched the skin and watched it return to normal. It wasn't instantaneous like it should be, and she knew that wasn't a good sign. But how did one go about finding clean water in the dirty hub of Paris? There wasn't bottled water for sale, and she didn't have any money anyway. People bustled around on their morning errands for the larger houses in which they worked, quickly bartering with the vendors for the best price and the freshest bread, meat, eggs, and produce, large woven baskets hung over thick arms meant for a life of labor.
There was no more cheerful song in her head; her eyes weren't quite so filled with wonder as they were before. Her legs were heavy and her foot even more sore and tired than it had been last night. At least she had kept her own sneakers on instead of going barefoot beneath the dress-up gown. And if luck was with her at all, she prayed no one would notice the odd footwear that peeked out from beneath the dress's lace hem with each step she took. Vendors shoved food in her face and rapid, meaningless French flowed over her. She could only assume they were trying to persuade her to buy from them. She just smiled sadly and shrugged her shoulders before brushing by, gray eyes scanning the square for a well.
And when she thought she wouldn't be able to go on, there it was. Not a well or something that looked very clean, but a naked pipe sticking out of a brick wall, dripping a steady stream of clear water onto the sidewalk. A tipped her gaze upward to try and determine where the pipe's origin might be. Her best guess was that the water was nothing more than rain run-off, though from where she didn't know. At this point, she didn't care, either. With laser precision focus on the water, she bee-lined for it, and once there, she knelt on the upper side from it, so as not to completely end up muddied, and cupped her hands beneath the cold liquid. Once some was pooled in her palms, she lifted them to her nose to sniff. Nothing smelled foul, and she tipped them against her lips. It was cool and wonderful against her dry throat, and she went through several handfuls before she slowed. Ang was thankful for the early hour; the higher snobs of society were still abed at this hour and so there were fewer who might judge her. Not that it mattered; literally no one knew her here, except one rather angry Ghost.
She sat for another minute, drinking her fill, before standing shakily to her feet again. She didn't have anything to offer the street vendors, but if I could find a shop... she could offer work for food. It was worth a try, and she didn't have many other options at this point. She needed something, anything, else she'd be reduced to stealing and she feared what that option in this country could lead to. Ang had to find work.
Shuffling steps carried her wearily along the streets, glazed eyes looking this way and that in exhaustion. The sun was high in the sky now, and the well-to-do socialites, with their lace parasols, basket bustles, and shining top hats, were out walking the sidewalks now. Some rode in open-air hansom cabs, some chatted with friends while nurses pushed baby buggies behind them. What had they been called during this time period? It was on the tip of her tongue. She'd heard it in one of the Peter Pan movies, or some Victorian themed TV show...
Perambulators... or prams. Not baby buggies. Not that it much mattered; unless they spoke English she wouldn't be able to join in any civilized conversation, and dressed as she was, she doubted they'd be all that amenable to it. They would probably duck their heads together, pretend not to see her, and hasten their steps. Or worse, shoo her away, like a dog!
She had no idea how long she'd wandered the sidewalk aimlessly, but when the sun was low in the sky, she took the time to actually look at the buildings which surrounded her, and her heart sank a little. She had completely wandered away from the heart of the marketplace and was surrounded by high, stately houses guarded by thick, wrought iron fences the pointed spires topping them like antiquated barbed wire, keeping the riff-raff out. Children played in perfect, strain-free frocks on lawns greener than the Irish countryside.
It was a peek into the sweeter side of life in Paris, and she smiled with the innocence of the picture. She couldn't linger; she already felt the judgmental stares of the civilians who truly belonged to the heavenly part of the city. She was the vermin that didn't belong.
Ang looked around, lost and confused, before turning around and hurrying, limp and all, back the way she'd come, hoping to disappear before someone called a policeman on her. She couldn't stop and check it right this moment, but she was certain her leg was bleeding now, completely raw from the prosthetic's sleeve rubbing against her skin constantly without relief. It ached and stung abominably, occasionally sending a barb of agony through her that was so strong, she felt it through her chest to the tips of her fingers. She would get back to the dirtier part of the city, and then sit. Ang chortled. Only in this parallel universe would I be actively seeking out the bad part of town.
Her stomach growled in protest against its perpetually empty state. How had she gone from sun up to sun down without seeing a single bakery shop? She'd passed half a dozen tea shops throughout the day, quaintly nestled on street corners overlooking clean cobble streets, as well as a butcher's and a flower shop. But no bakery. That was her only idea for how to get something to eat that wouldn't end badly, or too badly, anyway. She'd lurked around the tearooms as well, standing outside their back doors in the shadows, hoping to see where they dumped unused or uneaten food from the patrons. Apparently it was only back in her United States that such an obscene amount of food was wasted.
She did, eventually, find a place where it looked like food was dumped, but it was mostly sludge that only slightly resembled something edible. She wasn't quite that desperate, not yet.
The final tea house actually yielded a quarter of a lumpy biscuit! It was light and airy and buttery, but after a glance around to ensure no one saw her, she swooped down and snatched it up, ducking her head as she stuffed it in her mouth in a hurry as if afraid someone might try to take it from her if she didn't eat quickly enough. It was too much bread for her dry mouth, but she was far from complaining about it - it was food, and she was ecstatically grateful. Once each crumb was swallowed down, her eyes sought out another leaking pipe, and she finally found one. It was barely a trickle and it took a full minute for her hands to fill with water, but she again drank thirstily, caring not a bit for the piteous and disgusted looks she received. With the sun nearly gone and a cold night ahead of her on unfamiliar, unprotected streets, she hurried away in search of a relatively safe place to sleep, or at least a place to hide.
Four days.
Four whole days, and nights, of barely enough food to constitute a single meal. She ate better when she was a broke college student. What she wouldn't give for a hot Cup o' Noodles right now! After she'd successfully located a bakery, Ang attempted several times to communicate with the owner that she would work for food; she mimed sweeping the floors, and scrubbing the counters, then touched her lips and pretended to chew when it was clear the owner didn't understand or speak English. Either the owner hadn't understood or hadn't wanted to understand, she was finally forced to give up.
The pain of her empty stomach had mostly gone away now, the cramping at a minimum, which she knew was had to be a bad sign. She drank as much as she could find, but in the five days since escaping the opera house, it hadn't rained a single drop, and the pipes were as dry as her throat.
Ang looked every bit like a street-weary homeless beggar. The once fine, lace flounce at the bottom partially torn off, and the emerald-dyed silk was ratted and frayed along the hem. The front was littered with soot, as were places on her face, and dirt caked the area where she'd knelt on the cobblestone time and again. Sweat that had soaked through the bodice beneath her breasts, and then dried, only to be soaked again, showed dark edged with chalk-white salt. Her hair, combed and tangle free when Erik itched to touch it, was dull and lifeless, a tangled mess that rivals a rats' nest, oily and matted at the scalp. Bits that had escaped from their tie now lay limp on either side of her face. Deep purple smudged the delicate, fair skin beneath her eyes, and her lips were pale and cracked from her lack of water. Every step was agonizing now, rounding out the lamentable picture she made.
All alone, lost in this abyss, crawling in the dark, nothing to wet my longing lips. I wonder where you are.
She hadn't anticipated falling asleep. She only wanted to rest her legs for a few minutes, finding an out of the way alley between two buildings. The rowdy bellow of a group of drunken friends jolted her awake, and her eyes snapped open. It had been dark for hours already, the temperature the same just-above-freezing it had been since she first left the theater. What a brilliant idea that had been!
The previous nights she had found shelter in a sort of ruffian village, out of the sight of civilized eyes, the dredges of society keeping to themselves but also protecting one another in their numbers. With it already dark, Ang had no idea how to find her way back there. Everything looked different at night. As she pushed to her feet, hissing as pain shot through her, she hobbled to the mouth of the alley and, glancing back and forth once, headed to the left.
Are you far, will you come to my rescue? Am I left to die?... Will you come to my rescue, or did I push too far when I turned my back on you?
A warm glow up ahead lured her, the promise of the safety of light and other people too much to pass up. Though as she drew nearer, somewhere in her addled mind she recognized the danger of being around a bar late at night by herself, and hobbled beyond it, her new focus a looming giant of a structure, what appeared to be the backside of a massive estate, perhaps even a cathedral.
A slurred baritone voice slithered from somewhere behind her, and though she didn't understand the words-damned language barrier-the tone was clear enough, and her stomach clenched.
Ang continued forward, ignoring what must have been catcalls behind her, trying to increase her speed but the movement too difficult to manage in her weakened and injured state. She stuck close to the building's wall in a false hope it might somehow protect her.
A new voice cut through the night, this one off to her right in the street, apparently joking with the first.
There was more than one; her blood froze. Before fear had time to fully lodge itself, one rough hand shot out and seized her by her arm, yanking her around to slam her back into the cold masonry of the building.
"No! Help! Help me!" she screamed.
They reeked of alcohol and sour breath, the odor overwhelming her as his face neared hers. Her hand came up to slap him, but her movements were slow and clumsy and he batted it away with the ease of one swatting at a fly. Two more faces appeared and she felt rough fingers and palms run over her body before tearing at the already tattered silk garment.
"Stop it! Get off of me!"
More French rolled off the man's tongue and into her ear before he licked her from her now-bared shoulder clear up to her temple. She shuddered and felt bile rise in her throat.
"Help! HELP! PLEASE!" With a shove she stumbled down the sidewalk, breaking away for a blessed heartbeat.
It didn't last long. Vile, lusty hands were on her again, reaching around her to drag her back. She felt the uneven cobblestone dig against her spine, and she screamed. Someone grabbed her breast and twisted. Ang cried out once, then screamed with all the energy she had left.
A hand tangled in her hair and lifted her to her feet, a searing pain ripping through her scalp before he threw her into the wall. The sickening crack of her skull bouncing off the stone echoed down the alley. She moaned and sank down in a crumpled heap. Hands were on her ankle and she was forcibly dragged until she was on her back, legs splayed and skirt haphazardly around her knees. Her vision swam and her head throbbed, but she registered one of the figures over her holding a club.
No, not a club. Her leg! He'd grabbed hold of both ankles in fact, and when he'd hauled her across the sidewalk, the prosthetic had popped free in his hands. The man yelped in surprise, cursing and dropping it in horror.
The other two laughed, one of them picking it up and tossing it from hand to hand in jest before throwing it to the other like a twisted game of keep-away.
The first recovered and pointed a stubby finger at her before undoing his belt and the buttons at the front of his pants. Not again! It was her last chance; as he came at her, her good leg struck out, heel first, right into his very exposed groin.
He howled and collapsed in front of her, retching to the side.
The second thug spat on her and bit out what could only be another curse.
It came out of nowhere, and there was no way she could have protected herself against it. It was, in fact, her very own fake leg, used as a billy club; it was cocked back like a baseball bat and swung at full speed into the side of her head. Lights exploded behind her eyes and the force of the blow sent her rolling over onto her side. One hand feebly reached out, clawing at the ground. "Help...me..." she whispered. It was the last thing she uttered before everything went dark, and she felt her legs yanked apart as what was left of her dress was shoved up around her hips.
PG SUMMARY - Ang has been around Paris on her own for five full days now, barely anything to eat and next to nothing to drink. She's weak, she's dehydrated, she's exhausted, her leg is bleeding because she hadn't had a chance to remove the prosthetic (kinda gross if she does it at this point and would probably just introduce new bacteria anyway), and her work shoes weren't meant for being walked in for 16 hours straight for five days. She ends up falling asleep, and when she wakes up long after sundown, she realizes she needs to be somewhere safer for the rest of the night. She sets out, and that's when crap hits the fan. Three drunken jerks see her from the bar and follow her, beat her up with her own damn leg, and it ends with her losing consciousness with the very real chance of enduring the dreaded "R" word that makes every woman and most men shudder.
A/N: Everyone alright? Still with me?
The first song is from "Beauty and the Beast". I just couldn't help adding it; it was too funny! The second is from Skillet's "Salvation".
Feline - Thank you! I can't wait to write more! Hopefully this chapter didn't piss you too so much that you refuse to come back for more. ;p
A very special thank you to PhantomBove, who has been a wonderful source of help, encouragement, and a fresh pair of eyes when mine went cross-eyed and saw double.
Thanks for reading; R&R is you're of a mind to, or at least follow the story so I am assured that my writing is at least vaguely interesting. Be blessed all!