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Post by Jenny on Oct 14, 2008 11:21:14 GMT -5
'Condition!' Cora Squalor cried incredulously. 'She's acting, Jerome, remember? Like she did fifteen years ago to convince you to marry her?'
Esmé sobbed again, raggedly, and Jerome turned to glare at his mother, and then at Colette Widdershins, who had the nerve to look defiant.
'So you think this is some sort of performance?' he asked, slowly rocking his wife back and forth in his arms, although that didn't seem to soothe her much. 'You think the last thirteen years of my marriage has been pretend? Just some sort of joke?'
'Well, it's happened before!' Cora cried. 'Don't you remember how you fell to pieces the first time she left you, Jerome? Don't you remember the way your father and I tried to help you while she was off gallavanting setting fire to things? And suddenly I'm the enemy!'
'You never gave her another chance!' Jerome replied, losing his temper to a degree he hadn't done for years and years. Nobody had ever spoken so bluntly about his wife to him when she was right there, and certainly not his own mother. 'Everyone deserves a second chance.'
Cora frowned. 'Well, that's just it. I'm afriad Mr Widdershins left out the most important detail, didn't he, Colette?'
Esmé gasped, and lifted her head from his shoulder for a moment look look at him, her blue tearful eyes widening and staring up at him. 'I didn't. Jerome, whatever she says, you mustn't listen, I promise-'
'She's having an affair,' Colette Widdershins interrupted bluntly. 'And, coincedentally, so is my husband.'
Jerome jolted at first, but he took one look at his beautiful, honest wife shaking her head sadly, and he knew instantly who he believed.
'They've made a mistake,' said Fernald after a second. He thought it best to clear his name, in case it wasn't quite clear enough. 'They're wrong. What would be the use of--'
'--It's OK, Fernald,' Jerome said quickly. 'I know. Nothing's going on.'
'But how do you know?' Cora asked. 'How can you possibly know, Jerome--they used to be lovers, and we all know what she's like for going back!'
If Jerome was ever going to strike a woman, it would have been his mother at that very moment. But then he paused, and turned back to his wife.
'Lovers?' he asked in a soft voice, so as not to upset her. She had never mentioned that. 'You never said--'
'I told you the story,' she defended. 'I told you what happened, remember? Fernald and I were friends and then Olaf--'
'--Yes,' he interrrupted. 'Yes, sweetheart, that's what you said. Friends. Aren't friends and lovers two different things?'
'Olaf found out,' Colette contributed. 'Why else would my husband have lost his hands? Seems suitable, doesn't it? And he wouldn't have taken them off over nothing.'
'She's always been a cheat, son,' Cora said. 'She hasn't changed.'
Admittedly, it was a dimension he hadn't considered and hadn't known, and it did change things a little.
'And we caught them,' Colette clarified. 'Kisiing.'
'On the cheek,' Esmé added quietly into his ear. She had given up the fight--she had felt all her strength go out from her the minute she had seen her husband, and all she really wanted to do now was find a razor and get herself back for upsetting her husband, and then take a few tranquilizers and go to sleep.
'Don't you see how it makes sense, son?' Cora asked quietly, and Esmé felt her husband's arms loosen a little from around her. Both of the revelations had left things a little blurrier in his head--she hadn't told him they'd been lovers, had she not thought that important? Suddenly, he was able to rationalize why Olaf had been so angry, whereas in her original telling of the story, that had been impossible.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 14, 2008 12:55:03 GMT -5
“Mother,” Jerome said, keeping his eyes focused on his wife as he spoke, “I think it would be best if you and Colette went into one of the other rooms for now. I’d like to talk to my wife— alone.”
“I’ll leave, too,” Fernald offered, and shifted his eyes across the room to his wife. “Colette and I have some things we need to discuss anyway.”
Jerome waited until his mother had left with the Widdershins before focusing all of his attention on his wife. “Why didn’t you tell me before,” he asked, “about you and Fernald?”
Esmé sniffed. “Because I didn’t think it mattered,” she said. “And isn’t that what you’ve always said? That the past is the past? Why should something that occurred between me and another man more than twenty years ago matter so much now?”
“It shouldn’t,” Jerome admitted. “And it doesn’t. But your honesty does. I just don’t see why you didn’t include your relationship with Fernald Widdershins in the story you told me the other day.”
Esmé shrugged. “I suppose it simply didn’t occur to me. It happened so long ago, and ended so badly, that I saw no point in bringing it up.”
“Did you love him?”
Esmé didn’t answer.
“Please, sweetheart,” Jerome said. “Just tell me the truth. I promise I won’t be hurt or angry.”
Pressing herself closer against her husband, Esmé closed her eyes and replied in a hoarse whisper: “Yes.”
“And that all changed on the night…”
Esmé nodded. “After that,” she continued, “I never saw much of Fernald. I knew that speaking to him was out of the question, because it would only make Olaf angry, and I guess Fernald knew that, too. He didn’t come around as much the way he used to, and we only saw each other on the weekends when we— when we took care of official V.F.D. business.”
Jerome knew that marked the end of the conversation, and he was about to ask Esmé if she would like a drink of water, when she said, “There’s one more thing I should tell you.”
“What is it, darling?” he asked.
“Emma wasn’t the only child I would’ve had,” Esmé said.
Jerome pushed her back a bit to look down into her face. “What do you mean? Are you referring to the baby that you and I—”
But Esmé shook her head. “No,” she replied. “There was another— or there should have been. It was about ten years before I met you, and when I was still living with Olaf. Our intimate relationship had been going on since I was eighteen, you see, and within two years I became pregnant. At first, I was so happy because to me it meant that I would have someone to love me again. But when I told Olaf the news, he said he didn’t want it, saying that I was all the responsibility he could handle. He said that if I didn’t want him to throw me out on the street, then I would get rid of the baby. I started crying then, explaining that I would get a job and take care of both me and my child on my own. Olaf simply laughed, telling me that I was too stupid and inexperienced to find a job that would pay good enough money. After that he walked away, but not before reminding me that if I didn’t get rid of the baby, then I would be kicked out of his house and his life forever.”
Esmé took a deep breath, as she came to the most difficult part of the story. “The next morning,” she said, and felt tears rush into her eyes, “I took a cab into a part of the city where I didn’t know anyone, and had an abortion done. Afterward, I went home and slept for three straight days. Olaf knew the reason why, but he didn’t care. He was just thankful that he wasn’t being forced to take up any unwanted responsibility. I don’t doubt that he told everyone in his acting troupe. The only one who cared enough to come and see me was Fernald, who brought me flowers and held me while I cried.”
Esmé hugged Jerome tighter, praying that he wouldn’t hate her now.
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Post by Jenny on Oct 14, 2008 14:40:51 GMT -5
She waited and waited for an answer, or the loosening of his arms from around her to show that he was disappointed, but that never happened. Jerome titled up her chin after a moment and placed a little kiss on her lips, and she could see etars dripping down onto his cheeks.
'My darling,' he said hoarsely, and held her face still to look at her. 'I love you so much. And I'm so sorry that Olaf,' he spat the name with such venom and loathing she could bearly recognize it as the same soft voice of her beloved husband. 'Forced you to do something so awful.'
'You don't blame me?' she asked quietly. 'I could have left, I could have left and done something, couldn't I? But I didn't.'
It was enough to make her want to take a razor blade to her arm again, regardless of how upset Jerome would be. Surely she deserved that at the very least--she had taken away a life before it had even begun. How could she justify that?
'I would never blame you for that,' Jerome said quickly, and his eyes darted around to check that he had removed all the knives. 'It wasn't your fault, my dear, surely you can see that--?'
'--But I could have tried harder,' she said softly. 'I could have fought for ir. And I didn't. I chose not to.'
'Olaf said he'd throw you out on the street,' Jerome said into her lavender scented hair. 'How was that your fault?'
'I don't know, Jerome,' she sobbed. 'I don't know how, but all I know is that I murdered someone, and--'
'That isn't murder!' Jerome cried. 'Darling, people have abortions for any number of reasons, and it isn't murder! What were you supposed to do?''
~
'What was I supposed to do?' Fernald Widdershins bellowed, and Faust stood frozen on the other side of the door.'Just leave her? She was going to hurt herself Colette!'
'How many times?' his wife cried, a high pitched shriek. 'I don't care, Fernald, and I don't care what you have to say about the excuses you have for kissing her, and I don't care if she cuts herself to ribbons, I just don't want you anywhere near her!'
'I wasn't--how dare you say that?' Fernald changed tack, horrified at his wife's words. 'What if she died?'
Colette let out abitter laugh. 'Oh yes! If she died! We'd all know how she deserved it!'
'For what?' the hook handed man replied. 'How can you say that when you know how terrified she is, how--'
'How can you say that!' Colette screamed, and Faust covered her ears. 'How can you defend her to me when I know all about what you've been doing behind my back!'
'What is wrong with you?' her father shouted back, and Faust felt the first of her tears slip out from under her pale lashes. 'Can't you see that it's been over twenty years since Esmé and I have even looked at each other like that, and knowing how it ended, how can you think otherwise?'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 14, 2008 17:35:53 GMT -5
“Because I hate her, Fernald!” Colette spat. “Because I hate her for being your first, and I hate her even more for her responsibility in the deaths of Hugo and Kevin. Because I hate—” “Stop!” Faust cried, tears pouring down her pale cheeks as she stepped forward. “Mommy, stop yelling at Daddy! And Daddy, stop fighting with Mommy!” “Now do you see what sort of trouble your overwhelming lust has caused?” Colette asked, throwing out one slender arm in the direction of hers and Fernald’s daughter. “You’ve gone and upset Faust, and now—” “It’s both of you!” Faust screamed. “Ever since we came here, you and Daddy have done nothing but argue! Mrs. Squalor has been nothing but nice to me, and you, Mommy— all you do is say mean things about her! It isn’t fair!” Colette lowered her long, slender arm to her side for a moment before coiling both arms around herself. She wasn’t sorry for being so open about her feelings towards the financial advisor, but she was sorry that she had upset her daughter. Colette stole a glance at her husband, whose own expression was filled with anger. “Faust,” Fernald said, his voice softer as he spoke directly to his daughter. “Why don’t you go find Emma?” Relieved for an excuse not to stand by and witness her parents arguing any longer, Faust nodded and left the room. She didn’t stop to listen outside the door for any further arguing from her parents, and instead began to walk briskly down the hallway in search of Emma. *** Carmelita had just gotten off the telephone with Nero (who was staying with the twins at a nearby hotel) and had stepped out of her room when she came across Faust. The little girl was crouched up against the wall in the hallway, crying softly. “Faust?” Carmelita asked. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” Wiping away her tears with the backs of her hands, Faust sniffled and then turned to face the attractive redhead. “I was looking for Emma,” Faust explained in between sobs. “But I can’t find her.” Carmelita was quite certain that there had to be another reason for Faust’s tears and not because she couldn’t find her friend. “I’m sure she’s around,” Carmelita said, and patted the girl’s shoulder comfortingly. “I think she said something about going to take a shower.” “My Mommy hates Emma’s mommy,” Faust replied tearfully. “And I don’t know why. Mommy said that I’m to stay away from Mrs. Squalor, and then Mommy got angry at Daddy because he was trying to keep Mrs. Squalor from hurting herself, and—” “Wait a minute, Faust,” Carmelita cut her off. “Do you mean to tell me that Esmé—” Faust nodded sincerely. “Something about cutting,” she said. “What’s going on?” Both Carmelita and Faust looked up to see Emma standing before them in a robe and a towel wrapped around her dark head. “Emma,” Carmelita said, and stood up. “I need you to stay here with Faust while I go talk to Mother.”
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Post by Jenny on Oct 15, 2008 12:57:59 GMT -5
'Why?' Emma asked, her face turning to a picture of panic to match her elder sister's. 'What's happened?'
Faust sniffed. 'My parents never stop arguing, that's what's happened! And Mommy hates Mrs Squalor and I don't understand why!'
'--And Esmé got rather upset earlier, or so I'm told,' Carmelita interjected. 'Don't worry about it, Em. I'll sort it out, if Jerome hasn't already.'
Emma nodded, but she was worried. It was never as simple as that, and she frowned at the thought of what that Colette Widdershins had done this time to cause her mother such upset. Before she could ask any questions about what had happened, Carmelita was disappearing down the hall to find her adoptive parents, leaving Emma and the sniffing ten-year-old alone.
'Why are you so upset?' Emma asked softly after a moment, leaning down to look Faust straight in the eye.
'Because my parents are arguing,' Faust said. 'Again. Maybe they'll never stop!'
Emma tried not to let out a little chuckle at that, especially when Faust had looked so adorably sad. She knew it was ridiculous to say that they wouldn't ever stop, but what if they got a divorce? What if they never made up?
'I don't know what to do,' Faust whined, sounding a lot younger now thats he was upset. 'I want to stop Mommy and Daddy from arguing, but I can't.'
'Well, what are they arguing about?' Emma asked, and Faust blushed.
'They're arguing about Mrs Squalor,' she said quietly. 'My Mommy hates her, remember? And Daddy likes her, and Mommy was upset about what happened at breakfast, and then something happened in the kitchen and now they're shouting.'
'I'm sure they'll work it out,' said Emma, sounding a little less concerned. If they were arguing about Esmé that was their problem. All she cared about was what Colette's stupid actions had caused her mother to do to herself in respone, and Emma silently vowed that if anything had happened to Esmé Colette would most certainly pay for it.
'What do you want to do?' Emma asked. 'Your parents can work out their problems on their own. I'm sure they'll make up, and they just need to talk--'
'--scream,' Faust corrected.
'--about it, and then things will get better.'
Faust looked up, teary-eyed. 'You think so?' she asked. 'You really think so? You don't think they'll get a divorce?'
Emma smiled down at the younger girl. 'No, Faust. I don't think so.'
~
'I hate you,' Colette Widdershins said, dabbing at her eyes in the ensuite bathroom of the bedroom she shared with her husband. She wasn't sure if he had heard her through the door that seperated them ,and the lock that kept it closed, but then a bang! let her know that he had heard her and decided simultaneously to take his anger out on the door.
'Come out of there, Colette!' her husband hissed angrily, and she didn't know what he had the right to be angry about. What had she done, except catch him red-handed?
'No!' she sobbed in response, and was ashamed to hear that her voice was so thick with tears. 'Leave me here, Fernald, and go and find Esmé. I hate you too much to care anymore.'
Fernald sighed, and rested his head on the oak panelling, guilty for leaving an indent in a door that wasn;t his, and that he couldn't pay to have repaired. They would have to hope the Squalor's wouldn't notice. 'You have to come out,' he said. 'Otherwise Faust will cry even more. Aren't you sorry for upsetting her?'
'Aren't you sorry for upsetting her? It was both of us, remember?'
'That isn't the point,' he replied. 'We'd neevr have been arguing if you hadn't been so horrible.'
'No,' she sighed into the mirror, noting the way her face had thinned out and her heeks looked hollow. No wonder he was looking elsewhere, she thought, and felt the tears sting her eyes all over again. I'm hideous. 'No, we'd never have been arguing id you hadn't been kissing Esmé Squalor and not being sorry for it!'
She waited for the reply, but none came. The next thing she heard was the click of the door leading out of their bedroom, and Fernald's footsteps disappearing down the hallway.
What had she done?
Perhaps he'd enevr forgive her. Maybe this was it; maybe he really would leave her one of these days, and take Faust, and go live somewhere else.
She placed her head into the crook of her elbow, and sobbed.
~
'Esmé!' Carmelita cried. She was a little pink from rushing around an incredible amount of rooms in search of her parents, and looked puffed now that she had finally stumbled across them. 'I heard you were----well, I heard----'
'Everything's fine, Carmy,' Jerome assured, 'Everyone had a bit of a misunderstanding.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 15, 2008 15:20:24 GMT -5
“So Esmé isn’t hurt?” Carmelita asked.
Esmé shook her head from where she still stood wrapped in her husband’s arms. “No,” she assured her adopted daughter. “I’m alright.”
To Carmelita, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and she took a seat beside her adoptive mother. She wanted to add “It was that horrible Mrs. Widdershins, wasn’t it?” But she didn’t. Instead, Carmelita put her arms around Esmé, hugging her tightly.
Suddenly, Carmelita was twelve years old again, sitting in the waiting room of Pincus Hospital. She was watching a much leaner Jerome pace back and forth in front of her, wringing his hands and shouting as if she wasn’t even there…
“I can’t believe this— I honestly cannot believe it! What would possess my father to burst into my place of residence and upset my pregnant wife?”
This was the first time in which Carmelita had seen just how much Jerome cared for Esmé, and in turn made the redheaded child realize what could have happened. At that moment, Carmelita leapt up from her chair and took off running in the direction that the paramedics had taken Esmé in.
“Carmelita!” Jerome called, and ran after his adopted daughter.
Carmelita rounded the corner, skidding across the slippery white tiles of the floor as she spotted Esmé through an open door. Quietly, Carmelita poked her head through and said softly, “Esmé?”
The brunette in the bed murmured something inaudible, followed by something else that sounded like Carmelita’s name. This encouraged her to step into the room, and she strode slowly over to the bed.
Dr. Leer had mentioned to Jerome that it had been necessary to give Esmé a drug to help her sleep, but had assured him that it wouldn’t harm the baby. Carmelita supposed that was why her adoptive mother appeared to sound a little funny as the girl settled down into a chair beside the bed.
Esmé’s pregnant belly was visible beneath the sheets, her slim hand draped protectively across it. Carefully, Carmelita reached over and covered Esmé’s hand with her own.
“I know you’re asleep,” Carmelita said, “and so you probably can’t hear me. But from now on, I swear to God that I’ll never let anyone hurt you for as long as I live.”
Jerome had shown up soon afterward, and smiled at the sight of his adorable daughter holding the hand of his beautiful wife.
“Carmy?”
Carmelita was drawn abruptly out of her daydream by the voice of her adoptive mother. Carmelita blushed at the realization that she was leaning heavily on Esmé, with her elbow pressing slightly down on the other woman’s stomach.
“Sorry,” Carmelita said, and went to straighten herself up. As she did, though, Esmé whimpered, and both Carmelita and Jerome looked at her in concern.
“Darling, what is it?” he asked his wife.
But Esmé shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said.
Jerome, however, was not convinced. “Do you have a stomachache?”
There was no way in which Esmé could convey the fact how she had so brutally punched something that her husband loved so dearly. This thought only caused more tears to come to her eyes, and she stood up to leave before anyone could ask her anymore questions.
But before Esmé could escape, Jerome caught her by the wrists and pulled her back. There was absolutely no way he was going to allow her to go off alone: for one thing, she would probably just go off somewhere to hurt herself; and for another, Olaf might spot her through one of the windows.
“I’m sorry,” Esmé said, as Jerome pulled her into another hug.
“For what, sweetheart?” he asked.
Esmé shut her eyes, feeling the tears loosen from their corners. “For punching myself in the stomach,” she replied, and felt her husband’s arms tighten around her. “I was going to tell you… I just didn’t want you to be upset. Because I know how much you love—”
“Don’t,” Jerome said, and kissed the top of her head. “You’ve punished yourself enough, my darling.”
Esmé whimpered, and the next thing she knew a second pair of arms had slipped around her. She knew they belonged to her adopted daughter, and she could have sworn that the three of them had stepped back in time to thirteen years earlier.
Esmé’s name meant ‘loved’, and she didn’t believe that the significance had ever rung truer than it did at that moment.
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Post by Jenny on Oct 16, 2008 14:52:26 GMT -5
Emma and Faust hadn't spoken much, both too engrossed in their own thoughts. Faust was worrying more and more about the state of her parent's relationship and whether it was likely to completely collapse, and Emma was frowning over whether her mother was alright or not, and whether it was Colette's responsibility. However, Faust eventually managed to get over her worries, and turned to the older girl.
'Do you want to play a board game?' Faust asked. 'Or dominoes? It might make you feel better.'
Emma didn't reply for a second, but then grinned. She could hear that Faust really just wanted to play dominoes to take her own mind off things, but she htought it might make her feel a little better too.
'Alright,' she said. 'Dominoes it is.'
Emma thought for a moment about where they might have been. She was pretty sure she kept the dominoes in her room, but maybe they were in the sitting room? She ducked into her bedroom first, and began rooting through the wardrobe, Faust lingering in the doorway.
And then she froze.
How had she been so stupid? The window was broken, ridiculously enough, and she hadn't even noticed on her way in. She crouched down slowly, hoping for a moment that her father had not seen her, even though she knew that was unlikely.
'Faust,' she said. 'Get away, into the corridor. Go and fetch Jerome, OK? Go and get Mr Squalor and tell him I need his help.'
Faust's eyes were wide. She had realized immediately Emma's mistake, and wasn't eager to leave her when she might be hurt.
'Please, Faust,' Emma said. 'You're no good just standing there, and besides you might get hurt. Go and get somebody, please. Anybody will do.'
So Faust nodded, and ran off into the corridor. She knew her mother was nearby, but avoided that at all costs--her mother would only make things worse. Where was her father? Where were Mr and Mrs Squalor? She didn't want Cora, so who else--
'Are you alright?' the soft voice of the younger, slimmer Mr Squalor, who smiled gently down at her. She turned quickly.
'You have to come with me!' she cried, not wondering for a moment what had happened to her manners. 'Emma's in her room by mistake, Mr Squalor, and she wants me to get someone to help her and I can't find anyone but you!'
Andrew nodded, feeling a little embarrassed that his hair was still wet and that he was dressed in his pyjamas now that he was needed to do something so important. It was the evening, at least, but that didn't seem to be much of an excuse.
'Alright,' he said, and Faust ran off, forcing him to jog in fear of losing her. How his brother managed to live in this labyrinth he wasn't sure, and how Faust already knew her way around was even more of a mystery, but he followed her nevertheless.
'Emma?' he called as he reached the door. 'Em, are you OK?'
'Yes,' she replied, and cursed herself for telling Faust to fetch anyone. The last thing she wanted was for Andrew to be hurt. 'What should I do?'
'Crawl back,' he said. The window reached very low, and Olaf would still be able to see her, but it might be more difficult to hit her if he tried. 'Try not to worry. You aren't going to be hurt.'
He wasn't so sure of that, but what else could he say? He simply crossed his fingers, and tried not to make himself too easily seen in front of the window.
~
Where the Hell were they all?
Olaf's eyes felt strange from looking so long, or from the amount of wine he'd consumed, but he was aware that the Squalors--or the Widdershins--were no longer in his view. This was Esmé's fault, as per usual--she was the one who'd seen him through the window after all, and she'd probably hidden everyone. How was he supposed to shoot in the right places if he couldn't see where they were?
It was almost as if she wasn't going to help him. For the first time in his life he was al ittle unsure whether she would. Esmé only had thirteen hours to change Andrew's will, kill him, go to the bank and subtely wire everything to him. It didn't seem like a lot, especially as it was six o'clock and everything had closed, and he fully intended to have kidnapped her by tomorrow morning at nine o'clock anyway. It seemed a shame. What was the big deal about the other Squalor ponce anyway? He wasn't important, he was just rich.
Olaf swung his telescope again, and then caught sight of a blurry figure, and stopped. It looked like...he adjusted the focus. He didn't think it was going to be Esmé crawling across the floor, but he hadn't been sure, and they did both have identical hair. So it was Emma--why was she there? Hadn't her mother told her that the Big Bad Wolf was watching from the opposite apartment?
And then he looked a little further. Was that Jerome? Maybe he'd gone to the gym for the first time in his pointless, poncy life.
Or perhaps this was Andrew Squalor.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 16, 2008 19:15:40 GMT -5
Seeing the handsome man made Olaf wonder what Esmé could possibly see in Jerome, with his pudgy face and enormous stomach. Not only that, but his fortune was nothing compared to that of his younger brother, a thought which caused the villain to throw back his head and cackle maniacally. Imagine Esmé Squalor, preferring love and affection over looks and the greatest of wealth. It was an absurd thought, considering the type of person she had been when Olaf had known her, and he cackled louder. He soon recovered, and peered once more through the telescope. Emma was still on her hands and knees, crawling towards the door where the man was standing with a small, blonde-haired child. The girl looked very much like the contortionist Olaf had once known, but her eyes were of someone else completely. “Why, Fernald,” Olaf said, and zoomed in on the younger girl’s face. “You sneaky, son-of-a—” He paused, and began to consider his options carefully. If the blonde-haired child was anything like her mother, then she would prove to be extremely trusting. He had seen Andrew and his fat brother lock all of the windows, and so there was no way Olaf would be able to get into the penthouse without breaking one of the windows. That would surely attract some attention, which was the last thing he needed if his plan was going to succeed. “Fernald,” he said, “your little offspring is about to prove very useful to me indeed…” *** Emma threw her arms around her uncle, while Faust threw hers around Emma from behind. The three of them edged their way out into the hall and continued to hold tightly to one another for the next few minutes. “Do you think he saw us?” Emma asked. “Probably,” Andrew said, seeing no reason to lie to his niece now that they were safe. “But at least he didn’t launch another attack. And for that, we should all be thankful.” “He’ll be coming soon, though,” Faust said fearfully. “Won’t he?” “Yes,” Andrew replied. “But don’t worry. We’ll make sure to have the welcome committee ready and waiting for him.” *** “Jerome, really, I’m fine. You don’t have to—” Jerome leaned forward, and pressed his lips against his wife’s mouth to quiet her. She was lying down on the bed, while her husband’s hand held the bottom of her blouse. She felt a little better in regards to her confrontation with Cora and Colette, but Esmé was still shaking on the inside from the events still to come. “I need to,” Jerome said, and tugged up Esmé’s blouse. There, in the center of her stomach, was a noticeable black and blue mark. He let out a sad little chirp, and then leaned forward to gently kiss her injury. It suddenly occurred to Esmé that this might be the last night in which she would feel her husband’s lips and his hand caress her stomach. The thought summoned up tears to her eyes, and she turned her face into her pillow to cry. Jerome’s fingertip traced a heart from Esmé’s ribcage to the area just below her bellybutton, and she let out a small sob. He looked up, and his face fell to see once more that she was crying. “Thirteen hours,” Esmé whispered. “In thirteen hours, one or more of us could be—” “No,” Jerome said, and crawled up onto the bed beside his wife. “You mustn’t think that way, my darling.” Esmé sobbed again, and rolled over so that her husband could cuddle her. His strong arms closed around her, and she felt warm tears loosen from her eyes and roll down her cheeks. “I love you,” she said. “I love you so much that it hurts, and I—” One of Jerome’s arms had loosened from around her, and now his hand was very gently rubbing her stomach. Aside from the tranquilizers, having her belly rubbed was the only other medthod to calming her down whenever she was upset. She hadn’t realized this until her pregnancy with Emma, when Jerome’s obsession with his wife’s stomach had made itself known. His hand could be as cold as ice, but warm instantly when it made contact with her belly. His fixation for it may have seemed unusual to an outsider, but it was something that had brought them closer together and given them both incredible happiness. “I love you, too,” Jerome whispered into Esmé’s hair, and tightened his arm a little more around her. *** Colette had spent the entire afternoon in her and Fernald’s bedroom, crying and reflecting on her actions. She could no longer stand to look at herself in the mirror, and had curled up underneath the bed and fallen asleep. “Colette?” She thought she heard an indistinguishable voice coming from somewhere behind her, but fought to stay asleep. She was still angry with her husband and had no desire to speak to him, nor anyone else, for that matter. “Colette. If you’re in here, then it would help if you responded.” Knowing that neither the voice nor its owner had any intention of going away, Colette gave in and opened her eyes. “Down here,” she murmured. She opened her eyes to see a familiar pair of Doc Martens, which were scratched and worn with age. Their owner walked over to the bed and stopped. “Come on out from under there, Colette,” Fernald said. “We need to talk.”
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Post by Jenny on Oct 17, 2008 15:22:03 GMT -5
Had she not been a contortionist, Colette would have looked a little foolish climbing out from underneath the bed with her husband standing above her, arms folded sternly. However, it took her mere moments and a well placed flip to arrive seated on the bed, and she then stood.
'About what?' she asked, wondering if he had noticed that her cheeks were still a little wet. She felt like making a nasty comment about Esmé, but supposed she'd made enough of those. And they weren't making Fernald any more reasonable, certainly.
He didn't say anything for a moment, and panic gripped her. What if this was The Talk? That We're-No-Good-For-Each-Other Talk? That talk everyone has at some point, and nobody likes? What if Fernald had finally tired of their arguments, and wanted a divorce? He would get Faust, because she was so unfit to look after her, so then what would she do? She hadn't any family, hadn't a job, hadn't anything except him, and her little girl, and if they both went then what would she do?
'I know what you're going to say,' she breathed, tears coming to her eyes again. 'You want to talk. Doesn't leave me in much doubt, does it?'
~
After her agme of dominoes with Emma, Faust found herself once again alone. Emma had decided to go to bed early, and Faust hadn't felt like it much. Emma was still insisting on sleeping in her parent's room, and so Faust had felt a little awkward anyway standing there.
She didn't want to find her parents. They were probably arguing, still, and they were going to be upset with her for her outburst earlier. She didn't like Mrs Squalor--the elder of the two--much, she looked a little too stuck up and old, and so she avoided crossing in to her rooms, and kind Andrew (as he had insisted she call him) just sat there in front of the fire, staring intently into it with tired eyes.
And so, Faust was left well and truly alone.
When Faust became bored, she often stopped thinking things through. And this was exactly what happened.
And so, she found herself crossing into one of the rooms to the left side of the penthouse, where the windows weren't safe to look through, into a large sitting room. She kept one eye on the window, curious. Could he see her yet? What would happen when he did?
When nothing happened for five minutes, Faust crossed the room, and stood directly in front of the window, laying on hand on it. She wished she had a telescope--all she could se was the blurry figure of a man staring ahead at her.
Just as she was about to stop pushing her luck and get behind something, the man did the strangest thing.
He lifted a hand, and waved.
Faust's little eyebrows shot up. What? Wasn't he going to harpoon her, or something? Or was he just saying hello? So instead of walking away, Faust pressed her nose into the glass and waited, waving back.
~
And, starting on his sixth bottle of wine, Olaf let out a raspy chuckled.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 17, 2008 16:51:27 GMT -5
He lifted his hand slowly, watching closely to see if the girl would do the same. When she did, he stopped his hand, and she mimicked his gesture. Olaf smiled, and waved to the girl once more. She waved back, and he let his hand drop, not surprised when she lowered her arm in response. This was going to be easier than he had intended. *** “Colette, you’re acting like a child. I haven’t even said what I came to tell you yet.” Colette was sitting curled up on the bed, her head tucked between her arm and her chest so that she couldn’t hear her husband very well. She was perfectly willing to keep it that way, but Fernald had other ideas. She soon felt him wrap his arms around her and tug her up into a sitting position. “Does it really matter?” Colette asked. “I already know what you’re going to say, Fernald, so the least you can do is take Faust now and—” “And do what?” Fernald asked. “Where would we go? What would you do? There’s a madman out there who means to do everyone in this apartment harm. And it hurts me to know that you would even consider the idea that I would leave you just because of a few arguments. I love you no less than I did a few days ago before we even came here. That is what I came to tell you, love. That just because we’ve argued, it doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you. And even if I did leave with our daughter, I would never deny you visits with her.” Colette felt tears come to her eyes at Fernald’s words, and a moment later she began to sob. “But I’m not beautiful!” she cried. “I don’t have Esmé’s hourglass figure, and I am incapable of making my own husband happy like she can hers, and I—” Her voice broke, and her words trailed off into incomprehensible French. Fernald pulled his wife up into his lap, and stroked her blonde curls gently with one hook. “But you’re wrong, Lette,” he said, using his special nickname for her. “You are beautiful, and you do make me happy.” “You’re just saying that,” she answered. Her voice was thick with a combination of sobs and her French tongue, which made it difficult for her husband to comprehend her. “I’m hideous, and you know as well as I do that it’s true!” Fernald tightened his arms around Colette as much as he could without the fear of hurting her. She was so small and fragile, that sometimes he didn’t hug her as tight as he would have liked for fear he might accidentally crack one of her ribs. “Enough,” Fernald said. “Just stop it. I don’t think you’re hideous, and shouldn’t the words of your husband be enough to convince you of that?” Colette supposed this was true, and she pressed her tear-stained face into her husband’s shoulder. “I suppose it is,” she replied, and let out a shaky little breath.
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Post by Jenny on Oct 18, 2008 12:27:51 GMT -5
With one last wave at the figure in the apartment across the road, which was promptly returned, Faust stepped back from the window, fearful that someone might catch her. This man that everyone was afraid of hadn't fired a dart at her, or tried to hurt her, he had just waved at her. Waved. What was so evil about that?
Maybe there was another side to the story. Maybe he wasn't as bad as Emma and Mrs Squalor made him seem.
The figure waved back enthusiastically, and Faust turned and slipped back into the right side of the penthouse before anyone noticed she was gone, vowing to return the next morning, to see if the man who waved was still around, and try to determine whether he really was as evil as he had been made out to be.
~
When Esmé awoke the next morning to her husband and daughter conversing quietly around her, it took her a couple of minutes to remember why Emma was there, and why Jerome was so worried.
And when she did, she shot up and grabbed her husband's arm.
'Have you checked all the rooms?' she demanded, words tripping over each other with sleep. It was half-past eight! Why had nobody woken her sooner? She had an hour and a half to prepare herself for whatever Olaf had planned. 'Is your brother OK?'
Jerome jumped a little--having checked his wife only a second ago and found her heavily sleeping, it was a bit shocking to find her so suddenly wide awake.
'Everyone's fine,' he assured. He reached over to run a hand affectionately through her hair, but she still looked very troubled. 'What's wrong?'
'What's wrong?' she replied incredulously. 'It eight-thirty, Jerome! What are we going to do?'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 18, 2008 13:34:58 GMT -5
Jerome had spent a significant part of the night trying to figure out an answer to this. Then, at three in the morning, he had finally drawn upon the conclusion that they would simply be forced to barricade themselves in one of the larger bathrooms. He had gotten up an hour earlier and explained this to his brother and Fernald, who had promised to pass on the plan to Cora and Colette. Only a few of the penthouse bathrooms had windows, and so it would be impossible for Olaf to spot them. Now, Jerome’s only worry was his mother and Colette. He knew that his wife wasn’t going to be pleased at all about the arrangement, but what else could he do? Surely Cora and Colette would understand the danger they were all up against, and would make an effort to stay as quiet as possible. “I’ve asked everyone to gather in the bathroom at the west end of the penthouse,” Jerome explained. “It has no windows, so we’ll be safe there for the time being.” “And then what? How long will we be forced to stay there?” “I’m not sure. But for now, my dear, it is the only hope we have.” “Will your mother and Colette be there?” Jerome nodded, and watched helplessly as his wife’s eyes filled with tears. “I promise,” he said, and squeezed her hand, “that I won’t let either of them upset you again.” Esmé shook her head sadly. “I honestly don’t know if I could survive anymore of their ambushes,” she said. Jerome was not about to take the words of his beloved wife lightly. As a reminder of just how deeply his feelings for her ran, he leaned down to kiss her. “I love you,” he said. “And if you find yourself experiencing any unpleasant thoughts, just focus on me.”*** While her parents’ backs were turned, Faust had sneaked off back to Emma’s room where she had first seen the Shadow Man. Honestly, how could someone who knew how to play shadow possibly be evil? Faust soon reached the room that was now off limits to everyone in the penthouse, and stepped inside. She hurried over to the window and looked out. She saw nothing. Faust was about to consider heading back to her parents’ room before they noticed she was gone, when she heard an audible tap-tap-tapping coming from the window leading out onto the balcony.
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Post by Jenny on Oct 18, 2008 15:44:59 GMT -5
Faust crossed the room cautiously, half-expecting a pigeon to have flown right into the window. How would the pigeon's know where the sky ended and the glass began all the way up here?
But as she reached the balcony, a figure appeared in front of her, and he raised his hand and waved at her. She understood.
He had a strange mop of brown hair, and looked to be about sixty or so. Faust had to wonder how on Earth he had gotten all the way up here. There were no stairs on the outside of the building , so unless this was Spiderman, she didn't see how he had managed it.
He motioned for her to open the glass door that led out onto the blacony, and without thinking much about it, she did so. He smiled gently at her.
'Good morning,' he said politely. 'Thank you for opening the door, it's just I---'
'Are you the Shadow Man?' Faust interrupted before she could help herself. The man looked a little angry at her at first, but quickly schooled his expression into one of kindness.
'Shadow Man?' he asked, brow furrowing--and that was when she realized. He shared the same one eyebrow as her friend Emma, and his eyes were quite a bit like hers. This was her father.
'The man who waved,' she clarified, and before he could answer, moved onto another question. 'And also, are you Emma's father? I've heard about you.'
The man smiled a toothy grin, and held a shabby hand out to her. 'Yes, that's me,' he said kindly. 'I know it must look pretty weird that I'm on her balcony, mustn't it?'
Faust nodded without a second thought.
'Well,' he continued. 'The thing is, I haven't been allowed to see Emma for a long time. And being her father, that's very difficult. Could you imagine if your father wasn't allowed to see you? How upset that would make him?' Faust nodded again, and started to like the man. Perhaps he wasn't bad at all. 'Well, that's what's happened. And I miss her terribly. But Es--Mrs Squalor won't let me see her,' he convinced. '
'But why?' Faust enquired. 'Everybody's frightened of you.'
'Mrs Squalor and me never got along very well,' he lied. 'And I'm afraid she's been telling you all things about me that aren't true. I do hope you haven't been taken in too much by her, have you?'
'My mother told me not to go near her,' Faust said truthfully, and started to wonder if her mother had been right all along.
'Your mother sounds like quite a sensible woman, Faust,' the man nodded. 'After all, I'm just normal. Nobody has any reason to be frightened of me. I just want to see my daughter, and nobody will let me. So that's why I'm here.'
Faust nodded understandingly. 'So...do you want me to go get Emma?' she asked.
As attractive as that prospect was, Olaf mused, he had another far crueler idea in mind. He would have her eventually, anyway.
'No,' he said. 'I don't want to shock Emma like that. Could you go fetch Mrs Squalor for me?'
'Ok,' Faust said, but again the man held up a hand.
'But don't tell her it's me,' he said quickly. 'If she knows I'm here, she won't come out. And then she'll tell Mr Squalor, and I might never get to see Emma. Can you make something up, instead?'
Faust nodded, and didn't for a second wonder of the implications.
~
Just as the Squalor's had begun to get ready for the day, Faust knocked at the bedroom door, and entered before being asked to.
'Mrs Squalor,' she quickly addressed the woman who was still dressed in a nightgown. 'I need to show you something.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 18, 2008 17:23:56 GMT -5
“What is it, dear?” Esmé asked. “You’ll see,” Faust said. “Follow me.” “Can’t you just tell me what it is?” Faust shook her head. “I can’t. It’s hard to explain.” “Where is it?” Esmé asked. “It’s in Em— in the library,” Faust said. Esmé turned to Jerome. “You go ahead,” she told her husband as she pulled on her white overlay. “Emma and Carmelita are probably halfway to the west side already. Faust and I will be along in a little while.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to—” Esmé reached up with both hands, and gently squeezed Jerome’s cheeks. “You’re so adorable,” she said. “And I love you so much.” Before Jerome could respond, Esmé kissed him heavily on the lips. “I’ll be right back,” she added, and started to turn towards the door. Suddenly, she stopped and met his eyes. Without warning, she threw herself into his arms, and hugged him tightly. “I won’t be long, darling. I promise.” Jerome hated to loosen his arms from around Esmé, and as he watched her leave with Faust, he vowed not to leave the room. Just in case. *** Esmé knew that something was amiss the moment Faust paused before the door leading into Emma’s room. “Is something wrong, Faust?” Esmé asked. Faust glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Squalor, and shook her head. “I think I left my doll in here the other night,” Faust lied. “I’m just gonna go and check real quick.” Esmé was not about to forget the incident with the darts, and she reached out to put a firm hand on the child’s shoulder. “No, Faust,” Esmé said. “It isn’t safe.” “Will you come with me?” Esmé smiled. “What about this: you tell me where your doll is, and I’ll go get it for you?” Faust thought this a brilliant idea, and she nodded. “Would you?” she asked. “Oh, thank you! It would mean ever so much to me, Mrs. Squalor. The balcony door, Esmé knew, was only a few rows down from the window in which the dart that had nearly hit her husband had sliced through. She would be putting herself in harm’s way once more, but the doll seemed to mean a lot to Faust. In spite of the child’s horrible mother, Esmé had actually begun to adore the hyperactive ten-year-old. It made the financial advisor reminisce of what her own life had been like at that age, when she’d had nothing to cling to but a cat food can, and how she felt during all the times she had misplaced it. Esmé smiled. “Yes, darling,” she said. “Now, you wait right here while I go look.” Esmé stepped into the bedroom, remembering to duck down low as she approached the glass door. She looked around, but all she saw were Emma’s school uniform and messenger bag. “Faust,” Esmé said. “Where did you—” “Hello, Esmé.” Esmé felt an icy shiver run up her spine at the sound of the sinister voice, and she had to force herself to lift her head. Standing there on the balcony before her in a pathetic disguise and leaning against the open door was Count Olaf. Esmé let out a petrified shriek and turned to run. It was at that moment when her villainous ex boyfriend lunged forward and caught her by the wrist. She felt herself fall against chest, his scraggly hand pressing down on her stomach so that she couldn’t move. She was ignorantly unaware of his other hand slipping into his pocket and retrieving a handkerchief soaked in chloroform. “Jero—!” Esmé was just about to scream when she felt the moist cloth as it closed over her mouth.
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Post by Jenny on Oct 19, 2008 5:33:33 GMT -5
{OK, this is a bit long I kept adding to it because I had some time on my hands } Faust had realized something was amiss, and edged a little further into the room. They weren't talking; didn't he say he just wanted to talk? The room was silent by now, and it wasn't until Mrs Squalor's breathing had levelled and her eyes closed, that the man Fasut had spoken to grinned at her. 'What are you doing?' Faust asked, horrified. Was Mrs Squalor hurt? 'You said you--' '--You've been very helpful indeed to me, Faust,' he interrupted, and reached up to remove his wig with a flourish to reveal a bald, shiny head. 'Just as I thought you would be.' Suddenly, Faust realized what this meant, and placed the shiny eyes of the intruder back to the tall man that had confronted her father in the street the day before yesterday. She almost screamed, but managed to restrain herself. 'But you said you wanted to see Emma,' she said quietly. 'You said you just wanted to speak to Mrs Squalor. Why are you--' '--I've no more patience for your babbling,' Olaf said rudely. 'I fooled you, Faust, just like Mrs Squalor fooled your mother and father. Is that so hard for you to comprehend?' Faust didn't have an answer for that, and slowly backed away and out of the door, before breaking into a run back oto the master bedroom, unknowingly offering the Count the perfect escape opportunity. ~ 'Mr Squalor!' Faust screamed, running back into the bedroom (once again before being asked). Jerome had insisted on waiting for his wife to return before going to the west side of the penthouse, and the moment he heard Faust's voice his heart fell, and he knew something was wrong. 'Mr Squalor,' she said, and her little eyes were filled with terror and tears. 'You have to come with me, it's Mrs Squalor, she's in Emma's room, and there's this man who's got her, you have to come now!' Jerome was on his feet in an instant, but he cursed himself for never attempting to lose any weight; he wasn't able to run fast to come to his wife's aid, even with Faust dragging him along by his sleeve urgently. His eyes had clouded with tears by the time they arrived, but no-one was there. The only thing that was left of what had happened was a damp cloth and a little note in the center of the floor. Faust had let out a little sob and headed frowards to look on the balcony, but Jerome reached down to pick up the items. He didn't want to sniff the cloth himself just in case (if he poisoned hismelf now, what good would he be to his terrified wife?), but he guessed it was probably covered in chloroform or something similar. But it was not this that bothered him the most. Squalor, the note read. Listen out for the phone. I have terms.OlafJerome slowly lowered his head into his hands and felt the tears loosen from his eyes. How could he have let her go alone? What had he been thinking? 'Why was she in here, Faust?' he croaked, trying to regain some contro over his emotions and failing. 'I thought you were going to the library.' Faust's face was streaked with tears, and she could barely get out the words to answer. 'I'm so sorry, Mr Squalor!' she cried. 'The m-man said he j-just wanted to s-speak to Mrs Squalor, I d-didn't think--' If he was completely honest, Jerome was quite ready to strike Faust for her stupidity. He tried to reason that the ten-year-old didn't know the consequences of her actions, but he couldn't stop himself from becoming angrier and angrier by the second, no matter how many tears the little girl shed. 'Jerome?' Emma asked, catiously heading into the room, her eyes already betraying her concern. 'Jerome, what's wrong?' 'It's your mother,' he said hoarsely, feeling the sobs come over him again. 'She's gone.' Emma didn't need to be told twice, and she also raced over to the balcony door, which was open. 'But how?' she sobbed back at him. 'How did Olaf get here, and how did he get mother back?' Before Jerome could point an accusing finger at Faust, a loud ring sounded, and although the two girls ignored it, thinking other issues were more pressing, Jerome remembered the note, and ran as fast as possible to reach the telephone. On it's fourth ring, Jerome finally managed to reach it. ' Yes?' he sobbed into the phone, and the voice on the other end laughed. 'Lovely morning, isn't it?' the raspy voice asked nonchalantly. 'It's going to be a beautiful day, I think.' Jerome spluttered, unable to come up with words insulting enough to say to the man who had kidnapped his wife. ' Where is she?' Jerome cried, slamming his fist unconsciously down onto the table. 'Who?' Olaf replied, enjoying the game. 'I was just speaking to you about the weather, don't you know it's terribly rude to interrupt?' 'Stop it!' Jerome hissed. 'I know it was you, we all know it was you, what do you want with my wife--' '--Nothing,' Olaf replied. 'Well, not specifically. I just had to have a hostage to make sure of your co-operation.' Jerome said nothing in response, just clenched his jaw. 'In order to get your beloved wife back,' Olaf continued. 'Firstly, you have to find a way to wire me your brother's fortune, and secondly, you have to willingly give my daughter to me. Within twenty-four hours.' Jerome couldn't have thought of a scenario crueler. He was being asked to give the child he considered his daughter up for the woman he loved so unconditionally. 'What about just the money?' Jerome reasoned hoarsely. Olaf let out a raspy chuckle. 'No,' he responded. 'That isn't good enough, Squalor. If you don't give me the money and my daughter I can promise you won't ever see your treaured wife ever again. Clear?' Before Jerome could answer, Olaf had hung up, and left him standing, shocked at the proposal. What were they going to do? The money was a troublesome subject--of course, Jerome himself would gladly have lived without a penny as long as he could keep Esmé and Emma, but how could he expect Andrew to do the same?--but what troubled him even more was the prospect of having to give Emma up to get his wife back. As much as it would hurt him, he couldn't do that. ~ Esmé awoke groggily, and uncomfortably. The first thing she noticed was that she was terribly cold, and still dressed in her nightgown and dressing gown, and that whatever she was lying on was incredibly hard. The second thing she noticed was that the dark, dank room she had awoken in was not the master bedroom, and that the man sitting by the window with a telescope was not Jerome. 'You weren't out long,' Olaf said, without turning to look at her. 'I've just finished a nice friendly chat with your husband.'
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