Redemption (2/3)interrobamAugust 13 2012, 00:55:43 UTC
Her sister, Pamela, is born in the winter and becomes the target of her immediate and profound scorn. A squirming red thing, a maggot of a person with curling blonde hair, she sucks up any praise Cruella might have supped on instead. Every teatime conversation is about her tiny toes, her wet eyes. Cruella wines relentlessly about being bored, about being ignored twice over. Her father buys her a white kitten. It does not heal the pain from Pamela's arrival, the narcissistic wound to her breast, but it is a soothing salve to watch the eager, fluffy thing give chase to mice and lap from a saucer. Cruella plays with it with a length of yarn, a crumpled up page from her ledger. She lets it out into the garden to bat at butterflies. It purrs in her lap, sleeps peacefully in her bed. Cruella, after all her years as an orphan, has something to love and something to love her.
One afternoon, like any other afternoon, she lets the kitten out. It does not come back for supper, does not greet her with a purr and a piercing meow. She runs all over their yard: peeks under every bush, climbs every tree. Crying, her stockings ripped and the lace of her skirt frayed, she asks Mr. De Ville to go out and look for it. He shakes his head, returns his affection and attention to his newspaper.
“A dog must have gotten her.” Cruella bites her lip, holds back her pain. Brave little orphans do not cry about kittens, about silly sentimental things like love.
“Yes Papa.”
After that there are no more pets, her father tells her that the irresponsibility she showed forbids that. After that there comes a time when the novelty of a new baby begins to fade, and Cruella warms to Pamela. She did not mean to take Cruella's parents, did not mean to be such a bother. Cruella cannot hate her for things she hasn't control of. She can see now her mother losing interest, her father turning once more to his business, the baby being neglected. They are a pair now: two orphans in a painted house. One afternoon Pamela cries and cries, no one comes to tend to her. Cruella feels the sting of empathy, a need to help her blood. She finds a wicker basket, lines it with a blanket, and nestles the baby inside of it.
“I'll show you my clearing.” She whispers to the babe. “You have to be brave, like me.” Pamela giggles. Cruella sets off for the woods.
She breaches the line of trees with ease, making silly faces at her sister all the way. It is hard to cross the river with such a heavy burden, but she is careful, she manages. She comes up from under the fallen tree, her dress smeared with dirt, the light of wild Cruella in her eyes, and arrives at her fairyland. Placing the basket gently to the ground, she takes a breath, long and deep, of unstiffled life.
The pain comes after the shock. A long time after, once she's already on the ground, once her infant sister is crying under the upturned basket, once she can make out the teeth buried deep in her forearm. Cruella screams and kicks, the beast on top of her: a spotted, feral dog, shakes her muscles into ribbons. It isn't a wolf, most definitely not a wolf. It looks like her cousin's pet, but dirty, and the shock slows her movements. Despite her sluggish instincts she keeps fighting, keeps kicking: the dog bites her again. These are killing, eating bites. These are bites tired of chasing cats. A final blow lands true, knocks the dog back, and it shakes so that its ears flap against its head. Its tongue lolls, it snuffs. Pamela lets loose another wail, and Cruella sees in perfect clarity, in slow motion even, the perk that goes into the animal's ears.
Redemption (3/3)interrobamAugust 13 2012, 00:56:34 UTC
She watches: paralyzed, bleeding, afraid, as the dog bows its head to the baby in the basket. As the blood and screaming fills the air. Cruella struggles to her feet and her life pumps hot out of her arm, cradled unconsciously to her stomach. Her knees feel tight, unresponsive like a doll's, as her sister cries and cries, as the dog feasts and feasts. She wants to be brave, she thought she could be brave. Her stockings feel warm and wet over her wooden joints: she's wet herself. Cruella yells for her papa, her mama, but she is too far into the woods, too far into her sanctuary, to be saved. What feels like an eternity later, once the crying has stopped and given way to crunching and gurgling, Cruella unsticks her bloody bones and tackles the animal nearly her size, beats it away with her fists and her mourning cries. Appetite sated, the dog glances briefly at the wailing thing at its side and slowly makes its way back into the shrubbery. Cruella gathers the pieces of her sister into the basket: she carries them carefully, all the way home, without giving the scraps that once formed Pamela a single glance, her body low with terror.
When they catch the dog they cut open its stomach. There is the meat of many animals, some bones and rocks, a tiny ragged ear. An ear from the head Pamela used to have. An ear that sums up everything she could have, should have saved. Her mother sobs all night and all day, her papa beats her with a sapling until she blisters. Beats her until the wild Cruella, Cruella of the garden, is dead. Cruella spends long nights awake: afraid of her nightmares, guilt ridden as a murderer in a cathedral. She knows now what she is: a coward and a worm, a useless guardian unfit for love, a rat far removed from redemption. She is not worthy of the pirate boys, the liontamer girls: she scribbles charcoal over their painted eyes, she puts their books away where they cannot pass judgment upon her.
At the end of the month a box comes to their doorstep: inside it is the dog with the spotted coat, fashioned into a rug. The body they can readily display, the open casket they never got, the only remaining memento of the second De Ville child. It was her father's idea: her mother calls it gruesome, demands it be put into the attic, away from her. The eldest and only daughter, the shame ridden survivor, waits until they retire to the parlor to argue before daring to approach it. She turns up her nose like she has studied her aunts doing, wipes her velvet shoes on the hide.
Oh my goodness... I don't even know what to say. I'm not sure what I had in mind when I wrote that prompt, but never could I have seen such a gruesome and tragic yet engaging story in Cruella's childhood. Thank you so much for this peek into a possible explanation for Cruella's obsession with furs and rather lose grip on sanity. Your writing is so rich and full, peppered with details that really drew me into the world of this lonely child. I especially liked the "tight and suffocating hug" simile in the opening as it really set the tone, and the way she scribbles over the eyes of the children of her books was such a sad and broken childlike image. Poor thing doesn't know how strong and brave she is, tackling a huge dog to try to save her sister, even if she was afraid... Once again, I thank you! I'll have this story in mind whenever I see Cruella from now on.
I'm so glad you like it! Your appreciation of the little details I put into this fic makes me feel warm and fuzzy. And I will admit, writing this changed the way I saw Cruella too.
One afternoon, like any other afternoon, she lets the kitten out. It does not come back for supper, does not greet her with a purr and a piercing meow. She runs all over their yard: peeks under every bush, climbs every tree. Crying, her stockings ripped and the lace of her skirt frayed, she asks Mr. De Ville to go out and look for it. He shakes his head, returns his affection and attention to his newspaper.
“A dog must have gotten her.” Cruella bites her lip, holds back her pain. Brave little orphans do not cry about kittens, about silly sentimental things like love.
“Yes Papa.”
After that there are no more pets, her father tells her that the irresponsibility she showed forbids that. After that there comes a time when the novelty of a new baby begins to fade, and Cruella warms to Pamela. She did not mean to take Cruella's parents, did not mean to be such a bother. Cruella cannot hate her for things she hasn't control of. She can see now her mother losing interest, her father turning once more to his business, the baby being neglected. They are a pair now: two orphans in a painted house. One afternoon Pamela cries and cries, no one comes to tend to her. Cruella feels the sting of empathy, a need to help her blood. She finds a wicker basket, lines it with a blanket, and nestles the baby inside of it.
“I'll show you my clearing.” She whispers to the babe. “You have to be brave, like me.” Pamela giggles. Cruella sets off for the woods.
She breaches the line of trees with ease, making silly faces at her sister all the way. It is hard to cross the river with such a heavy burden, but she is careful, she manages. She comes up from under the fallen tree, her dress smeared with dirt, the light of wild Cruella in her eyes, and arrives at her fairyland. Placing the basket gently to the ground, she takes a breath, long and deep, of unstiffled life.
The pain comes after the shock. A long time after, once she's already on the ground, once her infant sister is crying under the upturned basket, once she can make out the teeth buried deep in her forearm. Cruella screams and kicks, the beast on top of her: a spotted, feral dog, shakes her muscles into ribbons. It isn't a wolf, most definitely not a wolf. It looks like her cousin's pet, but dirty, and the shock slows her movements. Despite her sluggish instincts she keeps fighting, keeps kicking: the dog bites her again. These are killing, eating bites. These are bites tired of chasing cats. A final blow lands true, knocks the dog back, and it shakes so that its ears flap against its head. Its tongue lolls, it snuffs. Pamela lets loose another wail, and Cruella sees in perfect clarity, in slow motion even, the perk that goes into the animal's ears.
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When they catch the dog they cut open its stomach. There is the meat of many animals, some bones and rocks, a tiny ragged ear. An ear from the head Pamela used to have. An ear that sums up everything she could have, should have saved. Her mother sobs all night and all day, her papa beats her with a sapling until she blisters. Beats her until the wild Cruella, Cruella of the garden, is dead. Cruella spends long nights awake: afraid of her nightmares, guilt ridden as a murderer in a cathedral. She knows now what she is: a coward and a worm, a useless guardian unfit for love, a rat far removed from redemption. She is not worthy of the pirate boys, the liontamer girls: she scribbles charcoal over their painted eyes, she puts their books away where they cannot pass judgment upon her.
At the end of the month a box comes to their doorstep: inside it is the dog with the spotted coat, fashioned into a rug. The body they can readily display, the open casket they never got, the only remaining memento of the second De Ville child. It was her father's idea: her mother calls it gruesome, demands it be put into the attic, away from her. The eldest and only daughter, the shame ridden survivor, waits until they retire to the parlor to argue before daring to approach it. She turns up her nose like she has studied her aunts doing, wipes her velvet shoes on the hide.
Cruella's redemption will come in blood.
She is certain of it.
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Once again, I thank you! I'll have this story in mind whenever I see Cruella from now on.
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I've read several of your fills now, and I must say, I really love your writing.
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I'm glad you're enjoying my fills. :D
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