(no subject)
Title: Between Us. (2/2)
Rating: M (mentions of rape and murder, and instances of domestic violence)
Fandom: Original (gen, het if you squint and, y'know, look sideways.)
Two nights later, Paul loses $15,000 at the casino. This is bad for two reasons.
One, they won’t be able to pay rent for a number of months, nor will they be able to eat or buy petrol or go to school. And two, because this means Paul is angry.
This is also bad, because Ginger is out tonight.
Harriet hurries Marian and Cher to bed, tucking them in and brushing sleepy hair out of equally sleepy eyes.
“Night.” She mumbles, and Marian and Cher may be sleepy, but it doesn’t make their eyes any less wide and terrified, or their hands any less clingy.
“Don’t.” Marian mumbles, “Don’t.”
They don’t raise their voices, Dougy is asleep beside them.
“Don’t you worry, Marian.” Harriet says, and she kisses the sweaty foreheads of her little siblings. “Don’t you worry.”
And Harriet creeps over to the other bed. The empty one. She doesn’t like the thought of anyone else getting hurt in the crossfire. She’s hurting enough for each and every one of them as is.
Paul’s boots are heavy on the stairs, but all Harriet can hear are the muffled sobs of her baby sisters.
Poor Marian.
Poor Cher.
The door slams open, and Paul’s big hand, fat fingers are wrapped rather horridly around Harriet’s little neck. Tight enough to bruise, to leave angry red marks around her throat and her heart.
Poor Harriet.
He’s bashing her head into the wall now, smashsmashsmash and it would hurt if she weren’t quite so numb.
Thing about Paul, was that he got bored very, very quickly.
Smashsmashsmash.
He’d be bored soon, Harriet tries to think, blood dripping down her forehead.
*
“Are you ok? You’re face is sort of cut up.”
Oscar says (he’s Robert today), “Bruised too.”
“I’m fine.” Harriet says (she’s still not Harriet, not here she isn’t).
“I don’t believe you.” He states, looking her square in the face, lips pursed and forehead furrowed.
He looks very nice today, with stripy shorts and black t-shirt.
“Well you should, because it’s the truth.”
“Your eyes are very honest.” Oscar says, and he runs his pretty fingers through her hair, catches the black strands. “and you are most certainly not fine.”
“I am telling you, Oscar, I most certainly am.”
*
The next day, Marian is crying. Marian is 11-years-old and has just been dumped by the love of her life.
His name was Stuart. Well, is Stuart. Just because they broke up didn’t mean his name had changed, nor did it mean he had suddenly dropped out of existence. It just meant that he’d left their families bubble.
“How’d you cope when your boyfriend divorced you?” Marian asks, tears in her big green eyes.
Marian got the lucky end of the gene pool, she got Ginger’s hair and Ginger’s eyes and everything exotic about both sides of their family (which isn’t a lot really).
With Harriet’s brown eyes and black hair and pale, doughy skin, she looks just like Paul.
“How’d you handle it?” Marian asks again, and Harriet wouldn’t know.
She’s never had a boyfriend.
*
Harriet goes to the jetty that afternoon, and Oscar isn’t there.
*
After Paul rapes Ginger, Ginger spends her nights sleeping in Cher and Douglas’ tree house.
Her agonised screams set off all the dogs in the street, and Harriet wonders why no one has called the police.
Ginger’s screams are cracking open Harriet’s skull, scraping out all of the energy and stamina off the sides of her brain. Ginger’s very unhappy.
Poor Ginger.
*
Harriet goes to the jetty again.
She eats ice-cream on her own, and day-dreams of sailing out to sea as Lucia Cartwheel alongside the lovely Johnny Depp.
She sighs though, because really, she’d prefer just Oscar.
*
Evan is eleven months old when he dies.
Harriet had been out on the jetty. Marian and Cher and Douglas playing outside.
It had taken one blow for Paul to kill Baby Evan. Kill him dead.
Poor Evan.
*
Harriet’s out on the jetty again.
She grows tired of holding her sobbing sisters, grows tired of Douglas’ tiny “where’s baby?”
“Today,” and it’s a voice she was starting to think she’d never hear again, “Today I am Paul!”
And maybe that’s the straw that breaks the camels back, because suddenly she’s screaming and sobbing and just, just she’s crying. She’s aching and hurting and her body is breaking as it falls into Oscar’s. She poundpoundpounds her fists against his fragile chest, scratches at his face and his arms and his eyes.
“Not Paul!” She screams, “Not Paul, Not Paul, Not Paul! Never, Paul.”
And he doesn’t say anything, just looks at her with big, sad, doe eyes that make her cry that much harder.
She doesn’t feel the hand on her shoulder, dragging her away, doesn’t hear the voice asking her what’s wrong, little one, what’s wrong?
She’s unhappy.
Poor Harriet.
*
So the person had been a police officer. A very nice woman by the name of Veronica Maine.
“Hello, Veronica.” Cher said. Veronica had been a guest speaker to their second-grade safety awareness class not a week earlier.
“Hello, Cher. How are you?”
“I am ok, although I have been happier on happier days.”
Veronica nods, still clutching a shivering Harriet in her burly arms. “Is this your sister?”
“Sometimes,” Cher says, “Sometimes she is my mummy too.”
“Ah.” Veronica states, “Ah, well, where can I find your really mummy?”
“At the Foxy bar, you know, the one where the ladies dance without their shirts or underwear on.”
“Oh.” Veronica says, “Is that where she works?”
“Yes,” Cher nods, “I think it must get very cold to do that.”
“Yes, it must. Do you know when she gets home?”
“Depends if she’s going to go to bed with one of the men after. I don’t know why she likes to fall asleep with them, Marian says she’ll tell me when I’m older. Do you know why?”
“It’s always nice,” Veronica starts, choosing each word rather carefully, “to have someone there beside you.”
Harriet starts shaking even harder in Veronica’s big arms, so the older woman thinks that it really would be a good idea to steer her over to the sofa in the corner.
They’re sitting side by side, Cher having run off to her bedroom, muttering something about Barbie and prom night and pregnancy. Right.
Harriet’s very small really, smaller than the average 13-year old, and Veronica isn’t quite sure what to say to the tiny, shaky, little thing.
“Are you alright?” Slips out, and Harriet looks up with big, brown eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Ah, well, would you like me to try and contact your parents?”
“Uh, no, not really.”
Veronica nods, and Harriet slips out of her grasp, sand between the fingers.
“Why’d you bring me here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why’d you take me away from Oscar?”
Veronica isn’t quite sure what to say; just Harriet’s looking up at her with the biggest, angriest eyes she’s ever seen on a little girl.
“Harriet, Harriet there was no one there with you…you were on your own.”
“No I wasn’t, there was a boy with me, Oscar, he was there and we were on the jetty-“
“Harriet,” Veronica tries again, all sympathy and worry, “Harriet there was no one with you…you weren’t on a jetty either…you were on 53rd street.”
Harriet’s face loses all its colour, she’s pale and doughy as is, but like this she’s positively ghastly. “That…that street has all the prostitutes…”
“Yes it does.” Veronica says slowly, and is wondering why the hell she didn’t go to a hospital, “You scared them all off though, I’m afraid, with you’re screaming.”
“But, no.” Harriet says, and her chest is heaving, her eyelashes heavy with tears yet to be shed, “no.” She says again, “Oscar and I were friends, and…and I hit him, I scratched his arms and his face and…and…”
“Harriet,” Veronica says gently, and pulls the tiniest pocket mirror out of her gun holster. “Harriet, you weren’t scratching him.”
Her reflection is the ugliest thing Harriet has ever seen, all mutilated flesh, purple and red and torn and it’s just…it’s ugly…uglier than usual.
“I found you on 53rd street, Harriet, you were screaming and hitting yourself and clawing at your eyes and…and the space above your heart. I spoke to some of the…people around the area…they say you’re there a lot, talking to yourself.”
“No.” Harriet says, and she’s crying again, sobbing and shaking and just…she’s a mess. This tiny, 13 year old girl.
Poor Harriet.
*
Oscar’s sitting at the jetty.
He’s wearing one of the fluorescent jail uniforms, and Harriet thinks it clashes with his hair rather horribly. He doesn’t say anything, but he wanders over anyway, arms out like a plane.
Oscar stops just in front of her, ducks his head a little and shoots her the tiniest of grins. He has scratches on his face. He’s missing an eye.
“You’re not real, are you?” Harriet asks.
“What is real?” He says, smile becoming a little less forced, “But no, I’m not.”
“Did I make you up?”
“Yes. You’re very creative.”
Harriet quirks a brow, sneers a little. “Why does your name change all the time?”
“You can never figure out what you want really, can you?”
Harriet just stares at him for a moment, “I don’t think we can see each other anymore.”
Oscar sighs, a big, heaving sigh, “Saw that coming. For what it’s worth, I think you’re lovely.”
“No you don’t.” Harriet says, running her fingers across her arms.
“Yes I do. I think you created me with a brain, because I think things that you obviously don’t.”
“I’m not creative.” She says.
“Yes you are, and you’re beautiful, and lovely and very, very kind. You love you’re sisters and your brother. You loved Evan, even if he was just a baby.”
“Evan’s dead now.”
“Yes.” Oscar says, but he doesn’t make a move to comfort her like she was hoping.
“He died because I was here with you…”
“No, he died because Paul had had too much to drink. He died because old men’s fists are much harder than small children’s skulls.”
“But I was with you…”
“Technically, you weren’t with anyone.”
Harriet’s crying again, big, teary, overflowing eyes. “I could’ve stopped it.”
“Paul’s fists,” Oscar says, “are much harder than Harriet’s heart. He would’ve broken you too.”
“I know. But he’s still at home, you know, still waiting for me.”
“Not really,” Oscar says, “When you get back, Veronica is going to take you and Marian and Cher and Little Dougy away.”
Harriet gives Oscar a strange look, “How do you know this?”
“Veronica told you, you were just crying too hard to hear properly. I only know as much as you know, Desdemona.”
“Desdemona,” she laughs, “Desdemona, queen of this jetty.”
“Does that make me the king?”
“Guess so.” Harriet says, and Oscar grins in reply.
“I think that means we’re married now.”
“I can’t stay, Oscar.”
His face falls so hard and fast that it kinda makes her think he is real. But not really, because she knows his face is just reflecting what she’s feeling.
“Why not?”
“You’re not real. Marian and Cher and Douglas are…I think they need me, more than I need you…”
Oscar nods, “Probably.” Blinks his one eye at her. “You scratched me up pretty bad.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No worries, you scratched yourself up pretty bad too. Did the doctor say when the eyepatch could come off?”
Harriet touches it self-consciously, “Two weeks.”
“Ok.”
“So, bye.” Harriet says, cocking her head, and letting loose a shaky grin.
“Goodmorning, goodafternoon, goodlunch, goodnight.” Oscar says, and he’s grinning a bit, leaning over to kiss Harriet on the cheek, and…and disappearing.
Gone.
And Harriet’s hurting a little, on her face and arms and heart, but that’s ok.
Poor Harriet.
Rating: M (mentions of rape and murder, and instances of domestic violence)
Fandom: Original (gen, het if you squint and, y'know, look sideways.)
Two nights later, Paul loses $15,000 at the casino. This is bad for two reasons.
One, they won’t be able to pay rent for a number of months, nor will they be able to eat or buy petrol or go to school. And two, because this means Paul is angry.
This is also bad, because Ginger is out tonight.
Harriet hurries Marian and Cher to bed, tucking them in and brushing sleepy hair out of equally sleepy eyes.
“Night.” She mumbles, and Marian and Cher may be sleepy, but it doesn’t make their eyes any less wide and terrified, or their hands any less clingy.
“Don’t.” Marian mumbles, “Don’t.”
They don’t raise their voices, Dougy is asleep beside them.
“Don’t you worry, Marian.” Harriet says, and she kisses the sweaty foreheads of her little siblings. “Don’t you worry.”
And Harriet creeps over to the other bed. The empty one. She doesn’t like the thought of anyone else getting hurt in the crossfire. She’s hurting enough for each and every one of them as is.
Paul’s boots are heavy on the stairs, but all Harriet can hear are the muffled sobs of her baby sisters.
Poor Marian.
Poor Cher.
The door slams open, and Paul’s big hand, fat fingers are wrapped rather horridly around Harriet’s little neck. Tight enough to bruise, to leave angry red marks around her throat and her heart.
Poor Harriet.
He’s bashing her head into the wall now, smashsmashsmash and it would hurt if she weren’t quite so numb.
Thing about Paul, was that he got bored very, very quickly.
Smashsmashsmash.
He’d be bored soon, Harriet tries to think, blood dripping down her forehead.
*
“Are you ok? You’re face is sort of cut up.”
Oscar says (he’s Robert today), “Bruised too.”
“I’m fine.” Harriet says (she’s still not Harriet, not here she isn’t).
“I don’t believe you.” He states, looking her square in the face, lips pursed and forehead furrowed.
He looks very nice today, with stripy shorts and black t-shirt.
“Well you should, because it’s the truth.”
“Your eyes are very honest.” Oscar says, and he runs his pretty fingers through her hair, catches the black strands. “and you are most certainly not fine.”
“I am telling you, Oscar, I most certainly am.”
*
The next day, Marian is crying. Marian is 11-years-old and has just been dumped by the love of her life.
His name was Stuart. Well, is Stuart. Just because they broke up didn’t mean his name had changed, nor did it mean he had suddenly dropped out of existence. It just meant that he’d left their families bubble.
“How’d you cope when your boyfriend divorced you?” Marian asks, tears in her big green eyes.
Marian got the lucky end of the gene pool, she got Ginger’s hair and Ginger’s eyes and everything exotic about both sides of their family (which isn’t a lot really).
With Harriet’s brown eyes and black hair and pale, doughy skin, she looks just like Paul.
“How’d you handle it?” Marian asks again, and Harriet wouldn’t know.
She’s never had a boyfriend.
*
Harriet goes to the jetty that afternoon, and Oscar isn’t there.
*
After Paul rapes Ginger, Ginger spends her nights sleeping in Cher and Douglas’ tree house.
Her agonised screams set off all the dogs in the street, and Harriet wonders why no one has called the police.
Ginger’s screams are cracking open Harriet’s skull, scraping out all of the energy and stamina off the sides of her brain. Ginger’s very unhappy.
Poor Ginger.
*
Harriet goes to the jetty again.
She eats ice-cream on her own, and day-dreams of sailing out to sea as Lucia Cartwheel alongside the lovely Johnny Depp.
She sighs though, because really, she’d prefer just Oscar.
*
Evan is eleven months old when he dies.
Harriet had been out on the jetty. Marian and Cher and Douglas playing outside.
It had taken one blow for Paul to kill Baby Evan. Kill him dead.
Poor Evan.
*
Harriet’s out on the jetty again.
She grows tired of holding her sobbing sisters, grows tired of Douglas’ tiny “where’s baby?”
“Today,” and it’s a voice she was starting to think she’d never hear again, “Today I am Paul!”
And maybe that’s the straw that breaks the camels back, because suddenly she’s screaming and sobbing and just, just she’s crying. She’s aching and hurting and her body is breaking as it falls into Oscar’s. She poundpoundpounds her fists against his fragile chest, scratches at his face and his arms and his eyes.
“Not Paul!” She screams, “Not Paul, Not Paul, Not Paul! Never, Paul.”
And he doesn’t say anything, just looks at her with big, sad, doe eyes that make her cry that much harder.
She doesn’t feel the hand on her shoulder, dragging her away, doesn’t hear the voice asking her what’s wrong, little one, what’s wrong?
She’s unhappy.
Poor Harriet.
*
So the person had been a police officer. A very nice woman by the name of Veronica Maine.
“Hello, Veronica.” Cher said. Veronica had been a guest speaker to their second-grade safety awareness class not a week earlier.
“Hello, Cher. How are you?”
“I am ok, although I have been happier on happier days.”
Veronica nods, still clutching a shivering Harriet in her burly arms. “Is this your sister?”
“Sometimes,” Cher says, “Sometimes she is my mummy too.”
“Ah.” Veronica states, “Ah, well, where can I find your really mummy?”
“At the Foxy bar, you know, the one where the ladies dance without their shirts or underwear on.”
“Oh.” Veronica says, “Is that where she works?”
“Yes,” Cher nods, “I think it must get very cold to do that.”
“Yes, it must. Do you know when she gets home?”
“Depends if she’s going to go to bed with one of the men after. I don’t know why she likes to fall asleep with them, Marian says she’ll tell me when I’m older. Do you know why?”
“It’s always nice,” Veronica starts, choosing each word rather carefully, “to have someone there beside you.”
Harriet starts shaking even harder in Veronica’s big arms, so the older woman thinks that it really would be a good idea to steer her over to the sofa in the corner.
They’re sitting side by side, Cher having run off to her bedroom, muttering something about Barbie and prom night and pregnancy. Right.
Harriet’s very small really, smaller than the average 13-year old, and Veronica isn’t quite sure what to say to the tiny, shaky, little thing.
“Are you alright?” Slips out, and Harriet looks up with big, brown eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Ah, well, would you like me to try and contact your parents?”
“Uh, no, not really.”
Veronica nods, and Harriet slips out of her grasp, sand between the fingers.
“Why’d you bring me here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why’d you take me away from Oscar?”
Veronica isn’t quite sure what to say; just Harriet’s looking up at her with the biggest, angriest eyes she’s ever seen on a little girl.
“Harriet, Harriet there was no one there with you…you were on your own.”
“No I wasn’t, there was a boy with me, Oscar, he was there and we were on the jetty-“
“Harriet,” Veronica tries again, all sympathy and worry, “Harriet there was no one with you…you weren’t on a jetty either…you were on 53rd street.”
Harriet’s face loses all its colour, she’s pale and doughy as is, but like this she’s positively ghastly. “That…that street has all the prostitutes…”
“Yes it does.” Veronica says slowly, and is wondering why the hell she didn’t go to a hospital, “You scared them all off though, I’m afraid, with you’re screaming.”
“But, no.” Harriet says, and her chest is heaving, her eyelashes heavy with tears yet to be shed, “no.” She says again, “Oscar and I were friends, and…and I hit him, I scratched his arms and his face and…and…”
“Harriet,” Veronica says gently, and pulls the tiniest pocket mirror out of her gun holster. “Harriet, you weren’t scratching him.”
Her reflection is the ugliest thing Harriet has ever seen, all mutilated flesh, purple and red and torn and it’s just…it’s ugly…uglier than usual.
“I found you on 53rd street, Harriet, you were screaming and hitting yourself and clawing at your eyes and…and the space above your heart. I spoke to some of the…people around the area…they say you’re there a lot, talking to yourself.”
“No.” Harriet says, and she’s crying again, sobbing and shaking and just…she’s a mess. This tiny, 13 year old girl.
Poor Harriet.
*
Oscar’s sitting at the jetty.
He’s wearing one of the fluorescent jail uniforms, and Harriet thinks it clashes with his hair rather horribly. He doesn’t say anything, but he wanders over anyway, arms out like a plane.
Oscar stops just in front of her, ducks his head a little and shoots her the tiniest of grins. He has scratches on his face. He’s missing an eye.
“You’re not real, are you?” Harriet asks.
“What is real?” He says, smile becoming a little less forced, “But no, I’m not.”
“Did I make you up?”
“Yes. You’re very creative.”
Harriet quirks a brow, sneers a little. “Why does your name change all the time?”
“You can never figure out what you want really, can you?”
Harriet just stares at him for a moment, “I don’t think we can see each other anymore.”
Oscar sighs, a big, heaving sigh, “Saw that coming. For what it’s worth, I think you’re lovely.”
“No you don’t.” Harriet says, running her fingers across her arms.
“Yes I do. I think you created me with a brain, because I think things that you obviously don’t.”
“I’m not creative.” She says.
“Yes you are, and you’re beautiful, and lovely and very, very kind. You love you’re sisters and your brother. You loved Evan, even if he was just a baby.”
“Evan’s dead now.”
“Yes.” Oscar says, but he doesn’t make a move to comfort her like she was hoping.
“He died because I was here with you…”
“No, he died because Paul had had too much to drink. He died because old men’s fists are much harder than small children’s skulls.”
“But I was with you…”
“Technically, you weren’t with anyone.”
Harriet’s crying again, big, teary, overflowing eyes. “I could’ve stopped it.”
“Paul’s fists,” Oscar says, “are much harder than Harriet’s heart. He would’ve broken you too.”
“I know. But he’s still at home, you know, still waiting for me.”
“Not really,” Oscar says, “When you get back, Veronica is going to take you and Marian and Cher and Little Dougy away.”
Harriet gives Oscar a strange look, “How do you know this?”
“Veronica told you, you were just crying too hard to hear properly. I only know as much as you know, Desdemona.”
“Desdemona,” she laughs, “Desdemona, queen of this jetty.”
“Does that make me the king?”
“Guess so.” Harriet says, and Oscar grins in reply.
“I think that means we’re married now.”
“I can’t stay, Oscar.”
His face falls so hard and fast that it kinda makes her think he is real. But not really, because she knows his face is just reflecting what she’s feeling.
“Why not?”
“You’re not real. Marian and Cher and Douglas are…I think they need me, more than I need you…”
Oscar nods, “Probably.” Blinks his one eye at her. “You scratched me up pretty bad.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No worries, you scratched yourself up pretty bad too. Did the doctor say when the eyepatch could come off?”
Harriet touches it self-consciously, “Two weeks.”
“Ok.”
“So, bye.” Harriet says, cocking her head, and letting loose a shaky grin.
“Goodmorning, goodafternoon, goodlunch, goodnight.” Oscar says, and he’s grinning a bit, leaning over to kiss Harriet on the cheek, and…and disappearing.
Gone.
And Harriet’s hurting a little, on her face and arms and heart, but that’s ok.
Poor Harriet.