Debated on this before deciding to go with it. I've been writing some pieces based off prompts with a friend STRANGER and ended up doing a small series for Lotte last night. Not sure why. >_> In any case, as this is the squee comm I went what the heck and figured I'd post it up as it's got backstory which is fun :) Or you can laugh as this isn't my best.
So. Here have this short medium-sized piece based off the prompt Human. It's all pre-Bellum and it's SFW. Because it's Lotte.
When Lotte is three, ‘human’ is a loose term. She knows that she’s human and Daddy is human and so are the people she and her father play music for. Human means the people who’ll let them in for the night, despite not having anything to pay and will call her adorable. Human means eating, drinking, music, and playing and being. It’s what she is and what she does and there’s no doubt of what she is.
At three, Lotte assumes that everyone she meets is human too. The beggars her father plays by and the police who shoo them away. The only things which aren’t human are the dogs who she shares her bread and few snacks with. Daddy says they aren’t human and she needs her food and can’t give it away. Daddy can share his but Lotte can’t – this is a firm rule. What she is allowed to share is music, even to the very non-human, very dead birds by the benches where they sit. She shies away, a fist going to her mouth as her Daddy begins to sing. Monsters and beasties don’t usually get requiems, but this is an exception made for a lesson learned.
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When Lotte is five, ‘human’ isn’t for all people. Some people aren’t touched by music or a please that’s soft and hardly whining. They walk right past you without dropping any money in the hat in front of you. The ones who won’t look at you as they walk past are still human. You can see it in their eyes as the guilt gets them, as they can’t bring themselves to make eye-contact with those they’re forsaking. But the ones who look at you, curling their lip as they don’t leave you anything… Lotte doesn’t know what hate is, but they don’t deserve her music.
At five, Lotte knows her voice has power and she falls silent until they move. Her father keeps playing behind her, skill never faltering as he plays on. The tune becomes more melancholic, more frenzied until Lotte can’t take it anymore. She scurries to his side and tugs on his jacket, so her eyes stop tearing up and she can breathe properly. The music changes to something light, something airy and she tries again. Her voice grows stronger and stronger, until the money comes. Humans and music go together – and those who don’t realize aren’t.
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When Lotte is seven, ‘human’ is another word for mortal. Her father is there one morning, a morning she doesn’t even look at him as she dashes out the door, late for school because she was singing in the shower. Her father is gone come afternoon and he doesn’t come back. He’s more human than anyone else she knows, because he loves music and he shares – but Lotte always thinks of him as an Angel in one of the songs they hear in churches. He watches her and takes care of her and watched over her with no mother. Better than a best friend or a father – he was all hers. Until he’s gone.
At seven, Lotte learns that some people die like the birds she used to be scared of. They don’t always die because a cat got them with snapping jaws, but because they were too caught up in their song to notice the wall they were heading towards. Lotte thinks it’s the cat, the factory and government and everyone horrible and not human that takes away her father. It’s not the very qualities that made him human – his obvious faults that she’s oblivious to – that killed him.
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When Lotte is nine, ‘human’ is a word she isn’t sure exists anymore. People are cruel, even though she hasn’t heard a voice in over a year. They are still whispers of the crazy girl – no purpose then to just take out their own frustrations. Lotte bites her lip and ducks her head and hides, because she doesn’t know what else to do. She doesn’t know if she’s human anymore either. She doesn’t feel because of the pills and she doesn’t dream. She’s a turtle, moving deeper into her shell that’s dark and private.
At nine, Lotte accepts that she’s never going to get to be herself. Not really and with the other ‘humans’. She takes Valerie’s nagging and starts dancing. She stays in her turtle shape, ready to coil up at any moment. Getting drawn out by music, even in this unfamiliar way is impossible. Music still makes her human, even if dancing with pointed toes is as unfamiliar as living in water. She’s drawn out by Tchaivosky and Stravinsky – and then James and Chloe and Heather. Crazy is forgotten when people – real people – are beside her. Warm bodies and real voices that don’t threaten are good. They’re real.
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When Lotte is eleven, ‘human’ means anyone who isn’t an animal again. It’s anyone she interacts with, all smiles and politeness and shrugs. People says she’s quiet and a nice girl and she says she doesn’t mind being that tag along to the group. James makes sure that she’s part of the group when she can, but Lotte isn’t the crazy girl anymore. She’s surrounded by humans who don’t remember a crazy girl who heard voices (and still talks pills). She’s a walking zombie with the rest of them, faking giggles over the cute boy who walked in and newest movie that came out. She’s normal.
At eleven, Lotte doesn’t think outside her own sphere and when September comes around she’s sent into shock. She stays home from school and watches the TV with Valerie and the few older kids who stay with her, fist in her mouth like she’s three. The same images go on loop as a feeling she doesn’t understand yet fills her stomach, chest, and throat, crawling up and suffocating her. A half hour doesn’t go by before she rushes to the bathroom, clinging to the toilet as she tries to understand how this is human.
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When Lotte is eleven, ‘human’ is relative. She thinks she’s very human and she’s a good girl and that’s what matters. She thinks she’s ready to sing (on her own) again and signs up as a nice boy smiles at her in choir. Valerie approves and a few teachers pull her aside and commend her for it, even though she hasn’t even done anything yet. But she takes it as a good sign and that she’s human. Humans can sing and not hear voices and not be considered crazy when that all back fires on them.
At eleven, Lotte knows her dreams are useless. She walks onto the stage with a smile and ready to be a star. Her hands barely shake as the music starts and her voice is pure. For one line before he starts shouting at her again, turning her from being an angel – a star – a human – into a crazy. She breaks off and runs from the stage, covering her mouth as the music and his voice go on. She’s never, ever going to sing again, she realizes as she crashes past concerned teachers and parents. She’s never going to risk being not normal and human again.
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When Lotte is fifteen, ‘human’ takes on a feeling of romance. His name is Daniel and he’s nice and he walks with her around school and she feels safe around him. She feels human and like a child and she feels like maybe, as silly as it is he’s the one the girls whisper about. The one you’re meant to marry after you leave high school and settle down with. She doesn’t think this sounds too bad until they end up in a locker-room and his hands are on her hips and his tongue is in her mouth. Then she isn’t so sure.
At fifteen, Lotte knows about feelings and what they mean. She wants to love and trust Daniel, but when he breaks up with her after the injury, deep down she isn’t too surprised. She’s hurt and she moves on, but she’s happy to not have a monster-not-human-as-he-can’t-be-human trying to reach down her shirt when all she wants is a hug. She feels more human after a bath or a pat on the back from Valerie, saying she’ll be alright. And deep down, she knows it’s not the movements that are wrong – it’s the feelings behind them.
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When Lotte is seventeen, ‘human’ means something she doesn’t understand. It’s about being alive, pushing her limits and trying to break free. It’s murdered moments – or hours – later when she wakes up on a couch downstairs, head aching and bile in her mouth. She doesn’t want to do anything but cry and she pushes away everyone and anyone who comes by. Mikey is broken up with because he only stutters when she cries and asks what happened; no one else can tell her. She doesn’t know what she’s more scared of – the fact that she might have had a good time or she doesn’t remember it.
At seventeen, Lotte is still scared – much more scared then before. She slips back into dancing, intent on being a human dancer who might turn into a swan if she goes far enough. She wants to turn back like the maiden does – it’s a temporary change – but if you change into an animal on stage, no one thinks you less human. There are no voices when dancing – not usually, so it’s safe. She can be normal. She can be human. She can be a swan maiden keep a dead, human look in her eyes.
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When Lotte is nineteen, ‘human’ is something she’s sure she understands. It’s about being nice and being normal. It’s about understanding music is important and yet realizing that it’s power can also be dangerous. Human is a person and not an animal – but a person can be an animal and not a human. These are monsters but she avoids them, sleeping with her lights on to chase them away.
At nineteen, Lotte thinks she’s got it all figured out. She’s a grown woman and living on her own and has her voices gotten rid of – with less pills than ever. She’s almost happy as she goes about her dull, routine life of ballet, pleasantries, and avoiding her neighbors. She doesn’t dare to dream to be anyone else or to push the limits. She doesn’t go out of her way to share or sacrifice. She is safe and she is practical. But Lotte, in her contained world with her boxes neatly packed up and her leases for a building several streets away signed, is not a human. As she loads up her belongings and begins the change, she’s oblivious once more. Not much has changed in sixteen years – only her perception.