Hey, guys! I'm sorry it took me a bit longer than normal to get this chapter up. I had writer's block for a few days, but thankfully it didn't last as long as it usually does (thank God!). Anyway, chapter three introduces Olaf's parents, William and Nancy, who are named for Bill Sikes and his girlfriend, Nancy, from Charles headphonesens'
Oliver Twist (or rather
Oliver!— the musical version —since I was picturing Oliver Reed as Olaf's father the entire time I wrote this). This will probably mark William and Nancy's one and only appearance, and I want to thank Jenny for her suggestion in regards to their background.
I would also like to thank May, who first came up with the idea for Esmé's medical condition in our RP,
A Tale of Three Friends.And even though not all countries celebrate it, I hope everyone has a wonderful Halloween.
Tomorrow I am making parsley soda and Friday I will be dressing up as Esmé. Maybe I'll post some pics.
Anyway, enough about me. Here's chapter three...
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The harsh wind blew ruthlessly through the trees of the cemetery as Esmé placed a small vase containing a single red rose beside her mother’s grave. Even with the generosity of Kit Snicket, Joseph Salinger had been unable to purchase a tombstone for his wife’s grave. The only evidence stating that anyone was actually buried beneath the damp earth was a flat, brass marker.
It was a chilly Sunday afternoon in late November, and Esmé had decided to spend it visiting her mother. Now fifteen, Esmé had been living under the watchful eye of Count Olaf for almost three years. He still struck and belittled her, often in front of his acting troupe and always on a daily basis. Other than Fernald Widdershins, no one seemed to think much of it or even care. Esmé managed to make it through the days by telling herself that Olaf’s behavior was normal: he responded to her stupidity the way he did as a way to teach her right from wrong. If she awoke one morning with a black eye, then she had no one to blame but herself.
The only person who saw things differently was Fernald. He came by the apartment every evening with the rest of Olaf’s acting troupe, and sometimes in the mornings by himself to see Esmé before she left for school. She and Fernald had formed an exceptionally close bond since the night of her thirteenth birthday, and she always looked forward to spending time with him. He often took her out for ice cream and— if Olaf wasn’t insisting that she stayed at home and cleaned the apartment —sometimes to the movies.
More than an hour had past since Esmé had left the apartment. She knew that if she didn’t leave now, then she would be facing the wrath of her guardian the minute she walked through the front door. She was still nursing the split lip she had received four days earlier, but had managed to conceal the worst of it with red lip gloss.
Esmé was just about to rise, when she heard the front gates open with a squeak from behind her. Expecting the caretaker, she turned to see Fernald standing with his hands dug deeply into the pockets of his trench coat.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.
Esmé smiled, and rose slowly from her place on the ground. “Not at all,” she assured him. “I was just about to start heading back anyway. I’ve said all I need to.”
Fernald nodded, and focused his eyes on the church a few yards away. “If I didn’t know you as well as I do, then I would assume you had come here to make a confession.”
“I’ve nothing to confess.”
Fernald briefly examined Esmé’s swollen lip, but chose to say nothing. Every time he did, she would accuse him of not knowing what he was talking about. He had learned long ago that she was perfectly capable of crying herself into a fit when given the opportunity, and hours would often pass before she could stop.
“Olaf is requesting your presence back at the apartment,” Fernald said. “He says it’s urgent.”
“Did he give you any details?” Esmé asked.
“Not a single one.”
“Well, I can’t say that surprises me. I’ve lived with Count Olaf for three years, and I have yet to learn what the eyes covering the walls of his apartment mean.”
Fernald watched Esmé step awkwardly over the tombstones lining the churchyard, somewhat amused when the heel of her shoe stuck firmly into the cold ground. She wriggled her foot a little until her heel came loose, and then made her way over to the gate.
“I swear,” said Fernald as the girl took him by the arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I don’t know
how you manage to walk all this way every Sunday in those things.”
Esmé glanced down at the high heels she had purchased at the thrift store. “Tolerance,” she replied, as she and Fernald stepped out into the world of the living once more. “By the end of the day, my ankles are so swollen I can hardly walk two feet without pain.”
Fernald laughed. “Then why on Earth do you wear them?” he asked.
“For
style,” Esmé answered matter-of-factly. She shook her head so that her long, black hair caught in the wind.
During the walk back to the apartment, they past the Very Fancy Desserts Bakery. Fernald took a quick look over his shoulder at the front window, to which Esmé responded by tugging at his arm.
“Don’t even
think about it, Fernald,” she said. “Olaf already told me that I’m getting fat, so the last thing I need is—”
Fernald tore his gaze from the window and stared at Esmé in disbelief. “He actually
said that?” Fernald asked.
“Yes. Because I go out with you for ice cream too often.”
Even as Esmé explained, the words did not register to Fernald, and so all he could do was shake his head in disgust. Anyone with half a brain could tell just by
looking at Esmé that she wasn’t overweight by any means, but rather the opposite. Fernald was able to feel the girl’s ribs through her clothing every time they embraced. One of the reasons he took her out for ice cream at least twice a week was because he felt she could
stand to gain a little weight. He knew that Olaf had discouraged this simply for an excuse to keep Esmé to himself, giving no thought to what it was doing to the girl’s self-esteem.
“You
aren’t fat,” Fernald insisted, and planted a kiss on Esmé’s forehead.
She rolled her eyes, but smiled all the same before resettling her head on his shoulder. “I weighed myself last night,” she said. “I’ve gained
four pounds since last month.”
“Because you’re still
growing.” Fernald laced his arm around Esmé’s waist, tugging her a bit closer to protect her from both the cold and her own thoughts.
“Olaf says that if I can’t fit the costume, then he’ll give my part to Kit Snicket in his next production.”
As far as Fernald was concerned, Esmé was speaking pure nonsense. He knew that if he stood her and Kit side by side, it would take less than a moment to tell whose figure was the fullest. Olaf’s only reason for messing with Esmé’s mind in such a cruel way was all due to his hunger for control. The fact that she was already so impressionable only made it easier for him.
The walk back to the apartment from the cemetery took just under twenty-five minutes. When Esmé and Fernald arrived, they found a dark blue Volvo parked on the opposite side of the street from the building. Esmé did not recognize the automobile as one belonging to any of the residents, and she looked to Fernald for an answer.
“Someone must be having company,” she said.
“Obviously,” Fernald replied. “And it doesn’t take a guess to figure out who the host is.”
He said nothing more as he and Esmé crossed the street to the building. She was still holding tightly to his arm as they entered and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Olaf insisted that Esmé carry a spare key with her at all times, since he locked the apartment door every time she stepped out. Only once had she forgotten her key during a run to the grocery store around the corner. Shortly after she came to live with him, she had returned to find the apartment door locked. She was forced to spend the entire night out in the hallway, and by the next morning the milk had soured and the celery was discolored. Olaf had let Esmé in, but not before she swore to him that she had learned her lesson.
Now, sliding her hand into the pocket of her coat, she withdrew the key and unlocked the door of the apartment. As she pushed it open, her ears immediately picked up the sound of Olaf’s voice. It was accompanied by two other voices: one male and the other female. She was just about to step inside when she felt Fernald’s hand close tightly around her forearm.
“What’s wrong?” Esmé asked.
But Fernald merely shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, and promptly let go of her arm. Olaf had been shooting Fernald looks of disapproval lately every time he showed Esmé the slightest bit of attention. Fernald couldn’t understand it, considering the fact that Olaf was a fully grown man, while Esmé herself was (legally) still a child.
With Fernald following close behind, Esmé entered apartment and stepped into the living room. It was there she discovered Olaf conversing with a man and a woman whom she immediately recognized.
The man had dark, greasy hair hanging in front of his eyes. This quality gave him the appearance of a villain directly out of a horror movie, which also made him look very, very threatening. He was the type of man who had probably been quite handsome in his younger days, but all of the years he had spent drinking had slowly drained away his looks.
Esmé watched the man pick up a bottle of wine from the coffee table and pour the remains into a glass. He lifted it to his lips and downed the contents in a single gulp.
The woman sitting beside him was slight, with the same soft brown hair and single eyebrow as Olaf. Her eyes were a very pale blue, and looked quite sad. They had dark circles underneath them, as if the woman hadn’t slept in quite some time. She would have been pretty if it wasn’t for the unsightly scar running down the left side of her face.
Olaf turned from where he stood before the couch on which the couple was sitting. “Hello, Esmé,” he said. “We were just talking about you. You remember my parents, William and Nancy, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” Esmé said, and smiled politely at the couple. “It’s very nice to see you again.”
“It’s been a while,” William admitted, and crossed his right leg over his left before leaning back. “Nancy and I were away at another conference, but we’re back now.”
“There’s a very important reason why my parents have dropped by,” Olaf explained to Esmé. “A reason that has to do entirely with
you.”“With me?” Esmé asked.
“You’re a very clever girl,” Olaf went on, and Esmé felt as though her heart would rupture from happiness. It was the very first time in which her guardian had referred to her as ‘clever’ where his voice had not been lined with sarcasm. “And V.F.D.
needs clever members like you.”
“’V.F.D.? What’s that?”
“V.F.D. is an organization,” William explained. “The initials stand for Volunteer Fire Department.”
“Esmé is sixteen now,” Nancy asked her son. “Isn’t she?”
Olaf nodded, and smiled in Esmé’s direction. “A month from now she will be.”
“Then it’s settled,” William said. “Esmé will be recruited into the V.F.D. Training School in January.”
“Training school?” Esmé asked. “For what?”
“So that you can prepare yourself,” Olaf explained, “for your new career as a volunteer fire fighter.”
“We’re all members,” Nancy said. “William and I first became acquainted through the organization many years ago.”
Esmé turned briefly to stare at the walls, and then refocused her attention on her guardian’s company. “And the eyes?” she asked. “Do they serve a significant purpose?”
“The eyes,” William said, “are the official insignia of the organization. That’s why so many of us have tattoos.”
“Is
every member required to get a tattoo?” Esmé asked.
“We used to be,” Nancy clarified. “But the rule was dropped several years ago. Now, we only get tattoos by choice.”
“The V.F.D. Training School is a
boarding school,” Olaf went on. “So you’ll be living there in addition to receiving an education.”
Esmé’s mouth dropped open, and she glanced quickly over her shoulder at Fernald, whose eyes were focused on the floor. It broke her heart to think that he was as upset upon hearing this news as she was.
Esmé turned back to Olaf and his parents, her eyes full of desperation. “But… but isn’t it
my choice?” she asked. “I don’t have to go if I don’t want to, do I?”
Nancy looked as though she was getting ready to say something, but William covered her hand. She lowered her head, and he spoke in her place. “The choice is yours, of course,” he said. “But if you refuse, I can guarantee that you’ll be throwing away a valuable opportunity. The school has very strict regulations: they won’t accept any new recruits more than a year after their sixteenth birthday; and not more than one month after the start of the semester.”
“But I don’t
want to spend my life fighting fires,” Esmé told them honestly. “I want to go to fashion design school and possibly become the next Coco Chanel.”
Olaf cackled nastily. “Oh?” he asked. “And whose pockets do you suppose the money to pay for this
fashion school is going to come out of? Mine?”
“Well, I thought I could get a job after I graduated high school.”
“You’re barely
passing high school! Your last progress report was so lousy that I’d sooner use it to wipe up spilt wine than stick it on the refrigerator. So how in Hell’s name do you ever expect to succeed in the working world?”
Esmé felt like crying, but allowed Olaf to go on with what he was saying. She knew that if she pointed out the real reason she was doing so poorly in school (which was due to all of the chores he was constantly assigning her), then she would regret it.
“You’re lucky my parents are willing to pay the
training school so you can have a bloody future!” he shouted.
The notion as to what would happen if Esmé said anything to contradict Olaf vanished as she felt her anger take over, and she retorted: “Well, I didn’t
ask for a future fighting fires, did I?”
Olaf lunged across the room and seized Esmé harshly up by the wrist. As he dragged her out of the living room and into the kitchen, the last thing she saw was the worried face of Fernald staring after her.
It was only a matter of seconds before Esmé felt herself being shoved up against the kitchen wall, her eyes stinging as she forced back tears.
“You stupid girl,” Olaf growled. “Why must you
insist on making a fool of me?”
Esmé was trembling too much to speak. When it became apparent that she had no intent on answering the question, Olaf took the next approach. Rearing back his arm, he made a fist and slammed it hard into Esmé’s left eye. She let out a pitiful shriek, which echoed off the walls of the kitchen. She fell to the floor, her eye throbbing intensely.
“I’m not
blind, Esmé,” Olaf said. “I
know what’s keeping you from accepting my parents’ offer.”
Esmé said nothing, and instead waited for Olaf to say what she was already thinking.
“Fernald,” he continued. Lowering her hand away from her face, Esmé looked up. The vision in her left eye was a little fuzzy, but she could see the menacing figure of Count Olaf through her right eye just fine. “And don’t you
dare try to tell me I’m wrong, because you know damn well it’s true. I’ve
seen the way he looks at you— all that time the two of you spend together. Well, I’ve got news for you, sweetheart: you’re
going to that school, and that man is going to forget all
about you. When I became your guardian,
you became my protégé. Do you know what that means?”
Esmé shook her head.
“It means that you’re my responsibility,” explained Olaf. “Without me, you would have
nothing. You’re
incapable of surviving on your own, and so you need
me to guide you.” He knelt down on the floor in front of Esmé, frowning as she turned her head towards the wall. “Look at me.”
Somehow, she was succeeding in keeping her tears from falling. And perhaps
this was why her guardian suddenly smiled as she turned to face him.
“I’m proud of you,” Olaf said, his voice astoundingly kind. “You aren’t crying as I expected you to.”
Esmé wasn’t sure what to say. But she was afraid that if she failed to respond, then Olaf might react violently. “I—” she started. The words caught in her throat, as she felt his thumb slide underneath her chin and tilt back her head.
“Crying is a sign of weakness,” Olaf whispered in a voice that was almost sweet. “And the last thing I want is a weak girlfriend.”
“But I thought it was
Kit who—”
“Who’s to say the two of you can’t
share me? And she never has to know. Not unless you tell her.”
Esmé felt her cheeks grow scarlet as Olaf leaned in closer to her face. “I won’t tell her…”
“Good girl.”
As if in exchange for her promise, the Count pressed his lips softly against Esmé’s mouth. Her mind seemed to go blank, and the only thing she was aware of— besides the feeling of his lips on hers —was the fierce pounding of her own heart.
By the time Olaf pulled away, Esmé was blushing profoundly. She had completely forgotten about his violent outburst, and all she could think of was how much she had enjoyed that kiss. It had been her very first, and she could still taste the sweetness of the wine that his lips had left on hers.
“I’ll go inform my parents that you’ve changed your mind,” Olaf said, and stood up. “I’m sure they’ll be pleased to hear that you’ve come to your senses.”
He left her standing in the kitchen, with her face awe-struck and her eyes sparkling. Even as her eye began to swell, the foolish smile on her red lipsticked mouth prevailed. She was in such a state of intense wonder that she didn’t even know that Fernald had entered the kitchen until she heard him speak.
“He struck you again, didn’t he?”
Fernald’s words pulled Esmé away from her daydreams, and dropped her into a pit of self denial. “No,” said Esmé, who didn’t consider a strike and a punch to be the same thing at all.
“Your eye is swollen.”
“A bruise heals quicker than a wound.”
Instead of arguing with Esmé, Fernald headed over to the refrigerator. He opened up the freezer and took out the rump roast that she would be required to cook for Thanksgiving dinner the following week. He wrapped the roast in a dishrag and then returned to her side.
Esmé was staring at the entranceway, as if she expected Olaf to return at any moment. Fernald shuttered inwardly at the thought, and told Esmé to sit down at the table. Once she was settled, he sat beside her and pressed the roast against her eye.
“It’s too cold,” she complained. “Aren’t there any bags of vegetables or” —she crinkled up her nose and sniffed —“anything that
doesn’t smell like frozen blood?”
“I’m afraid that this is all there was,” Fernald replied patiently. “It may be unpleasant, but at least it’ll keep your eye from swelling shut.”
“Olaf and I discussed it and I— I’ve decided to go to the training school after all.”
“Even if it isn’t what you originally wanted?”
“I want it
now,” Esmé insisted. “I thought about it, and realized that fashion school is nothing more than a childish desire that’s never going to come true. It’s better that I see that now and be disappointed than later and be distressed. Besides…” She smiled. “I’d rather hear the truth from someone who loves me than a stranger who doesn’t care.”
The idea that Olaf could ever love anyone but himself had never even occurred to Fernald. “Did Olaf
tell you that he loves you?” Fernald asked.
“Not exactly,” Esmé admitted. “But he” —she blushed, and momentarily avoided Fernald’s eyes —“he
did kiss me, right before he left.”
“You mean
after he struck you.”
“What does it matter now anyway? The point is that he
loves me. I
know he does. Striking me is just the only way he knows how to show it.”
Fernald didn’t look at all like he believed this. “What about
you?” he asked. “Do
you love him?”
“I do,” Esmé said. “I’ll do anything he asks me. I’ll believe every word he tells me. Just as long as I know he loves me.”
“But what if he doesn’t? What will you do
then?”“Pretend.”
Fernald couldn’t help looking at Esmé as though she had gone mad. After more than two and a half years of suffering abuse at the hand of her guardian, perhaps a part of her
had. “But you have so much more to live for than what Olaf has planned for you,” Fernald said. “You don’t
have to be a volunteer if you don’t want to.”
“I already
told you, Fernald,” Esmé reminded him. “I
do want to! But I
can’t do it if you
insist on standing in my way!”
The sudden change in her tone caused Fernald to let go of the roast, and it fell to the floor with a loud
‘splat!’ “What are you talking about?” he asked. “What did Olaf tell you?”
Esmé frowned, and Fernald could already see the beginning of a bruise forming around the girl’s left eye. “Only that you’re holding me back,” she said, and the shame in her voice was evident. “And I believe he’s right, Fernald. I’ve grown too attached to you.”
Fernald wanted to question how it was at all possible for the mind of a (nearly) sixteen-year-old girl to be changed in just a few minutes. He had always known Olaf to have an extremely persuasive air about him. Fernald didn’t doubt that the Count had used this skill to his advantage, and convinced Esmé that she wasn’t suited for anything other than battling flames.
Fernald decided to take one last stab at getting Esmé to be honest with him. If she still insisted on being recruited into the V.F.D. Training School, then so be it. But he had to try just one last time— for her sake, and perhaps for his own sake as well. “Are you
positive this is what you want?” he asked.
Esmé stared at Fernald for an entire minute without saying a word. Then, just when it seemed as though she might say something truthful, Count Olaf appeared before them.
“Come along, Esmé,” he said. “My parents have some important forms that require your signature.”
Esmé nodded, and rose slowly up from her chair. Taking one last look at Fernald, she turned and walked across the kitchen to where Olaf was standing. As he put his arm around her, he shot Fernald a hateful glare from over his shoulder.
Olaf mouthed the words “Don’t interfere” and then stepped out of the kitchen, his arm wrapped tightly around Esmé’s shoulders.
***
The month of December soon arrived, and with it so did Esmé’s sixteenth birthday. Along with his entire acting troupe, Olaf had also invited his parents to the occasion. However, Nancy had come down with a case of the flu and would be unable to attend the occasion. Fernald had heard Olaf and William arguing over it in the kitchen shortly after he had arrived, but didn’t dare inquire about the details.
For the first time, Esmé received birthday gifts from someone other than Fernald, who had bought her a brand new pair of black boots. The other gifts included a necklace made to resemble an eye from Olaf, and the official uniform of the V.F.D. Training School from William and Nancy. Everyone agreed that the uniform was a perfect fit except for Olaf, who claimed the knee-length skirt was too tight around Esmé’s hips.
“You’ll have to slim down some more if you want to fit into it properly by next month. I
was going to let you have one small piece of your birthday cake, but now I see that would be the worst decision I could possibly make,” Olaf said, and smiled cruelly as Esmé tore back up the stairs.
Afraid of being Olaf’s next victim of verbal abuse, Fernald looked down at the floor. He was sitting on the couch between Olaf and William, each of whom reeked heavily of cheap booze and cigarettes. Fernald saw this as the perfect opportunity, and excused himself to go upstairs to the bathroom.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he was about to turn the corner that led to Esmé’s room when something caught his attention. It sounded distinctly like someone retching. Since all of Olaf’s guests were downstairs, that left only one person.
Fernald raced down the hallway to the bathroom. He tried the knob, only to find it locked, and then pounded on the door with his fist. “Esmé,” he said. “Are you alright in there, love?”
When the response was another agonized retch, Fernald saw no other choice but to break down the door. Ramming his foot against it, the door swung open to reveal Esmé, kneeling on the floor by the toilet, her finger lodged halfway down her throat.
“What in God’s name—”
Esmé slid her finger out of her mouth just as tears began to swim at the corners of her eyes. Rather than scold her, Fernald instead bent down and scooped the adolescent up into his arms. She began to sob into his shoulder as he carried her back across the hallway to her room.
Very carefully he lay her down on her mattress, frowning at the jagged spring like the ones she had cut herself on at least twice that he knew of. The deep scar running from her right ankle to the start of her leg was proof enough of that. He had tried to solve the problem by flipping the mattress over, but there was another spring that looked even more dangerous. Fernald had even offered to get Esmé a new mattress with a bed, but Olaf had insisted that what she already had was more than she deserved. After that Fernald had attempted to saw off the first spring, only to have another pop up in its place a few months later. He had repeated the process several times, and made a mental note to do it again for this newest spring as soon as he could.
“I’m sorry, Fernald,” Esmé said tearfully as he flopped down on the floor next to her. “But Olaf is right. I
am too fat, and this is the only way I can successfully change it.”
Fernald could already feel a brutal hatred burning within him towards Olaf for what had befallen Esmé. But Fernald knew that if he brought it to the attention of the Count, then Fernald would be paying as dear of a price as Esmé already was.
Brushing back the hair from her tear-stained face, he asked softly, “How long has this been going on for?”
Esmé shrugged. “About a month, I suppose,” she said, and sniffed.
“You shouldn’t let what he says affect you.”
“But it
does. I know it shouldn’t, but when he says things like that to me I just… I can’t
help but believe in his words.”
Shaking his head sadly, Fernald leaned over and kissed Esmé on her damp cheek. He would have done nearly
anything to be able to kiss her on the mouth, but somehow he doubted she would like that. Even as she lay there, sobbing into her pillow, she still looked so unbelievably beautiful.
“Would you like me to go downstairs and make you some soup?” Fernald asked.
“No, thank you,” Esmé replied.
“What if I just brought you up a bowl of crackers instead?”
She shook her head.
“Esmé, you’ve got to
stop this foolishness,” Fernald said, frustrated that he could do nothing to change her mind. “You’ll only succeed in making yourself ill. Besides, you’re thin enough already.”
“Olaf doesn’t think so,” Esmé mumbled into the pillow.
“Screw what Olaf thinks! Do you
really intend to live the rest of your life based entirely on someone else’s opinion of you?”
“His opinion means
everything to me. I’d gladly live the whole rest of my life being unhappy, just as long as I knew he was proud of me.”
“But…” Fernald began. “How can you still love him when he treats you no better than a stray dog?”
“Because,” Esmé said, and rolled over on her mattress so that she was no longer looking at Fernald. “I know that the feelings I have for him are reflected back at me through his own heart. I can see it every time he looks at me; I can feel it whenever he touches me, and taste it each time he kisses me. I know it’s there, and that, Fernald, is good enough.”
Fernald wasn’t at all sure what to say in response to Esmé’s words, and so he simply chose to say nothing at all. She was still wearing her uniform, and he could see the curve of her waist through her dark blue blazer. He stretched out his arm and began to rub gently at her back, feeling her tremble beneath his touch as she let out another quivering sob. He had to steer his focus away from where her green plaid skirt had ridden up to reveal a sample of her milk-white thighs.
Had Esmé been two years older, and if she hadn’t already had eyes for someone else, then Fernald may have found the courage to lean down and kiss her on the hip.
“I’ll go downstairs and fix you a ginger ale,” he said, and left the room before he did something he would regret.
***