Before you get too excited thinking that I finally finished this story, you should know I haven’t. It just seems to turn into something way more than just a short story. This is what I have so far. The problem is I don’t know if it’s worth continuing.
THE ARTIST AND THE FANCY GIRL
Mignon
“I will let you die before I let you go,” Mr. Sib hissed at her, gritting his teeth, veins visibly pumping on his temples, as he almost slipped on the dungeon floor wet with blood. In front of him, Mignon screamed at the horror of the boiling wax on her face as she felt blisters swelling on the delicate skin so savagely destroyed. She screamed again and again until her small frame gave up but her screams became shrills, piercing and penetrating the smothering air of the underground vaulted-ceiling room; on broken knees, with her fingers interlocked, she prayed to a God that had proven merciless since her birth fourteen years prior. Her body was weak with the pain, and she didn’t dare do anything else other than use her vocal chords. Acute burning sensations emanated into her whole body like a paralyzing poison, while blood mixed with coagulating wax crusted upon her face.
“Please, father, please, no more,” she cried and pleaded and begged to no avail, until her voice started to fade and she choked up on her own fear. She did not want to die, and now she was bound to him forever. Losing her sight meant her life was at an end. She would never dare try to escape again. She could only try to pay her father back, and once the idea of it was planted, the intent to find some way of passing her own suffering onto him grew like a weed, strong and willful, and undeniable.
She searched for ways every day, with every step she took in the company of her father, with every meal he forced down her throat because gentlemen liked “full-figured tarts, not bags of bones”, with every nightmare that inhabited her miserable sleep. She retreated within herself and the only sounds she made were those from pain inflicted by others. She stopped praying altogether, as the image of the heaven above mocking her took over her sight for a while, and that’s all she could see with her mind’s eye. And she submitted. Quietly, unflinching, she submitted until her father began to seemingly, only seemingly, afford her some of his trust again. One fine morning, Mr. Sib allowed her to climb the high stairs to the roof of their rented living quarters on her own, and spend time in the sun light which she could only feel warm and comforting on her skin. It was a reward for her compliance, for giving her fruitful vine to others in exchange for coin, for tolerating gentlemen’s whims along with their whips, for not lamenting any longer.
Nevertheless, she was seldom alone on the roof from then on. Mr. Sib accompanied her under the pretext that she might stumble and fall for lack of sight. She was his most precious possession, and even though he had been forced to apply such cruel punishment, he was comforted by the words of his customers, who preferred girls unable to see the stretching racks, the birch rods, and the silver corsets, and sometimes could even be persuaded to pay more for a blind toffer. She never said that she had started seeing vague shapes again, one morning in the sun; she kept that to herself and continued playing her part.
Lys
Lys was only nineteen and as naive as any at that age. His only ongoing thought was that someday something wonderful would happen, something that would change his life. He lived on art, books, and legends, although only the ones approved of in his home. He didn’t have friends and he didn’t attend the usual artistic hang-outs. He preferred to be alone and working. Never in his life had he doubted the talent he possessed. He did deeply regret that his parents had never understood his love for art. They wanted him to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a brilliant surgeon. They perceived art as a waste of time and wanted their son to occupy himself with something concrete that would enhance their family’s social status. They had tried, to no avail, to convince Lys his interests were not appropriate and befitting of a doctor’s only heir. To him, his mothers’ tears and his father’s threats were as worthless as the material possessions they offered him.
When the final ultimatum was given, he already knew how he would proceed. Nothing else but art was of any interest to him, not even the proper girls who attempted without shame to distract him from drawing his dreams. He found it was somewhat painful to break away from the place where he grew up, but his passion was stronger than anything else. He left the manor on a cold winter morning, carrying a small suitcase and his drawing tools. His parents watched him walk away, wondering why God had given them such an ungrateful son. When he was out of sight, they turned around and went inside to have their back bacon and black pudding.
Lys quickly found a small room to rent in the attic of an almost dilapidated building, whose only other renters where a father and daughter, according to his householder. The night he moved in, with his suitcase and drawing supplies in tow, he noticed a stairway leading to the roof. He smiled knowing that he would go up there many a night and day, to be alone with his thoughts, to enjoy the freedom he had left riches for, and most of all to draw the world.
It wasn’t long before he began hearing steps going up that stair. He had never seen his neighbors, but he could clearly hear two sets of shoes, one dull and heavy, the other more prominent, and reminiscent of small feet on a slender figure that can move easily. He quickly became intrigued by the unlikely pair, and began watching the hallway through the small peephole in his door, in an attempt to see who owned the two sets of steps.
His wish came true sooner than he expected. One morning, as he had just finished his shave and stood there staring at his own blue eyes in the cracked mirror above the basinet, he heard the steps again. He couldn’t resist and tiptoed to the door, holding his breath as if the wheezing of his feeble lungs could have slipped through the almost invisible cracks in the walls and make his presence behind them known. He put his eye in front of the peephole, as close to it as his long eyelashes allowed him, and waited patiently, although he could feel his pulse quicken and his palms sweat. He blamed that on the lack of air, and continued holding his position until the steps approached and then passed the door.
What he saw he didn’t think to be extraordinary. He had expected something mysterious, something to intrigue him and demand his exclusive attention, something new and vibrant and absolutely inspiring. Instead, he got an old man with fancy clothes were worn out and almost in disarray, with bulging eyes and stained skin, holding a young girl by the hand, as if guiding her steps. The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen, he thought, although her long, dark hair was something to pay attention to. He couldn’t see much of her face, as ringlets covered most of her forehead and cheeks, but he did see her nose and thought he had never seen a prouder nose than that. The only thing he couldn’t quite understand was why the man was holding the girl’s hand so tightly, as if afraid to lose her behind. They must be father and daughter, Lys thought, and he must love her very much. Unacquainted as he was with the dark secrets of his world, he couldn’t fathom anything more or anything wrong.
Mignon
Mr. Sib walked with his head slightly tilted to the right. He looked tired and worn out, maybe from life not being nice to him, or maybe due to the inner monsters he had always fostered. He had red bags under his eyes and his cheeks were marked with burst blood vessels. Wrinkles had long taken over his face, now grim and bitter. His thinning, red hair could never be tamed, and neither could his sideburns. The frock coat and bowler he donned did nothing to improve his appearance.
He only smiled inside, and exclusively at the thought of the treasure he had with him. He glanced to his right, to the young girl who walked silently, with small steps, aided by a wooden cane he had made for her after in an attempt of cruel redemption. Mignon wore her eternal black dress and her hair was flowing heavy on her shoulders. Her face was expressionless, with the corners of the mouth pointing downward. She knew what was to come, and she shrank at the thought of it.
They reached their destination in spite of her prayers, a cold and uninviting stone mansion guarded by high iron fences, with ivy crawling on the walls to hide the small windows and prevent too much natural light from invading the rooms. They went through the gate and approached the house furtively and at a quicker pace. A valet appeared at the door so quickly as if he had been in hiding behind it, and led them to their host who waited impatiently in the music room.
The tall and skinny gentleman, clothed in a charcoal silk vest and matching trousers, smiled vaguely while placing his pendant watch in a small pocket hidden on the inside of his coat. He then admired the girl for a while. Only when he was completely satisfied that she was to his taste did he get up from his red leather chair and approached the visitors. He went closer to Mignon, closer than what the custom dictated, so close that she could sense the odor of brandy emanating from his breath, took her hand in his, and started touching her back with the other while longingly caressing her fingers. Mr. Sib grabbed his arm quickly, seemingly protective of her:
“I believe you owe me something,” Mr. Sib almost giggled with excitement.
“Oh, yes, that is so indeed,” the gentleman’s reply accompanied a gold-threaded pouch fat with coins.
When Mignon was left alone with her host, she finally started to cry, in a calculated attempt to impress him. He didn’t appear to be fooled. He had dealt with deceivingly shy girls before, and they had all turned out to be anything but. He led her to a bed hidden behind a velvet Coromandel screen at the other end of the room and made her lay down. He began kissing her face and mouth, and soon he aimed for her shoulders still hidden by the heavy fabric of her dress. As the girl became motionless, he ran his hands down her skirts, all the way to her ankles, and even further down, where silk ties decorated sturdy bed posts. Without any warning, he forcefully pulled her legs apart, and made a silky bowtie around both ankles. He laughed when she tried to pull. Attempts to escape when it was too late always sent burning sensations through his veins. He relished their faces when horror started to creep up the limbs, making them unresponsive. He knew they would respond to his gift, to the pain that came with his touch, to his teeth sunk into the skin with a hunger that he could never completely satiate. He envisioned purple stains around his bites, he shivered at the thought he would soon taste her, and he proceeded to remove the frail shield of her dress, until she was entirely exposed to his whims.
She couldn’t do anything to stop it, the man had paid for it, and the punishment would have been severe. She chose to dive into dreams of one more attempt to flee, although several had left her with deep scars on her back, and the latest with scars on her face. She had come up with so many scenarios, and discarded them immediately as they all required help. She didn’t have anyone to help her. She didn’t know anyone at all, other than her father and the gentlemen she was a toy for. She thought and thought and thought, while sharp teeth nibbled at her breasts and silky ties cut into her ankles’ delicate skin. And thinking didn’t help, as the fact remained, she was completely alone in this world, and to the mercy of her own father.
Lys
“Mrs. Bloom, what do you know of… the others?” Lys wasn’t exceptionally curious about other people, he hadn’t inherited that particular trait from his mother. However, he did sometimes find himself wondering about the father and daughter climbing up those stairs regularly, always with their hands linked together, as if the girl was… blind. The thought had finally occurred to him after watching them closer one morning, when he had noticed the girl held her chin high, appearing to look somewhere above the height of the man she followed, always as if into the empty space around.
“Well, darling, I don’t know much about them, I’m afraid. The girl is blind as a bat, although still pretty as she was before. I heard she slipped and fell face up right into a bowl of hot wax down in the cellar,” the householder murmured as she was mixing eggs for a nice, warm breakfast. “Hot wax, can you believe it? What could they be doing with hot wax down there is beyond my knowledge,” she shrugged her shoulders as if she really didn’t care to know more.
“Hot wax?” Lys shuddered at the thought as chills ran down his spine. “But that’s… that’s horrible!” He was unfamiliar with physical pain, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine how someone had lived through something like it, through the blistering touch of the burn, let alone through knowing you could never, ever see anything again. He thought about what that would mean for him. How could he survive without his eyes? How, when his eyes gave him the world to draw, when his eyes guided his imagination and his hands through the creation of what he thought to be excellent work? He shook the sensation off his shoulders, as Mrs. Bloom set a plate in front of him.
“Eat, you need it, lad,” she said as she measured him up and down. “You need some color in your cheeks,” she pushed the plate closer to him. “And you might do well not to worry about them, mind your own business, didn’t anyone ever tell you to stay out of what doesn’t concern you?”
“Yes, they did, my parents did,” Lys admitted and for a second, he felt ashamed. He couldn’t let go of the thought, though, he kept thinking he did want to learn more. You can’t give a man a taste of something, only to take the whole thing back. He needed to know their story. He already had a drawing in mind.
As they ate together, Lys pestered Mrs. Bloom with questions. After a while, she finally sighed and accepted that he wouldn’t quit asking, and told him everything she knew. Or so he thought.
The two had come practically out of nowhere a few years prior, when the girl could still see. They occupied the apartment on the ground floor of the building, and the cellar below. They were indeed father and daughter, although she could never learn any more details about the rest of the family, if there was any. The father was called Mr. Sib and the girl Mignon.
“The mother must have been some French whore,” Mrs. Bloom mused, “to give a name like that to a girl. Obviously, they’re not gentry… If they were, she would be called Elizabeth or Anne, a more proper name.” It was apparent she didn’t care for the girl much, not even for the fact that she had suffered so. Lys wondered about that for a fleeting moment, and then his train of thought was interrupted again.
“They pay their rent in gold coin, and that doesn’t happen around here. So I take it and mind my business. And so should you!” Mrs. Bloom appeared to have finished her story.
“Do you ever talk to them? Why are they going to the roof so often? And what do they do all day? Does anyone ever come to visit? Who takes care of her eyes? Is her skin badly burnt? What does her voice sound like? Do you think I can meet Mignon, and speak with her?” Lys flooded the woman with questions, one after the other, almost as if he was just asking himself aloud.
He never saw it coming, but when the wooden spoon banged on the table, heavy and loud, it made him start. He hadn’t even noticed how Mrs. Bloom’s face had turned sour, her eyes mean, and her jaws clenching. She was so close to him that he could smell the onion stew she had eaten the night before. No one, other than his own mother, had come so close to him in his life. The intrusion made his heart slow down, as Mrs. Bloom whispered:
“You’re a good lad, Lys. You best stay out of this. There will be no other warning,” even her voice was changed and she now reminded him of old horror tales his governess used to tell him at night, to make him close his eyes and go to sleep.
Lys gave up asking questions. Mrs. Bloom’s words had somehow frightened him, although he could not have said why. All he had done was express his new-found curiosity about other people. Also, he felt sorry for the girl. Although it wasn’t like him at all to interfere, he now had the feeling that something was terribly wrong, something other than a young girl losing her sight. The thought that he might be right nagged at him for the following days until he couldn’t stand it anymore and he determined that he would try to speak with her on the first occasion she would climb up the stairs to the roof alone.
Lys and Mignon
He didn’t have to wait long, as it was the very next morning he heard Mignon’s steps, only hers, on the rackety stairs passing by his door. He opened it immediately, and forcefully on purpose, so that she would hear it and not be completely taken aback. The girl paused in her steps and waited for a voice, as she attempted to cover her face with the heavy ringlets of her hair. She wouldn’t turn around to face him, there was no point, so she just waited.
“I apologize, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Lys started the conversation awkwardly, as if suddenly realizing it was not appropriate to talk to an unaccompanied young woman. “My name is Lys, I’m an artist, I live here…in this…building,” he continued as Mignon still faced the other way. Now that he was close to her, he found he wasn’t prepared for it, his words wouldn’t listen to him at all. He waited for her to speak.
“Please, you don’t know what you’re doing, my father will not allow this,” Mignon almost whispered. Unless you pay.
“I didn’t mean to intrude, I just wanted to… to see if I can help you up the stairs,” Lys thought he was smart to come up with such an excuse so quickly.
“I can manage,” she still hadn’t turned around. Besides, I know you’d probably scream and hide when you see my scarred face.
“Please, I really want to…”
“What?” Mignon quickly twirled, so fast that it took Lys by surprise. Her eyes aimed their emerald arrows somewhere above his head. The skin around her eyes, nose, and mouth still glowed pink and looked as if some invisible hands were holding it stretched and tight towards the back of her head. “You want to see my face? You want to tell me that you feel sorry for me? Or do you want to help? Can you give me my sight back? Stay away!” her voice roared, wounded and intense, as Lys gazed at her in horror. You poor fool, you have no idea who my father is, you don’t know what he does. You don’t know what I do.
Lys wasn’t used to such overt outbursts. In his family, women never voiced their feelings so openly as it was not permitted, and any woman was expected to know that. He didn’t even know there were women who did. He didn’t know anything at all, and he blamed himself for upsetting Mignon. That had never been his intention. Without speaking another word, he stepped back into his room and closed his door. He would never address her again, it was best if he didn’t.
Mignon finished climbing the stairs, and went up in the open space of the roof. Although completely alone and she could now see everything almost clearly again, she guided her movement with her cane and found the wooden box she used as a chair. It was good practice for when her father was close. She sat down, turned her face towards the sun, and for a second, she thought she might smile. He might be useful, after all. I shouldn’t have been so harsh. Let’s see, what can we do with him?
Mr. Sib and Mrs. Bloom
“I thought no one else would be living here!” Mr. Sib’s eyes were ice, but underneath, his blood was boiling.
“He’s been warned… besides, he pays his rent just as any other,” Mrs. Bloom replied, unimpressed. She had known Mr. Sib for such a long time that his manner of speaking through his teeth did not affect her anymore. She knew what he cared about, and what he cared about was gathering gold for his absinthe and opium and cock fights.
“We are both going to the gallows if he interferes too much… Mignon might… she might think to escape again… and then no more gold… is that what you want?” Mr. Sib’s attempt to reason did not go anywhere, as Mrs. Bloom leaned over the table, her face still, and whispered:
“She won’t. She’s blind. She’s been beaten, starved, and tortured by your customers. She doesn’t have any money of her own, she doesn’t know anyone else. What can she do, huh? What??”
“Oh, I don’t know, I just…” he paused quickly as Mrs. Bloom raised an eyebrow.
“And don’t forget who made you, either,” Mrs. Bloom added. She loathed having to remind him over and over that, without her, he would have been another beggar on the streets, another orphan raised in the gutters, sleeping with the fog and rain as blankets, and possibly dying of consumption before he knew what life was.
Mr. Sib became quiet. He remembered a time when he was young, when he had been brought to Mrs. Bloom’s orphan house after having been born in the gaol to a mother addicted to substances and men. He didn’t remember his mother. For all he knew, Mrs. Bloom was the only one who had ever said a kind word to him. She was the one who had taught him to steal and cheat, to make a living off unsuspecting decent people. She was also the one who had introduced him to the whore houses and their most special customers, who got their kicks from the pain and suffering of victims. In had been in her company that he had tasted absinthe for the first time, it had been her to acquaint him to the stretching racks.
It had been her who had said to use his offspring for something, when his favorite tart had become heavy with child. Just like him, Mrs. Bloom was becoming old and feeble from constant sickness. After years of using so many others for their purposes, she had found the appeal of specializing in one single kid of toffer. It had proven fruitful for a while, expect all the other girls had been… well, let’s just say they had been shown the way out of this world by customers who didn’t know when to stop, who didn’t know to recognize signs of souls abandoning flesh, or who knew and didn’t care in the least. After it had become increasingly difficult to find abandoned young girls and entice them into their customers’ arms with the promise of enough gold to start a decent life, the only one they had left was Mignon. And Mignon was blind. She couldn’t escape anymore. He had made sure of it with the hot wax. She was completely in their power, but even so, he was afraid. On the surface, he overpowered her, but on the inside, he was afraid.
“What if I talk to him?” Mr. Sib asked. “Feel him out a little bit, find out what he’s thinking… figure out how much of a threat he is,” he spoke in a low voice, as to not disturb the apparent peace in the room.
“No. That’ll only make him wonder. He’s already asked too many questions, and he will ask them of you. He may be an artist, but there’s no telling if he’s stupid too. If he’s this curious about Mignon now, he’ll be even more if you offer anything, even if it’s just a visit. But I can’t throw him out, I can’t…” Mrs. Bloom seemed to be talking to herself more than to her companion.
“What if we just… you know, send him to the other side,” Mr. Sib offered yet another suggestion. As afraid as he was of Mrs. Bloom, he was more afraid of losing his only source of income.
“No!!!” Mrs. Bloom’s fist smashing the bowl of soup on the table made the whole room shake. Or so it seemed to Mr. Sib, who instantly lowered his eyes and made himself smaller. “We can’t just do away with him, he’s not all alone in this world, his father is one of the best surgeons in town. They’ll know something is wrong soon enough! And then it really is the gallows for us! Just stop coming up with these stupid ideas, and concern yourself with finding more customers for Mignon. That should be your only thought for now, and I won’t hear any more of it!”
Mr. Sib knew when to desist. With his eyes still aiming at the dirty floor, he left the room quietly, leaving Mrs. Bloom to her own thoughts. He couldn’t figure out why she was against his suggestions, he thought they were so good. He wouldn’t dare ask, though, he knew better than that.
Mrs. Bloom wished she had never let Lys rent. She thought about the night Lys had come to her door, about the horror she felt thinking he was a ghost come back to haunt her, about her heart stopping when his blue eyes locked with hers. She put her head in her hands, and knew that what she was afraid most in life had come back to her a hundred fold.
Lys and Mignon
He somehow found himself drawing again. With her there, all he could think about was a way to put her beautiful face on think sketching paper, and so he drew every chance he got. Mignon was still asleep in their bed, her feet peeking out from under the blanket because that’s how she could balance her own body’s temperature. He thought about having made fun of her for it, but eventually found it endearing, and now he was drawing her feet, each toe with so much detail that they seemed to come alive. Her face had been done already, and all he was missing was the ragged blanket they used for covers. As he started on the folds of the fabric, Mignon started in her sleep, her arms stretched overhead and then she yawned as she was waking up.
“Hey, beautiful,” he smiled as he stopped drawing for a second.
She looked at him for a while, then she left the bed with the blanket wrapped around her, approached his window seat, leaned in to kiss him, and then her face turned red, her eyes disappeared and instead, two bloody holes stared at him. Her voice had turned raspy, as she reached out her hand to touch him. “What it is, love? You don’t like my eyes?”
Lys woke up sweaty and hot. It took him a second to understand he had dreamt about her, again. What is happening to me? Why am I dreaming of her this way? What could this mean? He didn’t have time to find any answers as he heard smooth breathing somewhere above his head. He gasped and turned over, and his eyes settled on the shape sitting on his pillow.
“Mignon? What..? How..?” Am I still dreaming? The warmth in the room, the sweat on his forehead, the pounding in his head, it all conspired against him and he didn’t know what was real and what not.
“It is I,” her voice was as smooth as her breathing. “I need your help,” Mignon whispered in his ear.
Lys took a few moments to come out of bed. This should not be happening, what about her father? I thought she didn’t want me to help… She shouldn’t be here, he kept trying to come up with reasons, although Mignon was clearly there and this was clearly not a dream.
“Please, a moment… I need a moment,” he said instead of anything else, hoping that a moment to grab his cotton shirt to cover himself would be enough to give him something more inspiring to say.
Mignon sat quietly on the bed, her chin up, as usual, her eyes aiming above his head and slightly to his right. She had a subdued smile on her face, as if she didn’t dare smile more. I don’t have time to waste, you fool, no one cares about you being undressed. I’ve seen more than you can imagine, she thought impatiently. Patience, Mignon, patience, this needs to be handled delicately. This boy knows nothing of the world.
TO BE CONTINUED
If you wonder what I mean by that, allow me to explain: you’re unique, one of a kind. You’re just as unique as your fingerprint is. You have your own history and background, life experiences, hopes and dreams just like any of us, desires and expectations, problems and solutions, and the list could on. AND you’re well-read. You love to read, and gain knowledge and meaning from it. That makes you my favorite kind of person, simply put.
I’ve been doing a certain amount of reading online lately (and by ‘certain’ I mean A LOT), on various blogs, amateur writers’ sites, etc. I like seeing what’s out there. What can I say? I’m curious. Aren’t you?
There was no movement in space they could see. The Earth and her twin Solstice appeared small and suspended in silence. In the far distance, in the opposite direction, an enemy colony awaited. The last hundreds of years had sucked any other life out of the interstellar space, ever since the war between the races had begun. It had exploded violently, so long ago that experts and admirals themselves didn’t know what the quarrel was about anymore. No one knew. All they knew were the sides. The humans and the reptiles. They killed each other on sight. No questions asked. It had all come down to that, and no one doubted it, no one gave it a second thought, no one questioned it anymore.
So I’m reading all these other blogs about how to make a good blog. Pretty clear so far.
Imagine this scenario: