a/n: There's some swearing in this, nothing too bad, but just warning you.
Pairing: TeddyVic (yes, another one of them. I dearly love this pairing)
Word Count: 2,000
WARNING- you do not need to read the rest of this author's note. It's long. It's unnecessary. It's probably not that interesting. BUT, it's a story that I'd like to share. So, read if you'd like, but it's irrelevant to the rest of this story (that's actually a lie, it kinda inspired this story, but you really don't have to read it).
I just did this theatre presentation a few days ago. The assignment was to come up with a piece that would be played by other actors in the class, who would only be given five minutes of instruction before performing, that worked with a song of our choice. My song was an old favorite of mine, 500 Miles by the Kingston Trio. It's a song about a train leaving the station, about departure. I loved my idea, and my actors could not have done a better job representing it on stage. I had three separate couples, one that was passionate and romantic but in an angry way, one that consisted of a mother and daughter, and one that was deeply in love and dreaded an inescapable parting. Couple one went on stage first, they had a huge (silent) argument. About halfway through, couple two joined them, the mother embracing her daughter and wishing her (silently) luck for her future at a boarding school. The daughter was quietly angry first, but then gradually forgave her mother and embraced her as well. Couple three then joined the other two on stage, a soldier going to war and leaving his girlfriend behind. They hugged and kissed and cried (silently). Once all three couples were on stage, the girl from couple one stormed off, and the boy sat down, head in his hands with quiet grief. Gradually, the mother and daughter broke apart and faded away. After some time, couple three had their final embrace and left in their separate directions. Finally, just as the song was wrapping up, the girl from couple one slowly came back on stage, sat down next to the boy, and intertwined their fingers. To me, the song is about loss, about letting go of people. Each story had loss, but the one that ended on the worst terms wasn't actually over. It was beautiful, just so powerful to witness. Listen to the song; it's an incredible piece of music. After seeing fifteen other presentations with music for class, mine remained my favorite, and not out of vanity. Honestly, it just represented the way I write- sad but sweet.
Sorry for thee obnoxious story, but I felt the need to share this idea with someone who would understand. At this point, just the author's note takes up almost a page. This must be some kind of record.
eye of the beholder
"Get out!" She yells, her face coloring with rage.
"What the hell?" He questions, his voice loud, spit flying from his mouth and speckling across her face. She wipes a droplet off her cheek with the back of one of her dainty hands. "I'm not even allowed to talk to other women? Do you think you own me or something?"
"You, you, you," she splutters, eyes dark and fists balled at her sides, "you weren't just talking!"
"Oh yeah," he retorts, still screaming, "because I wasn't just trying to make pleasant conversation with your cousin, or anything."
Her voice is hoarse, scratching her throat. She has to cough briefly before speaking again. "That wasn't making conversation, asshole, that was flirting. Do you want to get in her pants? Is that it?"
"Of course that's what I want," his eyes bulge as he turns a shade of red, "I want to have sex with your sixteen year old cousin. Because I totally dig chicks so young they're practically in diapers!"
"This isn't time for your damned jokes," she screeches, her voice rising to octaves that hurt his ears. He winces overdramatically.
"Well it sure as hell isn't time for your jealousy, either. That's what this is, you're jealous! You're worried that I'll run off with a newer, better model of y-"
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Tears spring to her eyes as he strikes a nerve. He's aware of the very real pain that flashes across her eyes, and decides to dig deeper.
It's cruel, he knows, twisting the knife with words sharper than polished steel. But he can't help it, the mean sounds flood out of his mouth. "You think I'll leave you for her. Maybe I should, I bet she doesn't bitch every time I freaking talk to someone else."
Her eyes widen. He knows he went too far, barreling past the point of forgivable offenses, but he keeps going. It's a dirty but burning hunger, pushing him to keep hurting her. It doesn't make any sense, but it he justifies it as repayment for her constant screeching. "I bet Lily would love me. We could run off and be happy and she'd never, ever scream at me for something as idiotic as this!"
She takes a step back, a few tears falling. In the blinking light of their kitchen he can see each green vein that creeps up her arm, the calluses worn down on her palms, even the frizz of misplaced red hair that halos her head. Here in the kitchen, with her face covered in foundation, mascara, rouge, powder; with her feet arched into heels that make each bone on her foot protrude; here with her all made up from what was supposed to be a nice night out at a gala with many name-less, face-less people, all the layers of lies and protection she coats herself with fall away, just for him. And he can see it all.
Spots of blood rush to her cheeks and they flush red with humiliation. She knows he can see past everything, as she should because she did choose to let him it, but that was only because she never expected he'd do what he was doing now- take advantage of it all.
"Lily wouldn't need me to tell her she was beautiful." He sneers, a feeling of guilt blossoming in his stomach the moment he utters the cruel words.
She gasps, eyes wide with pain. The tears begin to fall and he steps forward, trying to take her in his arms and apologize in repentance for the sentence that had just fallen from his lips.
"Go," the word raggedly tears from her mouth. He shakes his head, trying to clear out the mean fog and replace it with clear, cold air that would allow him to think and speak without hurting her further. She turns her heel and walks out of the kitchen, disappearing into the dark hallway. He takes a few steps to follow her, his footfalls loud in the now silent flat. He thinks he might catch up to her, but she opens the door, which squeaks in a protest that he seconds absolutely, and leaves.
It hits him like a ton of bricks.
She makes it out of their shared flat, eyes damp but cheeks devoid of any new tears. She prides herself on this, not letting him break her down completely. Her congratulations are short lived, however, as she encounters a couple twined together a mere hundred feet from the place she decides never again to call home. Watching the pair kiss, she feels her stomach sinking and her heart aching and all of her stoic walls crumbling down. She feels herself breaking apart.
People bustle past, unconcerned, as first one tear falls, then another, and then so many that she can't breathe anymore. She thinks that she might asphyxiate on her grief, that the very weight of her sadness may crush her into nothing. She briefly wishes for this fate, but her torn heart keeps beating and can't bring herself to actually make an active effort to stop it.
The sobs consume her, and she finds it impossible to keep moving forward, further away from him, so she stops walking and just leans against a graffitied wall, eyes reddening and breath hitching in her throat- causing her to gasp in the most undignified way, she'd be humiliated by the noises if she was able to think about anything but their parting words.
Lily wouldn't need him to tell her she was beautiful. And Lily was beautiful. And she wouldn't ask, or demand, that he stop talking to other girls. And she was beautiful. And she was beautiful. And she was beautiful. So, so beautiful. And they'd be happy together, with her confidence and his easy charm.
And what did Victoire have? She asks herself, eyes cast down on the sidewalk. The concrete was blotched by black spots of gum. Dirt caked the lines in-between the squares. How many feet had walked this path? And she was just one more person to travel this way. The insignificance of all this hit her all at once, making her head ache and her body feel heavy, weighted down by deep ponderings and the sensation of loss.
What did she have, anyway? All she could think of was him, but she didn't actually have him anymore. Lily had him. Lily had it all, beauty, smarts, and her Teddy. Lily had the ability to love and the capacity to be loved. Victoire didn't have this, and she was painfully conscious of the fact.
Strangers continue to walk past, unaware of the chasm that had opened up in her chest. Victoire was blind to all of them, and they, for the most part, were blind to her. Out of pity for the poor girl, they turned their eyes away, minding their own business. That was life in the big city of London, where so few spaces were truly private that the most public of areas became the safest of havens for those that wanted to get away from it all.
Finally, one woman stopped to observe the crying girl. She was leaning against a wall, black mascara running down her face along with shining tears. Her hair was in disarray, red curls springing free of the pins that had been used to hold them in place. The girl was young, maybe twenty five, and dressed to the nines. The woman herself was large and matronly, dressed in comfortable clothing befitting for a housewife and mother.
"Dear, what's wrong?" The woman asks, knowing that she may not receive an answer, but too distressed by the poor child to not inquire.
A million possible answers flash through Victoire's mind. Everything. Him. Me. Nothing. I'm not beautiful. She can't settle on just one, so she stays silent. The woman mistakes her silence for not wanting to be mettled with, and, out of respect for the strange girl, begins to back away. "No," Victoire rasps, "please stay." And she doesn't know what it is, but this woman is comforting and she really needs comfort right now.
The woman moves closer, out of the way of the passing pedestrians. Victoire's eyes overfill, and now she's crying because somebody, even just this random woman who stopped off the street, cares, and she's touched.
"He doesn't love me anymore," she finally responds, because she doesn't know what more there is to say.
"Oh, honey," the woman murmurs sympathetically, rubbing Victoire's back gently.
"And how can he," she continues, "I'm not her, I'll never be. I'm not good enough. She's always happy and always beautiful and she doesn't need the way I do. I need him. But he doesn't need me, just like she doesn't need him; neither of them needs anyone because they're fine on their own. So they're perfect for each other.
"And she's beautiful, even without him telling her. I need him to tell me because I'm not. And she's whole, and I've never been whole.
"And it's not even just her. He doesn't like me. He said he loved me, and I think he did, but he never liked me. How can you like someone that you have to constantly reassure? How can you like someone who isn't beautiful without you? And even with you, needs to hear those words?
"He got tired of me. I'm tired of me."
"Oh, honey," the woman repeats, pausing to consider her words, "for what it's worth- and I'm sure it's not worth much- I think you're beautiful. But that's not all; I think that you need to know that you're beautiful. And I can't, and he can't, give you that.
"As for him, if he can't love you no matter what, he's not worth it."
Victoire dries her eyes and gives a small smile to the woman, "thank you," she whispers, her voice hoarse from the combined small chatter, screaming, and sobbing that the night had brought.
"I'm Astoria," the woman, Astoria, embraces her.
"Victoire," she introduces herself.
"Here's my telephone number," Astoria scribbles something onto a scrap of paper produced from her large purse, "give me a call if you need anything, or just want to talk. I'm always here, dear,"
Victoire's smile grows, "thank you so much." The pair embrace again.
"Vic! Vic!" Both turn their heads at the frantic call, "oh thank god, Vic, I've looked everywhere!" From the mass of people comes a man, eyes wild, cheeks flushed from running. His clothing is rumpled from lying prostrate in despair for a while after she left. "Oh god, Vic, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said it, I can't believe I said that. You know I could never, never ever, love anyone else. Vic, love, I can't live without you. Please forgive me?" He's here. Teddy, her Teddy, stands before her, speaking in the fast, agitated manner that he assumes whenever he's distressed.
Astoria smiles and takes a few steps back, giving the pair their space. The strangers that stream by on the street curve around the trio, making a small bubble of space around the small group. Victoire glances over at the motherly figure of Astoria, asking with her eyes what she should do. Astoria gives a small, almost imperceptible, nod, and Victoire falls forward into Teddy's arms. He holds her and makes promises into her fiery hair never to let her go.
"You're beautiful," he whispers to her. She glances up at him, searching his face for the tell-tale flash of guilt after a lie. She finds none.
"I know." She tells him. Astoria smiles and merges back into flow of passing people.
a/n: Please, please don't favorite/alert without reviewing!