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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 19, 2008 13:02:33 GMT -5
[I'm sorry this took me so long to type. It's also quite long, so...] Esmé had no trouble recognizing the man whose profile was turned toward her, and she felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickle. “Olaf,” she murmured, and then: “What have you done with Jerome?”It was at this point when the villain finally turned to face his former accomplice and lover. “Funny,” he said, and grinned a familiar yellow-toothed smile at the woman lying on the long, wooden table in front of him. “But I thought the first thing out of your mouth would be something more along the lines of how out dim light is.” This, of course, was the last thing on Esmé Squalor’s mind, and so she simply repeated her question. Olaf shook his head before throwing it back, tapping his bottom lip in thought. “I’m sorry,” he said calmly, “but you have me very confused, Esmé. You’re the same physically, but mentally you’ve become a different person altogether. Unless you’re acting, which at this point is completely meaningless.” “It isn’t an act,” Esmé answered defensively, and sat up a little on the table. “I’m genuinely worried for my husband. Now tell me what you did to him!” Olaf turned around, leaning on his right knee while he supported the rest of his body on his left heel. “I did absolutely nothing in regards to harming that foolish paunch,” he answered casually. “That ‘nice friendly chat’ I mentioned before was done over the telephone.” “Call him back,” Esmé said, her eyes filling with tears as she thought of how frantic Jerome must be. “I want to talk to him.” “Later,” Olaf said. “If you be especially nice to me and do everything I tell you, then I might let you talk to him when he calls back.” “What about the others? My daughters? If you’ve even—” Olaf held up a hand, a gesture he had begun using long ago on Esmé every time he wanted her to be quiet. It had always worked, and she was ashamed to admit that she often used this same gesture when she wanted her husband to stop pressing her for answers. “They’re all fine,” Olaf assured her. “Perfectly safe. The only person I have any use for is you— for now.” “What do you want with me?” Esmé demanded. She had always known how to speak to Olaf and often gotten him to bend to her whim, but she wasn’t so sure of that anymore. Now that they were neither lovers nor accomplices— not to mention that she was completely terrified of him —she wasn’t so sure she had the same advantages she used to. Olaf stood up, and slowly advanced over to the table where his former girlfriend was sitting. He reached out, and gently stroked the bottom of her chin like he had done when she was still a child. “My dear,” he said, “you’re about to play the most important role of your life…” *** “What do you mean Mrs. Squalor has been kidnapped?” Fernald Widdershins asked. Faust had just burst into her parents’ bedroom and blurted out in a strew of (mostly) incomprehensible words the story of what had happened back in Emma’s room. “I didn’t know!” Faust sobbed. “Honest, Daddy! I didn’t know that he was going to kidnap Mrs. Squalor— he told me he just wanted to talk, and to make something up ‘cause then she wouldn’t come with me, and—” “Who, Faust?” Fernald asked, and shook his daughter a little in an attempt to make her focus better. “Who told you to bring Mrs. Squalor to Emma’s room?” “The Shadow Man!” “What did he look like?” “He was tall,” Faust said. “And he was bald.” It was at that moment when Faust remembered what the man had said to her, right before she had run to get Mr. Squalor. “He said he fooled me,” she said. “Like Mrs. Squalor fooled you and Mommy. Does that mean he’s good like us, and that Mrs. Squalor is the enemy?” To Faust’s surprise, her father shook his head. “No, love,” he said. “The only enemy here is Olaf. That person you call The Shadow Man was really Olaf in disguise.” “So he… he lied to me?” Fernald nodded sadly. “But why’d he do that?” Fernald couldn’t bring himself to tell Faust it was because she was not only young, but incredibly impressionable. It had always been her biggest fault, as she was so easily led astray by others and made it easy for them to take advantage of her. He didn’t blame her for what had happened, but he hardly blamed Jerome if he did. “Emma hates me,” Faust said in a small voice. “And so does Mr. Squalor.” “Faust?” Both she and Fernald turned their heads in the direction of the built-on bathroom to see Colette standing in the doorway. She was wearing a charcoal gray sweater that was far too large for her unusually petite frame, and a dark green peasant skirt. Her blonde hair was neatly combed, and for once she seemed to be wearing makeup. Fernald would have liked to tell her how pretty she looked, and would have had he not been so distracted by the problem at hand. “Sweetheart, you’re crying,” Colette said, taking notice of the fresh tears in her daughter’s eyes and on her cheeks. “What—” But before Colette could get any further with what she was saying, Faust had broken free from her father’s arms and sprinted across the room to her mother. It wasn’t meant to be anything personal, but Faust felt so ashamed for what she had done that she felt an overwhelming sense of desperation that only her mother’s comfort could make go away. Faust flung her arms around Colette’s extremely slender waist and began to sob. “Mommy,” she said, “I’m sorry! But I did something really stupid…” *** “Faust is so stupid!” Emma vented to her uncle as she and Jerome stood with Andrew in the study. “What the hell was she thinking when she opened the door and let in the one person the rest of us were all trying to keep out?”
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Post by Jenny on Oct 19, 2008 13:33:45 GMT -5
'I suppose she didn't know,' Andrew asked, having only finished digesting what had happened to his siter-in-law. 'She's only a child, Emma. I'm sure she didn't do it on purpose.'
He looked as if he had anticipated his brother's agreement, but Jerome stared ahead into space uselessly, and said nothing. Andrew was starting to worry dreadfully about how his brother had set his eyes forward, and not looked away since, as if transfixed on nothing. He had never seen Jerome so shaken, and it irked him more than he could possibly explain.
'But how can anyone be that stupid?' Emma cried. 'He just appeared on the balcony, and Faust didn't even ask how he'd gotten there or what the hell he was doing?'
'Obviously not,' Andrew said calmly, and crossed the room to tug his niece into a hug, as her stepfather seemed to have no intention of moving at all. 'It's OK, Emma,' he said, though he felt as if he were addressing Jerome. 'We'll get Esmé back. Nothing will happen to her.'
Emma broke out of his grip, and he could see that in those few moments her anger had turned into overwhelming terror. 'How can you know that?' she sobbed. 'What if--'
'--No,' Andrew said quickly. 'No, you mustn't think about what could happen. We'll have Esmé back in no time. Won't we, Jerome?'
His brother said nothing, and Andrew sighed, and sat down across from him.
'Jerome,' he said softly. 'Emma mentioned that you've a note. Does it say anything important?'
Jerome didn't answer for moment, and then wearily shook his head. 'He wants--' he began, voice changed from not speaking for sucha long time, and from holding down his sobs. He glanced at Emma quickly, and hoped Andrew understood. 'And he wants your money.'
Andrew nodded. 'Well, I'd assumed that,' he said. 'Did he say anything else?'
'No,' Jerome croaked. 'Only that we have twenty-four hours.'
'Until what?'
Jerome sniffed. 'I don't know,' he replied. 'But I don't want to find out.'
~
'He won't,' Esmé said quickly, and swung her legs around to the front of the table so that she might attempt a run if needs be. 'How can you think that would work?'
Olaf looked a little angry, and she was a little afraid he might strike her, but then he just returned to something resembling normal.
'It will work,' he insisted, and with thin, bony fingers brushed her hair back from her neck. She shuddered a little too openly, and he scowled. 'Your stupid husband will do anything to get you back,' he reasoned. 'Even if that means giving my daughter back to me. She's not his anyway, so what makes you think he'll keep her and make himself miserable?'
'He doesn't see it like that,' she said, and almost shook her head. 'As far as my husband is concerned, Emma is his.'
Olaf scowled again. 'Well, she isn't.' he said bluntly, and turned away from her once again.
Esmé waited a couple of minutes before saying anything, fearful of the reaction. 'Are you going to call him back?' she asked in a voice that she willed to be strong and came out very weak indeed.
Olaf laughed again. 'I don't know,' he said, though it was obvious he had already made up his mind. 'You don't seem to be co-operating much.'
Esmé gritted her teeth. It would be worth it. 'I'll co-operate,' she responded. 'After you let me speak to Jerome. He won't do anything unless he knows I'm alright.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 19, 2008 18:07:07 GMT -5
“So it would seem,” Olaf said, and smiled.
Esmé recognized the smile as the same one that had appeared every time he got an idea. The crueler the idea, the broader his smile became. And this was the broadest Esmé had seen it be since he had asked her to assist him in burning down the mansion belonging to the Quagmire family.
“You know,” Olaf went on, tracing Esmé’s collarbone with his fingers in a way that reminded her of a pendulum. “It would be quite fun to dispose of you… just to watch that pathetic fool fall completely apart before my very eyes. But of course—” Olaf gripped the edges of the table and leaned down so that his and Esmé’s faces were just inches apart. “—that all depends on how well you behave, my dear…”
Esmé could smell a combination of cheap booze and cigarettes on his breath. She tried to turn away, but he seized her face in his hand and forced her to look at him. She could feel his sharp, serrated nails cutting into her sensitive skin like the razorblade she had used on herself two days ago. She was too scared to realize it at the time, but the memory had caused a tear to roll down her cheek. Olaf’s smirk disappeared, and he let go of her.
“Stop that!” he hissed. “You know how I can’t stand to see you cry.”
Had Esmé been younger and more naïve, she would have assumed this was because seeing her cry tore him up inside. But in reality the meaning for his words were based solely on the fact that watching her shed any tears caused him to become profoundly irritated. In her teens, she had learned to be strong and to never shed a single tear while in the presence of the Count. Instead, she had waited until she was either alone by herself or with Fernald, before releasing any of her emotions.
But those days were gone now. Esmé had surpassed her days as a naïve child, and she had tired of hiding her feelings behind a sadistic smile and a heated temper. Those days had ended the moment she had discovered there was a life growing inside of her. At that point, she had stopped ignoring the only thing left in her life that was real and true.
Jerome.
“Please,” Esmé said, and wiped the tears from her eyes as best she could. “Just let me call my husband and talk to him. Just for a minute.”
“You disgust me,” Olaf spat. “What the hell’s happened to you? You used to not give a damn about that idiotic billionaire. Now, you’re crying like a baby just because I dare to deny you him?”
“I love him!” Esmé shouted through her tears. “He saved me from the fire you set, and took me back regardless of everything I put him through! He is my husband, and he means more to me now than you ever did!”
What happened next was all a blur, but the next thing Esmé knew she was on the floor underneath the table, holding her stinging face. The tears came even more easily now, and in her mind all she could hear was the sound of her own voice, screaming her husband’s name.
Olaf had struck again.
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Post by Jenny on Oct 20, 2008 11:41:38 GMT -5
'Wait, what?' Colette Widdershins was forced to ask, looking down at her daughter intently. 'You're aying a man appeared on the balcony where you shouldn't have been in the first place, and you just let him kidnap Mrs Squalor just like that?'
'I didn't mean to!' Faust sobbed, and Fernald felt so sorry that he scooped the ten-year-old up into his arms and set her against his shouler. Of course she hadn't meant to.
'Faust,' Colette continued. 'Faust, have you any idea what you might just have done?'
Before Faust could answer, Fernald sent a glare in the direction of his wife. Far from wanting to tell her how pretty she looked, he was starting to become extremely annoyed with her for not seeing how frightened Faust was, and how little she was helping.
'Thought you hated Mrs Squalor,' Faust murmured into her father's shoulder. 'Since when did you change your mind?'
~
Cora Squalor hadn't been utterly unaware of all the commotion going on inside the penthouse, she had just not endeavoured to seek it out and find the reason, However, after an hour or so, she decided she'd best find out what had gone on.
'Andrew,' she said, entering the room she had seen both of her sons conversing in, and addressing her prefered. 'What's all the noise for? Has something happened?'
At that, her eldest son buried his face in his hands again and started to sob. Andrew looked as if he had spent a great deal of time trying to get Jerome out of that state, and sighed heavily.
'Mother,' he said. 'Esmé's gone.'
'Gone?' she asked. 'Just left, did she? How shocking.'
'She was kidnapped, Mother,' Andrew hissed, and glanced at Jerome as if mildly afraid. 'Olaf turned up on the balcony, and--'
She shook her head. 'Whatever you say, son,' she said softly. 'I'm sure it makes everyone feel better to think that she hasn't abandoned them, but I'm afraid I'm just not naive enough to believe it.'
Andrew shook his head, and shrugged. 'OK,' he said. 'Fine. But if it's you he gets next, don't expect anyone to leap to your rescue.'
~
'I hate you,' Esmé said quietly, and she was ashamed to hear her voice tremble. 'I hate you, and I want to call my husband!'
Olaf had taken up his post at the window again, and infuriated her further by choosing to ignore her.
'Didn't you hear?' she asked. 'I want to--'
'Shut up!' Olaf turned furiously. 'The more you tell me you want to call him, the less likely it is to happen.'
'But--'
'--And if you say the words 'Jerome', 'husband', or 'call' in your next sentence I'll hit you again.' He turned back to the telescope, and peered through it, annoyed when he couldn't see anybody. 'Very clever of you to move everyone so I couldn't see them, Esmé,' he continued, and popped open another bottle of wine. He hadn't been using glasses--no patience for pouring it--but gallantly poured one for his ex-girlfriend and passed it across to her.
'Drink it,' he growled, when it became obvious she had no intention of doing so. 'It might make you a little more bearable.'
Esmé had slipped out from under the table and pressed the back of her hand to her face, which felt red and painful, and eventually complied, taking an extremely small sip and then laying the glass back down.
'If I'm so unbearable,' she said. 'Then why did you--'
'--You know perfectly well why,' Olaf hissed. 'I couldn't rely on everyone giving into my demands with anyone else. I was planning Emma at first, but how would I know that Jerome and that other Squalor would have paid me billions for her return? You were the only sure way of me getting the money.'
She didn't see it fit to point out that Jerome would have given anything for Emma, and simply held her tongue.
'It was ever so funny to me,' Olaf said, swigging the wine again. 'That you've actually chosen the less attractive, less wealthy brother.' He let out another chuckle: the notion still hadn't loss it's humour. 'What, is the other one not interested?'
'I love Jerome,' she said insistently, just as before. Why did she need a reason other than that?
'Why don't you say anything interesting anymore?' Olaf asked angrily. 'You were never very clever, but this sort of behaviour makes me miss your ridiculous fashion-ramblings.'
She shook her head. She knew the jab at her intelligence had been a vague comparison to Kit, but she couldn't find it within herself to care much.
'Is Emma clever?' he asked after a moment, malice creeping back into his voice. 'We can all see she looks like you, after all, and she acts like you. She must be like me somehow.'
'She isn't,' Esmé defended. 'She likes to read, likes to shop.'
'Likes to act,' the older man said, and she fell silent. 'Funny what she's inherited from us, isn't it? And how you've tried to turn her into Jerome.' Before she could say anything about that, he was stalking across the room again, and crouching down in front of her. 'I know you've said you don't want to come with us when we go,' he said, and she knew he was referring to Emma. 'But why don't you consider it further--think, nothing's really changing. You won't even be leaving money behind. Surely you won't choose to willingly stay with a penniless Jerome and leave me with the money and our daughter?'
'I would,' she insisted. 'And it won't come to that. You'll never get Emma, and you'll never get the money. Jerome knows you won't hurt me, even if he doesn't give you a penny.'
Olaf grinned from ear to ear. 'I won't kill you,' he reasoned. 'No, not unless I get a reason for that. That doesn't mean I can't hurt you, love.'
She hadn't looked at him for as long as he'd been speaking, but instead had followed his left hand, lest he strike her before she was aware of it. However, when he finally did move it, he only chose to lower it, and rest it on the tie at the front of her gown.
Just as she had been comtemplating picking up her glass of wine and drenching him in it, the phone rang.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 20, 2008 18:03:38 GMT -5
Esmé breathed a silent sigh of relief as Olaf took his hand back and got up to answer the telephone.
“What?” he said into the receiver.
“Is the person to whom I am speaking,” returned a voice that the villain did not recognize, “Count Olaf?”
“Indeed it is. Who the hell is this?”
The person on the other line did not seem the least put off by Olaf’s uncouth greeting, and answered in a firm voice: “Andrew Squalor. I’m calling to inquire about my sister-in-law.”
“I must admit,” Olaf said, and winked at Esmé from across the room, “I’m surprised that your brother didn’t call me himself. I expected the phone to be ringing off the hook all morning.”
“Jerome is devastated,” Andrew went on. “He’s so overcome with worry and grief that he can’t do much of anything at the moment.”
“From what I’ve gathered, he never does much of anything aside from devouring pancakes.”
“Let’s get to the point of why I’m calling, Olaf.” The authority in the other man’s tone surprised the Count, and he wondered if Andrew and Jerome were really related at all. “I’m perfectly willing to wire you my entire fortune— as long as you can guarantee the safety of my sister-in-law and agree to leave my niece alone.”
“I’m sorry, Squalor,” Olaf said. “But if you insist on handing over only half of what I asked for, then the deal is closed.”
“Let me talk to Esmé.”
“I’m afraid she is unable to come to the phone right now.”
Olaf could hear the sound of Andrew Squalor grinding his teeth on the other line. “Put her on,” he demanded.
Olaf glanced briefly over at Esmé, who sat staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Very well,” he said. “One moment.” He crossed the room and placed the phone in Esmé’s trembling hands. “One minute,” he told her warningly, and stepped back as she pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hello?” she asked in a small, trembling voice.
“Darling?”
Esmé felt her eyes fill with fresh, hot tears at the sound of her beloved husband’s voice. “Jerome?” she said, and then lowered her voice to a whisper just in case Olaf was listening. “Honey, is it really you?”
“It’s me, Esmé,” Jerome replied, and Esmé could tell from his tone that he had been sobbing for quite some time. “Are you alright?”
Esmé couldn’t help it, and let out a sob as she felt two tears roll down her cheeks. “I’m fine,” she said, unable to reveal the fact that Olaf had struck her only moments ago. “Oh, Jerome— I miss you terribly.”
She heard a desperate sob escape him on the other line, and she would have given anything to be able to take him in her arms and cover his face in kisses right then and there. “I miss you, too, my love,” he said. “And I promise you that I won’t rest until you’re safe and sound in my arms.”
Esmé sniffed. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, though she knew that such a thing was impossible for Jerome. He worried about her every second of every day, and she loved him dearly for it. “Your job is to make sure everyone there with you stays safe.”
“And your safety is of no less importance,” Jerome answered determinedly. “I would gladly die for you if it meant—”
“Don’t say that! Jerome, I’ve already told you! If anything were to happen to you, I’d—”
Esmé was just about to finish what she was saying when Olaf snatched the telephone out of her hand. “Sorry,” he said. “But your time is up.”
Esmé made a desperate attempt to snatch the phone back, but when she heard the ‘off’ button click, she knew it was all over. She let out a shrieky kind of sob, and then flopped down across the floor before completely dissolving into tears.
“So,” Olaf said, and Esmé heard the telephone slam down on its charger. “Is this what you’ve reduced yourself to? A pathetic, sniveling woman who longs for the same man I had to beg her to marry thirteen years ago?”
Esmé said nothing, but rather continued to cry a puddle into the floor. It was nothing but cold tile, which caused goosebumps to break out over her pale skin.
Olaf thought a moment, and then walked slowly over to her. Stretching out his foot, he pressed it down against her hand. She whimpered. “Sit up,” he ordered.
Esmé had spent enough time with Olaf to know when he was being serious. The severity in his voice reminded her of all the years she had spent as both an adolescent and as a young woman, realizing she had done wrong only after she had received a bruise or a bloody lip. Not wanting to repeat what had recently happened, she sat up.
Olaf took a seat on the floor next to her, smiling in spite of her tears. “Now,” he said, and returned his hand to its place on the tie of her dressing gown. “Where were we before being so rudely interrupted?”
Esmé closed her eyes as she felt Olaf’s fingers tease her tie a little before pulling it out of its knot.
“I know many things about you and your husband,” Olaf said, running his hand with surprising gentleness over her stomach. “For instance, the unusual secret the two of you share.” He lifted his head slightly, and smiled as Esmé lifted hers. Their eyes met, and Olaf continued. “What is it about a woman’s post-pregnancy belly that makes her so utterly appealing?”
When Esmé didn’t answer, she felt Olaf’s hand press lightly against her stomach, and she felt herself shutter a little.
“You’re so soft,” Olaf continued. “It’s fascinating.”
Esmé went to push his hand away, and as she did he caught her by the wrist. He lifted her hand up in the air, her sleeve falling away, revealing the bandage that hid her self-inflicted wound.
Before Esmé could stop him, Olaf had already begun to unravel the bandage from around her arm. As he stripped away the final layer, he looked critically at the red mark lining the woman’s pale skin.
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Post by Jenny on Oct 21, 2008 15:20:48 GMT -5
She sucked in a breath, and let out a quiet half-sob just at uncovering the wound again. 'It was an accident,' she said feebly, and pulled her arm with little force as if to pull it from his grip. He held it tighter, and the fairly fresh cut started to ache dully.
'I'm not stupid, Esmé,' her ex-boyfriend said angrily, and she flinched. 'Unless you walked into a knife or something else ridiculous, this was no accident.'
Esmé swallowed, and looked up for a brief moment to gauge his expression. To her surprise, he was smiling,
'I suppose it's for attention, isn't it?' he mocked, and before she could tell him that he couldn't have been more wrong, he threw her hand back agains the sofa, causing her to let out a little whimper of pain. 'You'd never have gotten away with that when you were with me.'
Esmé felt like pointing out that the start of her depression had a lot to do with him, but didn't dare. if she could avoid being struck again by not saying anything, that's what she'd do.
'Pathetic,' he muttered into her ear, and she squirmed back.'But I suppose your husband thinks it's very genuine, very real, doesn't he? I suppose he thinks you're depressed, and you can't help it. I suppose that's what everone thinks.' he let out a chuckle. 'I suppose taht's what Fernald thinks.'
Esmé stiffened, ut Olaf's hand had encircled her back and prevented her from moving. 'I can hardly say it surprised me to find you both in contact,' he said, and his eyes were angry. 'I suppose Jerome thinks that's all perfectly innocent as well, doesn't he?'
Esmé had tried her best not to cry, fearful of what his rection might be, but a tear slipped from her eye now unnoticed.
'You've all turned so naive,' Olaf hissed, and didn't wipe away her tear like her husband would have. 'Aren't you bored with your husband and your perfect doll-house life yet, Esmé?'
Before she could remind him how much she loved Jerome again, Olaf had pressed his thin lips to hers, and cut her off.
Esmé reached out her fingers, and came into contact with an empty wine bottle (one of many he seemed to have lying around), and slowly, slowly brought it up to level with his head without him noticing. However, the moment she felt ready to strike him with it, something in the way he grasped at her made her eyes cloud with tears, and she ended up coming into contact only with his back.
However, the bottle still smashed satisfyingly, and Olaf still let out a roar of pain. Perhaps she had embedded a bit of glass i his back that might irritate him, but what was more important to her at the time was that he was not unconscious as intended, and he looked incredibly angry.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 21, 2008 18:47:44 GMT -5
“That was a very big mistake, Esmé,” Olaf growled slowly, his voice tinted with anger.
Esmé bolted, but Olaf was quicker. He seized her by the arm and spun her around, staring into her eyes for one very brief moment before striking her hard across the mouth.
The financial advisor let out a desperate cry right before crumpling to the floor in a heap. She could feel something warm and wet dribbling down her chin, but there was no need to wipe it with her hand to fully understand what it was.
As if to add to her distress, Olaf stomped his foot down on the floor just inches from Esmé’s face. She whimpered miserably as memories of her villainous ex-boyfriend’s violent outbursts came flooding back to her in blurry waves.
She couldn’t help it, and uttered her husband’s name in despair: “Jerome…”
Bending down and pressing his palms against his knees, Olaf grinned menacingly down at Esmé. “Have you forgotten,” he said in a voice that matched his smile all too perfectly, “what I said about uttering that man’s name in my presence?”
Before Esmé could answer, she felt a sharp pain explode in the pit of her stomach as Olaf’s foot slammed into it. She let out a strangled gasp, hardly noticing as he drew his foot away a moment later.
“You’ll do as I say, woman,” Olaf warned. “Or else I can guarantee that you’ll suffer.”
Esmé groaned, and pressed her hands against her aching stomach. Tears of sorrow poured from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, staining the floor below her.
“Just think of it as payback for hitting me with that damned wine bottle. Surely you didn’t expect me to let such a bold move go unpunished?”
Esmé sniffed. She made an attempt to sit up, but the pain in her belly was too great to allow such an attempt just yet. She let out a soft whimper, and then collapsed back onto the floor.
“I wonder what your adoring husband would say,” Olaf asked, and let out a raspy chuckle, “if he could see you now?”
Esmé said nothing, and instead lay still and helpless on the floor. She continued to cry her tears, being especially careful not to make a sound lest she anger Olaf any further.
She waited until he had returned to his post by the window, before closing her eyes. Perhaps if she lay very, very still, then she might be able to imagine herself back inside the penthouse, in her bed, surrounded by soft silk sheets as she lay protected in the arms of her loving husband.
Eventually, Esmé began to doze, and in her state of half-wake-half-sleep, she swore she could feel her husband’s gentle hand rubbing the sore spot underneath her nightgown. She purred, and went to cover his hand with hers in order to express her everlasting affection for him.
But what Esmé felt was not the hand of her husband, but of someone else entirely. The hand she was now touching was coarse and bony, and felt absolutely nothing like the soft, large one of her husband. Her eyes flashed open with a start, and she saw Olaf sitting before her, his hand halfway up her nightgown as his fingers traced slow circles across her stomach.
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Post by Jenny on Oct 22, 2008 11:58:13 GMT -5
For a second the financial advisor stumbled over her words, and found herself unable to do anthing but open and close her mouth a few times in shock. She had been so sure of her husband's presence, and it took her a second or two to comprehend that she had been so mistaken.
Unfortunately, the Count took this as consent, and pressed his bony hand into her stomach, causing her bruise from earlier that morning to send a sting of pain through her body.
This brought her back to reality, and she attempted to clamber to her feet, only to be pulled back.
'I'm not sorry I hit you,' Olaf had obviously thought long and hard over the speech he was about to give, but that didn't make her any more inclined to listen. 'Becuase you deserved it, sweeteheart. But I don't want to hurt you. Your brother mightn't pay up if you're damaged, so to speak.'
She felt like telling him that this particular thought was quite sick: the very idea that her husband wouldn't want her back if she was harmed was absurd--in fact, she felt he would feel the same no matter how irreparable wounded she was, and this comforted her a little.
'Stop it,' she said eventually, and wrqpped her own hand around the criminal's wrist. Instead of telling him that he wasn't her husband, and she would have preferred it if he could refrain from impersonating him, she decided on an easier route. 'My bruise hurts,' she said simply, even though it must have been plainly obvious that she had other reasons for squirming away and standing.
Olaf suddenly looked a lot older, now that she was standing, and he was not. Far from looking as terrifying as he had towering above her, now that he was trying to climb to his feet like an old man, she suddenly wasn't so threatened by him.
She cursed the fact that his height hadn't changed. Was he always going to be six-foot-three, even when he was a hundred?
'Is there somewhere I can sleep?' she asked, to put off any more questions or taunts about her husband and her family. She wasn't sure she could take another.
'You were asleep then,' he replied. 'So you can sleep there.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 22, 2008 12:57:47 GMT -5
Olaf’s response didn’t shock Esmé in the least, and she waited until he had taken up his spot once more at the window before sinking back onto the floor. She wanted to ask if she could call her husband, but she knew all that would do was get her into even more trouble. “May I at least have a blanket?” Esmé asked. “This floor is freezing, and I’m not dressed properly.” “There you go again,” Olaf said as he adjusted the lens on the telescope. “It never fails, does it? You’re as demanding as you ever were.” “But I’m so cold.” Esmé could feel the goosebumps rising on her arms and back of her neck. “Oh, alright! I’ll get you a blanket. Just stop your whining.” Esmé was just about to curl up underneath the table once more, when Olaf turned to her. “And don’t think for a minute that I’ll be willing to leave you here alone,” he said. “The last thing I need is for my hostage trying to escape.” “Where would I go?” Esmé asked. “I don’t know this building at all. And after what just happened, do you really think I’d be willing to take another risk?” Olaf thought this over, and then shook his head. “No, I suppose not. And you aren’t that stupid. Besides, the linen closet is just down the hall… I’ll be able to hear you from there. Alright, Esmé. You stay put, and I’ll be back in a moment.” Esmé waited until Olaf had disappeared, and then tiptoed across the room to the telephone. Kneeling down, she picked it up and dialed the number of the penthouse apartment. *** All sixty-one of the telephones inside the penthouse rang at the exact same time, jolting everyone out of their thoughts. Andrew and Carmelita were sitting at the kitchen table with Jerome, who darted across the room to pick up the phone after only the first ring. “Hello?” Jerome asked, his voice desperate. “Jerome?”
“Darling! Are you alright?” “I’m fine. I can’t talk long… I just needed to hear your voice.”“Esmé, I… I don’t know what to do. Olaf expects me to choose between you and Emma, but I can’t—” “You mustn’t trade her for me, Jerome. Whatever happens, you mustn’t give into Olaf’s demand.”
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Post by Jenny on Oct 22, 2008 15:30:34 GMT -5
'But what will you do?' Jerome asked, placing his head into his hands. 'What if he hurts you?'
Esmé bit her lip, and felt tears rising to her eyes. Was it necessary for her to mention how much he had hurt her already? It wouldn't make Jerome feel any better, certainly, and she most certainly didn't want to talk over what had happened just a little while before.
Too long a silence, apparently.
'He already has!' Jerome cried, and she could hear him become upset. 'Darling, I don't know what to do I have to get you away from that man, but I don't know how!'
For the first time in what felt like years, it was Esmé who had to soothe her husband, instead of the other way around.
'It's OK,' she said, and felt little strange for it. 'It's OK. Just don't give him Emma. Don't give him anything, not even the money. He's nothing to gain by hurting me, Jerome.'
This didn't seem to comfort her husband a lot, but Olaf's footsteps were sounding again. 'I have to go,' she said, quickly.
'But how are we going to--'
'--I love you,' she interrupted. 'And I don't know yet.'
With that, and a final wish that she might see her husband before he had a heart attack from stress, she put the phone quietly down on the reciever, and curled up in her usual spot, as if nothing had happened.
Just as she managed to get back to the table, Olaf re-entered, and threw a grey blanket that was surprisingly bearable in her direction. 'There,' he said, as if walking to the linen closet had been such a chore. 'Any more demands yet, sweetheart?'
She shook her head wearily, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
'What's the time?' she asked eventually, rubbing her eyes with one hand. 'There aren't any clocks.'
'Then we don't know the time, do we?' he asked rhetorically. It's the evening when it goes dark, Esmé.'
She didn't see fit to say anything in response to his words, which had been distinctly unhelpful, and instead decided to roll into her blanket, bunching it around her stomach, which was bruised and sore, and to avoid waking up with him doing anything weird like the last time.
~
Carmelita had rushed to her adoptive father's side the moment the phone went down.
'What is it?' she asked, noting his facial expression. 'What's happened? Is Esmé alright?'
Perhaps all of the questions were too much for him, but Jerome simply began to sob again, and she was given none of the answers she was looking for.
'You may as well leave him,' Andrew said softly, on his eighteenth cup of cofee so far. 'He won't be able to stop for a while.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 22, 2008 18:15:45 GMT -5
Carmelita had known her adoptive father long enough to know that his brother’s statement was true. She rubbed Jerome’s back a bit and then leaned forward to give him a much needed hug.
Jerome sobbed, but rubbed Carmelita’s hand to let her know how much he appreciated her gesture. At the moment, any attempt at forming coherent words would prove to be impossible.
Jerome sat there on the cold kitchen floor, with nothing but the arms of his adopted daughter wrapped around him. He began to recollect the events that had first occurred after Esmé had left, and the endless black hole that her absence had left in his heart…
“She’s gone.”
“Maybe she’ll be back.”
“She tricked you.”
“Because she didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”
“She doesn’t love you.”
Jerome stared at his father as if he had just stabbed him in the heart. Yes, it was true that Esmé made a fuss every time Jerome went to kiss her, and it was true that the only time she showed him affection was when they were out in public together. But every time he had asked her about it, her reaction had been something like: “Don’t you love me, Jerome? Don’t you trust me?”
“You know I’m right about this, son,” Maxwell Squalor said. “That woman used you. I knew she was trouble the moment I met her. You’re better off without her.”
“You should consider yourself lucky,” Cora added, “that the only things she took from you were a couple of your credit cards.”
Maxwell chuckled bitterly, and tapped the ashes from his cigar into an ashtray sitting on the coffee table. “If she shows up at your door begging for forgiveness,” he said, “my advice would be to turn her away. Don’t give it a second thought.”
“I can’t do that, Father,” Jerome said.
“Why not?” Maxwell asked, and took another puff of his cigar before leaning back against the leather sofa. “She’s a temptress.”
Jerome blushed. “She told me on our wedding night that I was the first man she had ever been with.”
“And you honestly believed her?”
“Well, yes,” Jerome admitted awkwardly. “I didn’t see any reason why my wife would lie to me about something like that.”
“She was acting, dear,” said Cora. She reached out to touch her son’s hand, which was resting on the arm of the chair. “All that she told you was just a ploy to gain your trust.”
Jerome lowered his head. “Perhaps you’re right,” he replied. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop believing in her capacity to be a noble person again.”
“You’re fooling yourself if you honestly believe that,” Maxwell told his son. “That sort of thinking won’t do you any good at all.”
Jerome looked up at his father. “That may be so. But there’s always a possibility. And right now, Father, that is the only hope I have left.”
Jerome came out of his daydream to find that Carmelita’s arms were still wrapped around him. Andrew was still sitting at the table, watching his older brother with deep concern.
“I was just remembering,” Jerome said, “how it felt when Esmé left me. The pain I felt then was unbearable. But now that I know she’s out there and actually missing me, my pain is so much more than what it was fourteen years ago.”
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Post by Jenny on Oct 23, 2008 14:48:02 GMT -5
Andrew had vivid memories of the arguments he had with his father over his brother's messy--to say the least--marriage, and the longer he thought, the stranger it seemed. He had leapt to the defence of a woman who had tricked his brother and then run off with his credit cards. He supposed he must have known, deep down, that she wasn't all bad.
Or perhaps he'd been desperately naive. Either way, it seemed he had somehow been right to join the side of his brother and at that time estranged sister-in-law. It had seemed very extreme, at twenty-six, that such a short marriage could have caused such a colossal schism in the family he had always known, but in hindesight, he was glad he had felt more loyalty to his heartbroken older brother than to his parents.
He took another sip of his coffee. And, if the time came when he had the opportuntiy to rescue his sister-in-law, even at his own peril, he would take it. One look at the sobbing man near to him let him decide that.
Besides, he thought, what had he to lose? He would never find the sort of love that Carmelita and Nero had, or that of Esmé and Jerome. He woild rather make them happy than hold out.
Yes, he would give his fortune and his life for his sister-in-law, when he was asked. But he still intended to fight Olaf every step of the way.
~
The Widdershins' had seperated since their conversation, Colette to find Cora, and Fernald, wih Faust perched on his shoulder, into a kitchen to make his little daughter something to eat.
Unfortunately, Emma Squalor was already there, puffy-eyed, and she didn't seem pleased to see them.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 23, 2008 15:53:53 GMT -5
“How dare you,” Emma said as she glared heatedly up at Faust. “How dare you show your face to me when you know damn well that my mother’s kidnapping is entirely your fault.”
Fernald heard his daughter start to cry, and he set her down on the floor next to him. “I’m sorry,” Faust answered in a small voice. “It was an accident.”
“Some accident! Even a deer would have fought back.”
“Emma,” Fernald said calmly, and placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “I understand how worried you are about your mother— so am I —but you can’t go blaming Faust for what’s happened. She’s only ten.”
Emma narrowed her eyes at Mr. Widdershins. “That’s still old enough to know not to leave someone who’s in danger,” she said. “It was stupid and careless the way Faust reacted. If I had been there, I would’ve done something!”
“What would you have done?”
Emma flung out her arms and then slammed both hands down on the table, rattling it loudly. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “Anything! Anything to keep that criminal from taking my mother away from me.”
Fernald took a seat at the table opposite Emma, while Faust stood behind his chair. “But there was nothing you could have done,” Fernald said. “Olaf is a fully grown man, and you’re…” He paused, realizing that the word ‘child’ might seem insulting to someone of thirteen years. “You couldn’t have stopped him,” concluded Fernald.
“Jerome blames himself,” Emma replied softly, and stared miserably down at the table. “He was just across the hall when it happened.” She looked up. “What do you think would’ve happened if Jerome had gotten there in time?”
Fernald smiled slightly at Emma’s use of the word ‘father’, and shrugged. “It’s hard to say,” Fernald admitted, and looked down at his hands as if to remind himself.
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Post by Jenny on Oct 23, 2008 16:04:30 GMT -5
Emma felt a little sorry for Mr Widdershins, but Faust's incessant sobs were beginning to irritate her.
'How could you have been fooled?' she demanded of the younger girl. 'You knew everyone was hiding from him, and you brought my mother to him!'
'I didn't mean to!' Faust sobbed. 'I thought he just wanted to--'
'And what have you got to cry about anyway?' Emma asked angrily. 'Nothing's happened to you, has it? You don't even know what you've done.'
'Emma,' Fernald barked, and placed a hook on his daughter's shoulder, which was trembling. 'Stop. Faust cared a lot for Mrs Squalor, and it wasn't--'
'--But she wasn't her mother!' Emma cried, and tears sprung to her eyes again. 'Then you really would have something to cry about, wouldn't you? Thinking she might die, and you'll never see her again, because somebody else was stupid!'
'She won't die!' Faust said, mouth falling open into an 'o' shape in shock.
'You don't know!' Emma screeched, frustrated. 'If you'd never come here, this would never have happened!'
'That isn't fair,' said Fernald, struggling to keep his temper under control. 'Olaf would have found a way. If it hadn't been Faust, it would have been someone else.'
He thought Emma was about to reply, but then she simply let out a strangled noise and buried her face in her hands. He crossed the room, and patted her back awkwardly.
'And what do you know?' Emma asked, muffled. 'You've got no idea how it feels to lose her!'
Haven't I, Fernald thought, and it wasn't a question.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Oct 23, 2008 19:29:07 GMT -5
It had taken nearly a half hour, but Colette had finally managed to track Cora to one of the sitting rooms. The older woman was sitting on a couch by the window, staring out at the late morning sky.
“So this is where you’re hiding.”
Cora turned at the sound of the voice, and smiled to see Colette, who was standing in the doorway. She was slumped up against the frame in a way that made her appear all the more emaciated, even through her baggy clothes.
Cora patted a spot beside her. “Come,” she said, “and sit with me.”
Colette entered the room without a word and sat down beside Cora. “I’ve been thinking,” Colette said, “that we may have both misjudged Esmé the other day.”
Cora just stared at the contortionist. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t suppose either of your two sons have yet informed you of her kidnapping?”
“Are you sure that ‘kidnapping’ is the right word?”
“I didn’t believe it at first, either,” Colette admitted. “At first, I was certain that she had run off with Olaf a second time. But my daughter was there, and saw what happened. I’ll admit she tends to be rather scatterbrained at times, but usually when you’re especially frightened, it’s much easier to recall details. Especially when they’re recent. Faust said that she saw Olaf hold a cloth over Esmé’s mouth right before she fainted. Think, Cora. If Esmé was willing to go with Olaf, then why would he take such a forceful measure?”
“I’m not sure,” Cora said. She hated to admit it, but she was now beginning to feel quite guilty for all she had said and thought in regards to her daughter-in-law.
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