For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night. - William Shakespeare
The sky was very dark, similar to colors of splattered jugulars and clipped carotids. The clouds were jagged inkblots. The artificial sunlight, so promising and hopeful inside, was absent.
The cobblestone streets were clean yet worn. The lofty buildings stretched like open arms, grasping with inquisitive fingertips for something unattainable.
The people were hurried, knocking out shoulders, and squeezing through flesh barriers to unknown destinations. Each one was a hollowed, dark shell of someone once vibrant.
This place. This was the fabled Fortune City?
Sweeney Todd wished the terrain was infinite black again.
In those early waking hours, his lover was illuminated orange by flickering candles. The sweat slithering down her sternum was glittering and golden. Her breath was a soothing salve.
Her lips parted. That mellifluous, enveloping voice spoke, "What do you think it looks like?"
Who could harden from such an innocent question? Certainly a man focused on revenge would ignore such an impudent little thought. Certainly a murderous man would make a woman choke on such an inquisitive question. But he was trying to forget those men. And he desperately wanted to forgive those men. They knocked with clenched fists against his resolve, aching for a momentary release. They silently mocked him. They lavished him with lies and false pretence. They were always calling, screaming: Toddy-boy, Toddy-boy … Come out an' play. We miss the games you play.
"Fortune City you mean," He answered, just barely avoiding those gnawing voices.
"Mm-hmm," She affirmed and added, "Thomas says nothin' but praise for her splendor. An' every night since we've been 'ere I've dreamt of how beautiful she must be."
"Sky must 'ave been blue," Sweeney offered.
"An' clear too. The shops are white marble, gorgeous like that courthouse," She sighed.
"Sparklin' streets," He continued, lightly fingering her damp tendrils.
"An' happy people too. All of 'em look so bloody awful—just like ghosts or somethin' worse," She criticized before asking, "Oh, do you think we're right?"
"Mr. Stone wouldn't go on 'bout it so much if we weren't right, love," He concluded, gently kissing her forehead before succumbing to slumber.
What a horrible disappointment, yet a most cunning deception.
"Is this it?" Sweeney questioned, keeping pace with Catherine Daver.
"If you see a red skyline, hundreds of similar buildings, and thousands of hollow people then yes—this is Fortune City," She answered, tone flat and devoid of feeling.
"He lied," Sweeney hissed.
"Who lied?" She asked, momentarily curious.
"Your assistant, Mr. Stone. He told Mrs. Lovett Fortune City was so beautiful and truly indescribable." He emphasized, dripping with sarcasm and irritation.
"That certainly does not surprise me," She sighed, reminiscing about better times, "We were all like that once."
"What do you mean?" He implored, pressing for a clear answer.
"Fortune City is beautiful. Anything and everything is beautiful if you are chosen. Thomas waited for about twenty-five years, pretty short actually compared to some," She stated, still incredibly elusive.
"I don't understand," He said, thoroughly confused.
"Harvesting is difficult to explain without the proper visuals. Perhaps, if time is not too pressed, you may go with Thomas to the fields," She replied, pushing through a mob of black suits and skirts.
Sweeney was silent, for the majestic courthouse was before them. He forcefully bounded the steps, pondering about anything and everything in Fortune City.
He knew the courthouse rules. Mrs. Lovett was kind enough to explain the barbaric system, but following the rules was a different matter. The problem was not remaining silent. The problem was those annoying little whispers. If only the incessant ridicule from hedonistic voices would cease. He could wish. He could hope. But they always crawled back, threatening to sever tranquility and reason.
And yet, they were very peculiar. He did not have internal confrontations before. He certainly did not have them while alive. They emerged in Fortune City. And they only emerged during the most inopportune times.
He would hold them back. He had to hold them back.
"I call this court to order. Mr. Reaping you may resume questioning the witness," The judge loudly announced before sitting down.
Sweeney was oblivious—and quite embarrassed about being hauled to attention by Catherine Daver as the judge entered. He sat awkwardly and remained perfectly still, scanning the room with only his eyes. Catherine Daver was seated to his right. She was positively rigid. Ankles together. Knees together. Hands tightly folded in her lap. Shoulders forward. She did not even blink. Another woman with long burgundy hair, probably Mrs. Reaping, was standing to his left. She was attractive enough—except for that repugnant, soured look. And Mr. Reaping was receiving her glares. He was vigorously questioning some witness.
And, of course, the witness was Miss Emma Balm. Her dress was dark plum, accentuated by a plunging neckline. Her eyes were dark and caked with kohl. Her signature smile pulled those ruby lips very wide.
"You have agreed to give your rationale for bribing my client, Miss Balm. Take your time and do remember: you are under oath and obligation to Fortune City," George Reaping stated with utmost seriousness.
"Fine, I'll be succinct. I admit trying to seduce Mr. Sweeney Todd. I admit to allowing him a chance for salvation. But this is my future profession. I was only practicing my clinical skills," Emma Balm huffed, tossing her head back.
Sweeney Todd swallowed a disgusted grunt. That vile harlot was twisting the truth!
"But your approaches, your clinical skills, were far from therapeutic," George Reaping confirmed.
"That is a matter of personal opinion, certainly. My methods are a bit radical, but they did prove a point: Sweeney Todd is still capable of murder, and he cannot conform to any rule or regulation. And we all know where men like that belong," She triumphantly stated, pointing one acrylic nail to the floorboards.
Did you ever wonder Toddy-boy?—Oh, you again. Away with you.—Come now, tell me. Did you ever wonder?—Leave me.—This how you treat old friends? For shame, lad.—I said leave me.—You can do better than that, lad.—I won't say it again.—Toddy-boy, you can't threaten me. That would be threatening you! That's insanity for sure. Now just listen . . .
"Your assumption of where my client belongs is entirely irrelevant," George Reaping scoffed. His eyebrows furrowed together before asking, "And what of your living years, Miss Balm?"
"What about them?" She counter-questioned, but a bit too quickly.
"Do you believe your living years have affected your relationships, personal or professional, in Fortune City?" He questioned.
"I suppose. But I fail to see your rationale for asking me these ridiculous questions, Mr. Reaping," Emma Balm replied, desperately covering her anxiety.
"I have my methods, Miss Balm. Very much like your own: radical yet effective. Now, what was the reason you committed suicide?" He pushed.
Her features were instantly pained. She struggled through her words, "I was sick of being used."
"The term 'being used' has many connotations. Could you be more specific?" He inquired.
Emma Balm clasped her hands over her trembling legs. She spoke slowly but stuttered, "M-m-my body. My body was being used."
"And who was using your body?" George Reaping continued, delving deeper.
She choked on bitter resentment, forcefully swearing, "My father, alright! I downed a whole bottle of pills, acetaminophen or some shit, and chased it with a bottle of vodka because of that fucking bastard."
"Did you love your father, Miss Balm?"
"I only loved him because of that omnipotent title. But I hated that man," She mumbled, eyes brimming with tears.
"Did you love other men?" He persisted.
"Yes, yes of course," She said, a little baffled by the question.
"And did you, subsequently, have relations with those men?"
"Yes," Emma Balm tersely replied.
"All of them?"
"Yes!" She exclaimed, becoming increasingly infuriated.
"So thus, you began to equate sex with love. Sweeney Todd became your prospective client and you were instantaneously enamored with him. You offered him your body, and just for an added success measure you promised him ultimate happiness, a chance for salvation. What happened during your living years was unforgivable, Miss Balm. I will not deny that. But you have violated the foundations of Fortune City. The most prominent principle is—"
"Truth! Honesty! And more bullshit!" She exploded, abruptly interjecting him, "Sweeney Todd will never achieve ultimate happiness. Ever. He was a murderer during his living years. He is still a murderer. He tried to kill me! And Mortis? A fucking joke. He gives out diagnoses so clients like yours can plead insanity. Why do you defend him? The witnesses are only going to be worse after me. Because no one," She was fixated on Sweeney now, "not even your filthy-drunk, foolish parents would defend your damned soul."
The room was completely silent.
"You don't see it? What a riot! Or maybe you refuse to see it. You are giving him false hope. And wouldn't that mean all of you are breaking rules too? Hmm?" She angrily inquired.
Sweeney was grasping the table so tightly his nail beds were white.
Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. No words. Nothin'. Close your mouth—Can you really, Toddy-boy? Do you hear what she's sayin'? 'Bout all these lies. On your feet. Confront them.
Catherine Daver had a firm hold on his leg. Her fingertips warningly drummed on his patella. She leaned over and whispered, "She wants to upset you. Ignore her, Mr. Todd."
Ignore her! So easy for you, love. You might be in on all this too.—What are you talkin' 'bout?—You never wondered? Not even once? That all this might be a sham?
"You are attacking this court and our entire system, Miss Balm. You are in a very precarious position," The judge cautioned and continued, "I urge you, choose your words carefully."
Do you see what they're doin'? Changin' subjects an' makin' you forget. You're a man aren't you? Do somethin'. Say somethin'. Anythin'.—No, no. Go away. Leave me. I can handle this.—LIKE HELL YOU CAN. GET READY TODDY-BOY. HERE I AM!
Sweeney Todd slowly, methodically stood. His eyes reflected a dark bitterness—someone completely callous and sadistic.
"Mr. Todd, sit down!" Catherine Daver quietly insisted. She angrily pulled on his pant leg.
She received a loud, open-palmed slap over her mouth. His fingers curled and gripped her temporal-mandibular joint. She released a small, muffled cry.
What are you doin'?!—Speakin' up. Gettin' your point across. Doin' somethin'. Doin' anythin' but sit on your ass and say nothin'. If you can't do this, then I will. I will be you.
Sweeney pierced into her wide, shocked eyes. She was immediately silent.
Georgiana Reaping stared, but kept a safe distance. She quivered, obviously frightened.
George Reaping attempted a negotiation, "Mr. Todd, please, your trial has just commenced. Release Miss Daver and we can forget about—"
"IS IT TRUE?" He shouted, interrupting the baffled attorney.
"Mr. Todd, release Miss Daver at once!" The judge fumed.
"IS IT FUCKIN' TRUE?!" He wildly exclaimed, walloping his palm back. Catherine whimpered underneath the whiplash.
"Mr. Todd, please—" George Reaping pleaded again.
"Enough," He hissed between clenched teeth. He sternly spoke, "Tell me the truth. NOW."
You're mad. End this. End this now.—Orderin' me around is futile Toddy-boy. I control you. So relax a bit. Enjoy the fun a bit. You'll love it. Love it.
"Is what the truth, Mr. Todd?" The judge questioned, regaining some semblance of composure.
"This is a sham, ain't it? You've lied the entire time," He snarled, slowly releasing his grasp around a trembling mouth.
"No, no. Every person you encountered in Fortune City has upheld the virtues of truth, honesty, and justice. Well, except perhaps for Miss Balm but—" George Reaping was interjected again.
"I don't believe you. An' why should I? This is the first time I've seen you since me arrival 'ere. What have you been doin' since then? Oh. Yes. Sendin' other people, people so damn incompetent, to do your work! How can I trust a man like you?" Sweeney fired back.
Stop! Do you hear me? STOP—Oh no no no, Toddy-boy. I've just begun!—You're ruinin' everythin'. Stop it. Stop. STOP. STOP!—I'm only makin' your afterlife more beautiful. Can't you thank me for that?
"An' you," He glanced down at Catherine Daver and spat, "are just like that bastard up there. Except you chide Thomas, an' you murder his happiness."
"Mr. Todd, what is the meaning of this?" She whispered, a worried appearance transforming her sunken features.
"The meanin' of this, she says!" He mocked before including, "There is no damn meanin' to all this rubbish. What am I doin' 'ere? I murdered people. An' you know what else? I loved it. I'm insane—insane for blood! You know how beautiful it is? Runnin' down like rivulets across throats—innocent or otherwise is all the same to me. No blue blood from what I saw! HA-HA. HA-HA," He chortled, shaking his head.
You're makin' an awful mess of things. I had a chance before, however small it was a chance.—A fool's chance. Come now, did you really expect a murderer to be saved? Did you really expect I would let you be saved?
"Mr. Todd," George Reaping cautioned, "Think about your words."
"Oh, I have been Mr. Reaping. I have been thinkin'. Thinkin' what a down right shame for Mrs. Lovett. She can't make any of you into savory meat pies!" He wickedly cackled.
Why, why are you sayin' these things?—'Cause you're too afraid to admit it. You've thought about it. Countless times. Don't deny it.—I wouldn't deny it. I just would never SAY it.—What's the point keepin' those things inside then? They eat away. Now, now. Quit your worryin'. I'll take care of you Toddy-boy. I will. I promise.
"So, you admit everything then? You admit murdering both innocent and condemned men? And furthermore, you admit killing is enjoyable?" The judge carefully questioned.
"If you were listening you would know, wouldn't you?" Sweeney acidly counter-questioned.
More silence was followed by a petrifying stillness—not a soul breathed.
"Very well, Mr. Todd," The judge sighed, very exasperated and disappointed. He waved the assembly away before including, "The final verdict will be announced at precisely eight o'clock this evening. Mr. Reaping, please escort Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett back here at the appointed time."
"Yes, your honor," George Reaping barely mumbled, choking on devastation.
Well, my work 'ere is done. See you soon, Toddy-boy . . . See you real soon.
Sweeney released a held breath. His eyes were a more demure brown. His pupils were not treacherous points. He tried to steady the terrible shaking and floods of nausea.
I prayed, I begged you for silence, he bitterly thought, but YOU. You up there so high an' mighty. You didn't listen. You never listened.
The faces were a blurred mixture of fury and gloom. Georgiana Reaping gave a meek, half-hearted smile to her husband and exited. Catherine Daver was relentless on George Reaping. She hammered him with hurried, anxious words. He remained silent. She was still insistent, still rambling. She was a pitiful wreck, pounding her fists against his chest.
He spoke, finally, after tears spilled from her open eyes, "Even the afterlife is unexplainable sometimes, Miss Daver. And like you always say, 'Clients never change.' How can you expect a murderer to change?"
"But, I believed him. I thought we had this one," She whimpered.
"We all did, Miss Daver," George Reaping replied and escorted her out.
Emma Balm leapt from her chair. She bounded to Sweeney, nearly tumbling him over. Her arms languidly wrapped around his tense body. She searched his eyes. Her voice was thick honey.
"Are you still in there, darling?" She inquired, lips parted.
"Release me," He commanded, turning his head away from her intrusive mouth.
"Oh," She grumbled and disengaged, a touch disheartened, "It is just you then."
"What do you mean by that?" He spat, annoyance steadily increasing.
"Demons are prowling everywhere, nowadays," She answered, with an airy sing-song voice.
Sweeney did not bother saying more. He strode away from the painted, putrid whore—and to hell with whatever story she conjured about her 'tendencies'—very much intent on opening the door. His brain walloped against his skull with each miniscule movement. He needed an escape.
However, acrylic-tipped fingers were drumming his only exit. He mustered a vicious look into her crystallized eyes.
"Listen, I understand. You hate me. But you most certainly are not going to find your way around Fortune City. If I am not mistaken, this is the first time you have actually seen anything outside your home," She rationalized, piercing through his irritation.
She was right. Unfortunately.
"I would stay away from home, anyway," She continued.
"Why? Why should I listen to you? You've ruined everythin'. Just had to start sputterin' whatever you pleased—an' speak so poorly of things you know nothin' 'bout," He hissed, referring to her heartless commentary.
"I apologize," She stubbornly replied, rolling her eyes.
"I don't believe you," He mumbled, trying again to open the door.
"You should," She huffed, "I remember not so long ago you were supporting my position."
"I was not speakin' then. It was someone else, somethin' else," He responded.
"Irregardless," She stated, abruptly changing the subject, "You were never meant for an afterlife above Fortune City, Mr. Todd."
"So you've said," He retorted, violently pushing the door.
"And yet the blame is always placed on me. Yet you never realize true deception—and especially not when you fuck her so nicely." She grinned.
The door was open. Just one step. Just one simple step. He could maneuver Fortune City without Miss Balm. He could manage. He was a capable, resourceful man.
But what man would allow such battery of his lover?
"Don't equate Mrs. Lovett—" He defended, but was interjected by her harping voice.
"Do you know what everyone is so adamant about here? The meaning and power of words. That little imp, Thomas, loosened his lips for me. And do you know what Mrs. Lovett said during her trial? She said, 'I will go wherever Mr. Todd goes.'" She mocked with a mediocre cockney accent.
"An' what does that have to do with anythin'. She was bein' sincere. She was savin' us," He deduced, growing weary of her voice.
"No, her submissiveness screwed you both. If she said, 'Mr. Todd will go wherever I go' then, you would be saved. From what I milked from dear Thomas, her trial was practically spotless. And after your dreadful performance, where do you suppose you will end up?" She reasoned.
That irresistible anger instantly ebbed into his veins. The urges were near insatiable. The vice grasp. The pleasurable thumping of her carotid. The glossed eyes with ghostly white sclera. The screaming— the gurgling, frothy madness of choking on blood better still! He could do without the pleading, the doe eyes. Oh, Mrs. Lovett had been spared the razor for far too long.
"What will you do now?" Emma wondered, only slightly concerned.
But then, he remembered. His razor was for momentary pain—but that would not suffice. His words would leave her open wounds for years—maybe even centuries now, if only one man could be so lucky!
"Nothin'. Absolutely nothin'. 'Cause nothin' is wrong," He replied, teeth clenched and lips curved into a crooked smirk.
Author's Note: I apologize for the horribly long delay. But now that school is out for summer (I don't go back until September 3rd, yay!) I should have way more time for finishing this story and commenting on well-deserved ones. :)
Until the last time, faithful ones.