I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.
But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.
In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails
On Cobblestones, In Kitchens
The lady Elsa walked toward the market, her thoughts wandering still, the sun warm on her face. The walk was short enough, only a few blocks, but for her it was a delicious freedom in which she reveled each time she took the journey.
Because it symbolized so much more than a simple errand to the procure food sundries or a jaunt to the beauty shop.
It was a defiance against her fear of people, of the outside world, of being recognized for the freak she was.
And each time she ventured out, she felt stronger, more confident.
She felt free.
She felt whole.
After conquering the stairs that day, she had fallen into a deep sleep that evening.
And dreamt vividly of the outside world.
Where she walked freely in the sun on the arm of the handsome, loving Massimo Dolcefino. Laughing, talking, smiling.
Where slinking monsters with chainsaw teeth stalked her as she and the Italian with the salt and pepper hair sat at sidestreet tables and indulged in decadent, delicious desserts.
Where she and her lover danced in the drizzling rain and he kissed her deeply, lovingly, passionately, running his hands slowly all over her body as he pressed himself to her.
Where passersby pointed and laughed as she crawled alone along the cobblestone streets, her stumps bleeding and dragging behind her as she searched in vain for her lost wooden legs.
Awakening, she found herself trembling and shaking with terror and whimpering.
The dreams were just dreams.
And Massimo Dolcefino was not her lover.
Yet.
But he did hold her.
And now tightened his protective, benevolent embrace around her, murmuring reassurances into her tangled curls until she was still and calm once more.
She lay awake for quite some time thereafter, watching shadows dance and caper upon the cracked ceiling, listening to her hopes and fears battle for dominance within her.
And sometime in the small hours before the dawn, her striated brown eyes slipped closed and she slept finally without dreams.
And when she awoke the following morning, she had wanted more anything to descend those stairs again.
And step out onto the street, into the world.
Though the notion still terrified her.
So they did.
Together.
She did not know the street onto which she stepped.
Massimo said they were still in Berlin but she saw no familiar sights.
And that was quite satisfactory enough for her.
Because all those familiarities were ugly to her, a reminder of what she had once been. And what she wished to forget.
So she let them go and took in new landmarks.
The humble area was quiet, relatively, compared to the hustle and bustle of the more traveled streets of the city.
For her here, there was no imposing Reichstag.
But there was a small bakery on the corner from which wafted the delicious smells of fresh baked bread every morning.
There was no historic Brandenburg Gate.
But there was a modest ladies' beauty salon to which Massimo escorted her so that she might smile when she gazed into the mirror.
There was no forbiddingly elegant Charlottenburg Palace.
But there was a small Jewish community mere blocks from Massimo's apartment.
That thought made her frown with concern and worry and glance nervously over her shoulder.
The soldiers, the captains, the men who slunk between the shadows of the seedy, dark hotels she had once worked often exulted of the coming demise of the Jewish vermin as they'd climaxed. As if for them, the thought of the deaths of such low and base beings was an ecstasy on par with the forbidden, twisted, physical pleasure-tortures she visited upon them at their own instances.
Those dark, sordid remembrances made her feel repulsed and ill to revisit so she resolutely sent them away from her.
And focused on the sights and sounds and smells of this, her new environment.
Wondering at the different feel of the cobblestones on which she balanced her gait instead of the smooth hardwood of Massimo's apartment floor.
Relishing in the presence of the tall, dignified, gentleman matching easy stride beside her. His brown suit neat and brown fedora unpretentious upon his head. Smiling quietly as if this was the only thing of importance in his entire existence.
His hand comforting upon hers nestled in the crook of his elbow.
His lightly lined face turned slightly toward hers to catch her newfound freedom and tentative joy.
And on they walked, slowly, a striking, attractive pair beneath the heavy, thick skies of Berlin.
She had never been a cook.
Growing up in her father's house, there had been a handful of servants charged with cooking the meals, cleaning the house.
And for the female ones, being ruthlessly pursued by the master of the house.
Because he was a man.
And he could.
But Massimo had no servants and no grand abode in which to rein supreme.
Which bothered Elsa not at all.
While she was yet weak, he had warmed broths and thin soups to power and restore her frail body.
As she grew stronger, simple meals of potato and onion to suit her German-trained palate.
And now as she grew more independent and able, she decided to learn to cook for him.
The problem was, she did not know how.
Not exactly.
She had, as a child, curiously observed the cook and her girls taking individual ingredients and deftly combining them to make savory, filling meals at the behest of the ghost thin lady of the house to appease her volatile husband.
Until her father had discovered his little daughter and beaten her away for her supposed desire to be a low and base servant to those in power.
So she did not exactly possess a flair for the culinary arts.
But she was Elsa.
And she could learn to do anything she could put her mind to.
And so she did.
Being dead to the former world and her former self, she had no money of her own.
But Massimo gifted her with German currency without question as she requested it.
And in light of that faith and trust, she resolved to use them as wisely as she could to provide for them both.
Day-old bread from the bakery on the corner. A basket of vegetables from the market down the block. Small portions of precious spices and herbs.
Carefully making Kaese Spaetzle, a simple pasta with onions and cheeses.
Spaetzle dumplings with Sauerkraut, topped with a few coveted handfuls of nearly blackened bacon.
Meat was more expensive than she would have preferred and so she did not frequently splurge for large portions of it, only special occasions.
Massimo was of Italian background, not German.
And Elsa was not entirely a five-star chef.
But he ate her offerings with a smile, always thanking her for efforts.
And she was happy.
Then, shamelessly displaying a quality her father would never have considered baring, thus disproving his revered status as a man, Massimo ventured into the kitchen with her and taught her to make a few simple Italian dishes.
Ribollita, ladled into small bowls and savored over quiet enjoyable conversation.
Cheesy spinach frittatas with precious amounts of ham mixed throughout.
"Massimo, how do you know how to cook?" she inquired in a wondering tone, amazed to discover yet another proficiency to add to that of his eclectic person.
He smiled happily at her alit face, looking slightly amused with her surprise of his domestic capabilities.
"The kitchen is the best place to play as a child on cold, rainy days, cara mia. It is where the food is."
She laughed in delight then and he joined her, his deep, rumbling chuckle mixing pleasantly with hers.
And she loved him.
And now on this day, the one year anniversary of her gifted legs, she had shyly requested ingredients for a special meal for the evening and Massimo had listed a set of them on a slip of paper.
Placed it into her waiting palm, his face a reserved mask of unexplained mischief and delight, murmuring spaghetti alla puttanesca and gnocchi di latte.
And kissed her hand softly.
Shivers suddenly running up and down her spine, she had blushed.
She'd had no idea what those words meant, but anything sounded promising when murmured in his sonorous Italian accent.
So now she paid for her items, ignoring the curious stares of the shop owner.
A German lady, attractive and obviously well-to-do, buying her own groceries.
Italian groceries, no less.
Suspicious.
Elsa, however, paid no attention at all.
Her face was joyful and lovely as she gathered up her small bag of items, nodded to the inquisitive shop owner.
And walked smoothly, gracefully, out of the store on her shapely, wooden legs.
Confession time! I am sooooo not a cook. I'd love to be but I just have no feel for it. So if I committed any culinary or cultural faux pas, I apologize. You can pm me about it and I'll fix it, yeah?
And wow, such a great response to the continuation of the story! And such generous well-wishings for my aforementioned life event. You all are lovely, wonderful people. Thank you. The prospective patient says thanks as well. Though he's like 'uh, who are these people again?' Ha, he's not a fanfic-er but he's supportive of it for me because it makes me happy. :)
As for the excellent and most appreciated reviews, thanks to Foreverflfan88, Mango Marionette (oh gosh, don't do that, sweetie!), MaverickPaxAPunch, GG, brigid1318 (& positive waves out to you, my dear), and my kind mystery guest.
As for your inquiry, GG, I've actually got about 11,000 words already typed up for 'Jimmy, Not Moses'. The first few chapters are ready to go and it is a pleasant mixture of angst, hope, and the human capacity for humorous survival in the face of bleak darkness. I really rather like it so far myself. However, I thought I might stick to updating this one for now. And hey, then I might be able to do daily updates for the new one for a while. How does that sound?