broken glass & broken hearts (abandonne) wrote in toujoursliberer, @ 2008-07-01 22:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | helene byron, plot, will ferrars |
The condition of perfection is idleness: the aim of perfection is youth.
Subject: Trouble springs from idleness.
Who: Helene and William.
Where: A pub first off, and then the area behind it.
Warnings: Soft-core violence at first! Like soft-core porn, soft-core violence is limited physical contact and much more whining and moaning. - TBD
Open to: William Ferrar, anyone in the area.
Not many words today, had been spoken to anyone.
Not anyone save for those all too eager to accept her meager earnings for a pair of boots, that, she would swear were not to be sold at such an awful price. Her old boots had gotten a hole in the bottom by the sole, and having enough with soaked through socks (of which had depreciations of their very own.) from the seemingly endless puddles of the city, she'd decided it was in her best interest to buy them before she changed her mind. She'd recalled at the orphanage, how the Head Mistress had told all of the children that they'd catch their death if their feet stayed wet too long. Mildred, an older girl would scoff through her large nose and say under her breath to Helene, 'I say -- if that were true, we'd all be dead by now, I says.' and Helene would smile the way a child does when they're discussing something so secretive, that the entire space around them is suspect to having ears to hear their blasphemies.
Helene hadn't exactly understood why it was so easy to take bread without asking from this particular pub, as all people seemed alert and vigorous to all hours of the night, but it always was. They'd serve a pint of ale and a loaf of bread, and the men would chant old lullabies, recite poetry they'd heard, attempt to recreate the sounds of new symphonic songs they'd had the pleasure of seeing performed live; getting all sorts of shades of inebriated, they hardly ever paid any mind to their bread. Or, to the hooded young woman who came in for water, but left with two of their neglected loaves.
Feeling high on the adrenaline of dishonesty (a feeling she abhorred.) she'd sighed warmly and the night air dusted in front of her because of it. Helene instantly felt the peach pit of guilt orbit her better intentions. The angel on her shoulder disappointed, the devil cackling. There would come a time she'd not have to steal bread at all, she'd assured herself as she began to walk away, a day when she'd make it all the way to somewhere far, exotic, and exciting. Somewhere that people like Piper and Mary lived. Kind as Mr. Laurent. Hundreds of thoughts simultaneously stole her attention away from departing quickly from the scene of her itty bitty crime. And so she hardly noticed the two men following after her-- the two men who were fumbling, mumbling, and highly amused.
Eventually, they'd caught up with her not a few hundred paces away from the entrance of the pub. "Evenin' there, miss!" they'd called out to her, and an icicle lodged itself into the marrow of her spine. For a moment she froze in fear, but then... couldn't they be talking to somebody else? They probably meant another 'miss' --- she kept walking, back turned, moistening her chapped lips against the chilly wind. That is, until she felt a hand on her shoulder. A strong hand that spun her around deftly to face the owner.
"I said evenin', miss. " he'd said, a thin sequin of sweat dotting his hairy brow. His hair was as gray as the clouds on a ugly winter's day, and he reminded Helene instantly of the horrible man who'd garden at the orphanage. Helene's breath was caught in her throat, at the tac-edge of her anxiety, only a moment before she spoke in a sputter. "Evenin', sir. Fine night, is it not?" unfortunately, he was wrestling to take hold of both of her shoulders as she took up some resistance to him. The two loaves of bread fell onto the ground, and as much as she thought it was foolish to think of something so trivial at a time like this; she noted she'd be picking that up soon. Soon as they left. That the bread was still edible. Within the confines of his grasp, Helene muttered. " Lovely. The stars are lovely." her eyes wide, and spirits slowly extinguishing.
"Seen you come in and take me bread," he'd sung, as if reciting the first lyrics of a verse. "What rhymes with bread, Peter?" he asked his friend, who up until this point had only stood off to the sidelines giggling like a weasel stealing eggs from a snake. "DEAD! John. Dead does rhyme with bread!" he'd said happily.
"Sir, I apologize. I-I thought that the bread was free, you see? I'd went in there," she continued to struggle from his grasp, but more aggressively now. "Before and," she was yanking her wrist from him, her voice growing louder in tone as he began to lead her down the street by her hand. And by no stretch of the imagination in a kind, gentle way. "And they let me!"
Helene screamed.