But it wasn't such a horrendous problem, he thought.
Her shuddering breaths, her closed eyes, her dewy flesh, her dark aroma.
It was her surrender. And that was a delicious excuse for his unsettling questions.
What was he doing? It was an impulse, and nothing more.
Why was he doing this? Because he could; because he savored her compliance.
Should he be doing this? Oh, did that really matter so much now? They were dead. And if the court made an objection to his actions? He would lie. He would deny. It was just an experiment, just to see if he could.
He realized the praised psychiatrist, Dr. Richard Mortis, must have been a quack. Little if any desire for carnal knowledge? Right now, that diagnosis was painfully incorrect. He cared for little but carnal knowledge of Mrs. Lovett.
He slowly removed his fingers and stood. Her eyes were glazed; her face and chest stained a brilliant crimson. He forcefully lifted her, and her breath caught abnormally.
He dragged her drowsy body, and pushed her forward. Her legs buckled, but she wobbled ahead. They stood before the broken mirror. His body was hidden behind her billowing dress; he was tightly pressed against her back.
Sweeney ran quick fingers through her russet curls; the motion exposed her ashen neck. His aching lips rest there. It was such a delicate brush, an innocent touch. It was something unaccustomed to his partner, for she shook. And her movements reverberated through him, creating a searing friction. Their eyes intertwined, exotically danced in the spider web cracks.
"Undress," He commanded into her pale flesh. His order elicited another faint tremor. And his satisfied smile pressed against her thin neck.
But her hands remained defiant. Then, she spoke concisely, succinctly.
"No."
It was remarkable. A single word, a brief mutter could disrupt everything! Benjamin Barker, the gentleman, would have accepted her rejection. A gentleman should never force his passions onto a lady. But Sweeney Todd was not a gentleman. And Mrs. Lovett was certainly not an innocent lady. If this was a coy imitation, he found it poor and irksome.
"Why?" He growled; his hands coiled her shoulders.
"It ain't pretty," She whispered, turning her head away, "Just bundle me dress up, and take me that way, from behind."
The shock was nearly overwhelming. What was this: a shameful gesture from a shameless woman? Or was she embarrassed? She was not 'a slip of a thing' anymore, that was true. But he always thought her very confident and secure. Her behavior was a contradiction and extremely unsettling. Perhaps, some reassurance was needed. But Sweeney Todd rarely practiced comfort and encouragement; the remainders of those qualities were left in a dark prison cell. He made an earnest, but mediocre, effort.
"Listen, love," He began, attempting to sound sincere, "There was women in Australia, and they really weren't worth lookin' on—men have needs tho'. But you aren't anythin' like them. An' I wouldn't think of you that way."
"That's not what I mean," Her voice was cracking, and pained, "You can't see me, I won't let you, Mr. Todd."
Her answer was a dreadful mistake.
His eyes twitched, pounded with rage. His fingers began shredding her buttons. Each clicked loudly against his nails, ricocheting off the floorboards. The airborne threads twirled and jumped, like blades of grass.
She struggled, slithering away. But his precious friend, the silver razor, was pressed against her throat. And she was motionless. He resumed his work, making brilliant emerald confetti.
"Mr. Todd," She pleaded, adding a wild scream, "You bought me this dress!"
"You have others," was his terse reply. A concealed razor was revealed from the second holster. He sliced the fabric with expertise. He made quick, striding cuts.
And she was beautiful to bare in minutes.
His eyes were greedy, absorbing her curves and hollows. She certainly was lithe. Her collarbones and ribcage were prominent; the skin there very taught, almost breaking. Her breasts were still supple, only slightly stretched from age. But there was a problem. Her arms were laced around her waist and hips. She was hiding something.
"Open your arms," He instructed, both razors now compressing her carotid arteries.
"Please, Mr. Todd," She whimpered, cradling her body. But he indented her flesh deeper; one more push and blood would freely surge and trickle.
Her defeated arms unraveled and wilted. Her eyes were listless and blank, reflecting nothing. And he relished her emotional famine.
Her abdomen was convex, with narrow but prominent hips.
His razors crashed against the floor, making undulating circles.
He was captivated, lost in her brutally wounded flesh. The gashes were serrated, coarse and u-shaped. The careless lesions began above her navel and rained below her public bone. They were poorly sewn with midnight colored thread.
"What-what is this?" His voice faltered, his fingers traced the abrasive wounds.
She winced, and placed trembling hands over his inquisitive fingers. Her voice regained some semblance of strength, "Queen Victoria birthed her lads with some help you know, anesthetics I think. Made the labor pains tolerable. But me dear Albert, he was a good Christian man. All women must endure the pain, thanks to the sins of Eve. So I could have none of that fancy stuff. I won't bother you with the pain, Mr. T but it was blindin' and takin' far too long. Four days an' four nights of it. Then Albert and the midwife, decides to open me up," Her voice caught, and tears traced her cheekbones, "A boy, an' then another! That's why I have two marks 'ere. One for me lil' Thomas. The other for me lil' Peter. But-but they weren't cryin'. They weren't movin'. All blue and black they was, so still. Midwife said they were wrapped real tight around me cord, choked the life right out of 'em."
Sweeney was stunned in silence; he tightly embraced the frail, damaged woman. His face was buried in her fragrant hair.
"Albert wouldn't touch me, let alone look at me after that. People was so surprised the job hadn't done me in, what with this butchery. Could have sewn meself up better, I'm sure! Times got worse a course. Couldn't have a proper burial for me darlin' boys. Church wouldn't allow it. They wasn't baptized. Albert was so ashamed. I dunno where they were put to rest, never told me. Business got so bad then, for both of us. Then, me poor Albert—left me too, but at least he has a proper headstone."
She crumpled, flailing to the ground as sobs wrecked her body. Sweeney gently cradled her, slowly rocking her collapsed form.
"At least you had happiness, even if it was fleetin'!" She cried, soaking his shirt with tears, "Pretty lil' Johanna. You felt her, held her as she held back. I had nothin', nothin'!"
Her howling was torturous, inhuman. She convulsed with each broken wail, it was draining. The hours passed with unrelenting turmoil, offering little reprieve. But then, finally, exhaustion lulled her to slumber.
Sweeney Todd could offer her nothing. No kind words. No loving caress.
Her face was so wet, drenched with agony. And his cheeks were barren, dry.
Her distressed breaths crashed against his flesh, each heave made horrid shivers twist his attuned nerves. She was having a nightmare, which was evident enough. But his thoughts were screeching, clawing his ventricles. The itching sensation was intolerable. He craved any, no matter how miniscule, release.
It was more for his benefit, those baritone murmurs—but if her pained, contorted features diminished his grin would be difficult to suppress:
"Dear woman, this defeated embrace
I am afraid cannot erase
Your torment, your agony, your sorrow.
So please, forgive a heart gone hollow.
I understand, I know all too well,
Of a time, a place such happiness did dwell.
Oh, love now I see your strife,
All those ridiculous plans for our life.
Your inclusion, you and me
Together, forever beside a clear sea.
You wanted a fresh, sparklin' start,
An' of course I was a part
Of that captivatin' dream.
But things collapse, nothin' more seen
But strands of time, pathetic little seams
Of a silly somethin' that could have been.
It is harsh, oh so very cruel an' mean
What a morose page, a defeated chapter
But love, our souls are tainted an' unclean
An' what will become of you, me, our 'ereafter?
But do not fear, do not fret,
There must be some faith yet,
We are destined above or below
But this guarantee is certain:
Together we will go."
Mrs. Lovett was being roused, gently at first. But then, she heard shouting. Someone was panicking, sounding awfully whiny and strained.
It couldn't be anyone else but a certain strung-out assistant.
And her assumption was indeed correct. Thomas Bertram Stone buzzed about her, face marked with apprehension and worry.
"Mrs. Lovett! Hurry! Hurry! Wake up!" He exclaimed, shaking her wildly.
"What is all this, Mr. Stone? What's happened?" She questioned, slowly rising, "No need to poke an' prod, dear."
"Oh, get out of bed would you! We're going to be late!" He was parading through her closet, tossing a black dress onto the sheets. The bedding puffed with dust upon impact.
Bed? Mrs. Lovett was puzzled, What am I doin' 'ere? I was in the shop with Mr. T, an' he was holdin' me …
She silently sniveled. The other day certainly was hectic, erratic even. The extremes of delightful pleasure and disabling pain were too exhausting, too confusing, too much. It was a nightmare, it had to be an awful one! Mr. Todd would never switch from sensuous to sadistic so quickly, it was impossible. Mrs. Lovett conjured several excuses, but she was not convinced. And her nakedness beneath thick sheets confirmed the reality of yesterday.
Thomas tossed more clothing onto her prone form; he was hopping around, like a nervous rabbit, scurrying in all directions.
"All right, all right dear," She huffed, sitting and covering her body with the sheet. "Turn around then. I'll just slip me stockings, shoes, an' dress on if we need to go so fast. An' where is it we need to go, anyhow?"
"Fortune City Courthouse, of course. Your trial, Mrs. Lovett. Your trial is today!" Thomas whined, fidgeting as he turned away.
"What?! Why didn't you tell me sooner?" She hissed, frantically scrambling with gray moth-eaten stockings.
"Miss Emma Balm, told you yesterday! She said, 'Leave it to me Mr. Stone, I will explain the entire trial procedure to Mrs. Lovett.' What a relief, I thought! She is so responsible, I admire her truly." Thomas rambled, ritually peeking at a wristwatch.
Mrs. Lovett grumbled, shoving her feet into untied boots, "That conivin', intolerable, no good, vicious, vain, sorry excuse, bag o' bones bitc—"
"Mrs. Lovett!" Thomas gasped, sounding incredibly hurt, "Miss Emma Balm is a respectable professional!"
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Lovett sarcastically mumbled, "An' I'm pure as white snow."
"I really wish you wouldn't poke fun at her, or anyone else. She is here for a reason, just like me, Miss Daver, or Dr. Mortis." Thomas retorted, quite serious.
"A suicide too then, that is too bad, Mr. Stone," She stated, stepping into the dark dress.
"Yes, it really was an awful suicide," He quietly commented.
"Too bad she went through with it," She continued, buttoning and lacing up the back.
"Yes," Thomas solemnly said.
"Cause then she wouldn't be 'ere makin' me miserable," Mrs. Lovett added, satisfied and smoothing out the fabric.
"Oh really now! That was not called for, Mrs. Lovett," Thomas huffed, expediently turning around. His forehead was furrowed in deep creases; he was clearly upset.
A horrible realization dawned on her then, she spoke the words with increasing disgust, "Mr. Stone, don't tell me you fancy that-that thing?"
Thomas was fumbling with words; his cheeks were lightly flushed, "Well, no. Not like that. Certainly not the way you would think—it is purely a professional adoration, er admiration! But, irregardless her suicide is nothing to joke about, everything is so very personal. So very awful."
Her interest was momentarily peaked, "What happened to her then?"
"Oh, I really shouldn't say. That would be breaking confidentiality. And the more important matter is your case! Miss Emma Balm will make an appearance, certainly. You can ask her at the courthouse if you wish," Thomas was making hurried, waving gestures with his hands.
And Mrs. Lovett could hardly contain her anticipation to see Miss Emma Balm, again.
The Fortune City Courthouse was a massive, architectural wonder. It was constructed of alabaster marble, with several spiraling columns. The most prominent features were statues of cloaked skeletons wielding large scythes.
But while the building was quite aesthetic, the interior was rather drab. It was only a long straight hallway, with thousands upon thousands of doors. Each one was the same, save for a brilliant golden roman numeral. Thomas mentioned how fortunate they were, their door was XV. The walk would be effortless, barely a skip away.
And so it was, for he was already turning a handle with a looming fifteen staring back.
The room was essentially empty, except for three tables, a few chairs, a bench, and one person. Well, of course if you could call him a person.
George Reaping produced a curt wave and motioned for Mrs. Lovett and Thomas. They both sat down quickly while the attorney stood, waiting for something or perhaps someone.
"Have you been enjoying your time here, Mrs. Lovett?" Reaping asked, engaging in small, petty chatter.
"Oh, of course," She lied, "Been such a lovely time."
"Excellent," Reaping answered, barely listening or detecting her deception. His attention was diverted as the door swung open.
A woman with long, thick burgundy hair entered the room. Her face was punctured with ashen shadows; her lips were drawn in a thin, tight line. Only her aquamarine eyes were animated. She strode to the opposite table, crashing a leather briefcase onto the surface.
"George Reaping," She affirmed, not glancing in his direction, "A pleasure as always."
"Yes, of course! I could not imagine a more suited opponent than you, Georgiana Reaping," He beamed, amber eyes sparkling.
"WHAT?" Mrs. Lovett exploded, yanking on his tailored suit, "You're related to her?"
Thomas placed a cautious hand on her shoulder, he whispered with emphasis, "That's his wife."
Author's Note: And so it is done, the next chapter anyway. Though I do fear this may be the last one for a little while, seeing as school starts fresh tomorrow and I have a whopping 17 credits in Nursing and Psychology classes. But do not fret, my little pets, I will update yet, though it may take some time, I will not forget your support while I type away on tedious college reports :P
Until next time, faithful ones.