After a hard day of dealing with miserable, ungrateful customers, sweating away in a bakeshop and preparing freshly killed men for being made into pies, Nellie Lovett closed up shop. Pouring herself a bitter mug of gin, she reflected on the day and how things between her and Sweeney Todd could have gone better. She wished she knew what he was thinking; it would make things much easier. Suddenly, she heard heavy, tired steps coming down the stairs. Her face brightened knowing that it could only be Sweeney. Hastily, she brushed the flour off of her hands and dress, removed her apron and poured another mug of gin for him. He moodily walked in the door and sat down without so much as a word. His neck still had a miniscule drop of blood on it. It sat there, glistening in the dim London twilight. Nellie longed to reach over and wipe it off with a kiss but knew that it would anger Mr. Todd.
"Mr. T, you 'ave a bit of blood on your neck. Would you like me to get it for you, love?" She asked hopefully.
"Hmm? No." He wiped the blood off of his neck with the back of his hand, leaving a rust colored smear there. He eyed it with a bored expression on his face. Nellie stared into his cold, black eyes. She took a small step towards him, remembering that she had gin for him.
"Here, Mr. T." She gingerly slid the mug across the table to him and took the next seat over at the dusty table. Sweeney grabbed the mug with his blood-streaked hand and raised it to his lips to take a large gulp.
Though he seldom showed it, he greatly appreciated Eleanor's company. She always looked out for him, especially when he first came back from Australia. She took him in without hesitation. What he felt for her was more than solely appreciation. He thought for a moment he might actually… like… Eleanor Lovett. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, closed it and opened it again. This time he hesitantly spoke.
"Erm… thank you, Mrs. Lov-… Nellie." Nellie's jaw dropped as she vaguely heard Sweeney mutter her name. Her face grew flushed with blood.
"Mr. T… did you just… call me Nellie? You never call me that…" Eleanor's heart raced as she looked longingly at the man sitting next to her.
He looked in her eyes and for a moment, he was reminded of Johanna. He shook his head and remembered that his Johanna was dead, never to be seen again. He was never to run his fingers through her silken, blonde hair. He was never to whisper to her in the small hours of the night. He was never to look into her eyes again, the way he had been gazing at Nellie shortly before. Sudden, eruptive anger fueled by his pained memories flowed through his veins. He stood up sharply.
"Yes," He snapped. "Was it not you who suggested I call you by your stupid nickname in the first place? Hmm?" He abruptly knocked over his gin in an attempt to storm out of the room. He slammed the door and Mrs. Lovett was reduced to tears. Crying into her gin, she thought to herself. Why do I let 'im do this to me? One minute 'e's perfectly civil, the next, 'e's yelling and knocking things over. She knew perfectly why; she loved him and it was a simple fact.
Upstairs, Sweeney was brooding. He slowly twirled a silver razor around with his rough, calloused hands. Conflicting emotions tumbled around in his head, much like the horrid boat that had shipped him here from his miserable life in an Australian prison. Blast that stupid woman. She has no right to make me feel this way about anybody other than my Lucy. A whisper came from somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Lucy's dead. You've mourned and you have to move on. Don't push away those around you because of your losses. Accept them and allow yourself and others to be happy. A feeling of absolute dread washed over Sweeney at the thought of letting go of his precious, yellow haired sweetheart. "NO!" He shouted, the force of his anger and raw emotion racking his body and nearly bringing him to tears. He painfully swallowed them back and forced himself not to cry. Sweet memories of laughter and days in the park drifted through his head. He couldn't let that… that whore downstairs ruin them. Despite his efforts, a single, miserable tear leaked from his left eye. It ran over the immense dark circles that outlined his eyes, along his solemn, sunken cheeks and down his chin. As if in slow motion, it grew larger until finally, it fell from his quivering jaw and left a slightly darker spot on the mahogany wood floor.
From the kitchen, Nellie heard his pained scream. For all the anger she felt, she couldn't bring herself to draw any form of happiness from the sad, broken man's misery. She cried harder knowing there was nothing she could do to make him happy. Nothing she could do to stop the pain.
I'll be back on Saturday the 26th. Next week is exam week so I won't have as much time to write.