Origins: Do not be Tame (Fan fiction)
You cannot walk away from love. But you can run away from yourself once you have destroyed every last vestige of love that you had. Aidan would say that you can replace it with hate, a stronger emotion, more potent and useful, like a poison that turns your soul black. I would have liked to say that no one had control over me then, but that would pride clouding over the truth. Aidan had control over me, Marc had even more and both them wished for the Catherine that had been turned--cold, calculating. I, however, always wondered whether there was even anything else other then that Catherine, twisted through a prism of black glass, a vestige of everything that could have been decent in society's wide definition of it, but was not--ever--for as far back as I can remember. I came to believe that some people were just born evil. He made me believe it, but whereas everyone else hated me for it or channeled my energy for their ends-ends they could not themselves fathom to accomplish-only he understood it and nurtured it like a wild orchid. Ah, the men in my life and unlife. Mmmm. With him, I felt that it was alright to be myself. But his price is so high. Still, I wonder, will I end up paying it to have even the darkest light shine onto me? I dare not tell him that his pursuits frighten me. A tout prix, he says. A tout prix. I know that we will lose. That I will lose him. He who is brother, father, lover, friend, mentor, enemy, to me. And then what? Then what? Then the world truly ends. The last somber refrain in an opera that only I can hear. Then I would have completely lost myself for I doubt that Marc will have the patience to save me from myself. Forget those that cross my path.There are few men that truly accepted me, even less whom I respected. Most of them are dead now, or I, dead to them, so I believe.
La Rue Norvins à Montmartre, Paris, France, 1775
I was only twelve when he found me--Germaine. Dirty, lost and hungry, I had stumbled near unconscious in my exhaustion on Rue Norvins after escaping the tyranny of God's mistresses in a convent for unfortunates in St. Aurore. En angliase, if you say it fast enough, the word sounds like 'horror' and it would not have been a lie. God wanted my heart, my soul, my devotion and loyalty and all I got in return was hard labor, raggedy clothes, scraped knees and red knuckles, drafty rooms with thirty or forty dirty children to them and dry stale bread. Germaine only wanted one thing. My body. And although he sold this and took what I made on the streets, I always had food. He was also kind enough to deflower me before setting me out into the world that became smaller with each returning patron. In his own way, he made it special by making it fast. It hurt less that way. I think that he always had a sore spot for me that lasted longer then the soreness of my initial encounter. At first I thought he did not care for me…but then I realized…that the fault was my own, that my standards for humanity had simply been too high.
I learned the ways of the world through the indifference it showed to me and others. By the time that I was fourteen, I had mothered two children. I never saw them past their first wails as Germaine quickly took care to still their cries with the crafty twist of their necks like spring chickens. However, I stopped wailing along with them after the third child, quietly bearing the fate of my fourth, and last, with quiet acceptance. And although it would make me seem kinder to say that I felt that something within me snapped, like my spirit, that is simply not true. There comes a time when you accept the horrors unfolding around you as natural occurrences. Just as it would comfort you to know that my occupation tormented me, I could not say that was the truth either. Every year I grew more fond of it despite its dangers and social disgrace. As a whore, society expected little from me and therefore I had more freedom than the well-bred ladies whose layered silks and lofty homes were really more like a gilded cage despite my father's title in the court of Versailles. Yes. My father's. Ah, but to have the die cast and learn that life favored no one. I was illegitimate, born of a wealthy father and a whore. My half-sisters? Wealthy, but blind to the gold chains wound tightly by their men around their throats that kept them docile and emaciated from being real women. I felt pity for them for I had clearly gotten the better end of the short stick.
I remember clearly when Germaine succumbed to me. When he gained my respect and, perhaps, if only in the smallest dose, my trust (for I know his actions were dictated by how valuable I still was). I had returned after a particularly difficult evening when political tempers must have been high or the coffers of the monarchy empty--again--for no wages had been paid that week and men took out their frustrations on malleable flesh. Blood and seed spilled down my thighs from swollen folds of delicate flesh that should be revered not plundered like some pirate fantasy for small boys. What concerned me more was the deep open gash from my lower belly which grew shallow and thin but led to my livelihood. The last man I was with…hated his wife. Same brown curls, he said. Same strange eyes, he said. Even the swell of our breasts were the same and the length of our slender necks. Even the sound of our moans. I smirked when I thought of telling him that if that were the case, than his wife was faking her pleasure. But somehow that set him off. Same smile. Same damn smile which made it seem like she was always laughing at him. I did not remember much more. My skull received a good knock. I hardly saw Germaine before I passed out in our modest room. Days came and went. I was a liability now. If I did not heal, I would be as useful as a horse with a broken leg. It was always easier to get a new horse.
Instead, he spoke to me through the fever. He answered things that I did not realize that I had said through my pains. "Do you know why it is easier to get a new horse? Even if you could heal it?" He said. "Because for the tamer, it is always a bigger thrill to break a new one in. The wild ones. And he will keep trying, he will keep pursuing that end, until he does break her. Tame her. And then, cherie, he moves onto the next horse." I heard it even through my screams as he sew me up. Sweat clung to my brow and slid down the side mixing with my tears. Angry tears. Oddly enough, it was the shock of blazing stars that jolted through my mind when he hit me that made me stop crying. "Do not be tame, Catherine. Do not ever be tame."
From then on, I was silent as he worked, mulling over his words with glassy open eyes like one who had been enlightened to the world of men. I knew then where the real power lay and with whom. I knew how to retrieve what power I had lost to him. I will always thank Germaine for that revelation. Weeks later when I had properly healed and had regained my strength and ability to walk without cringing, I found myself traveling through the cobblestone streets, my hood pulled over my head so that I only saw the road ahead. He told me never to look back. Never. Germaine had followed him home one night and provided me with only a penknife and an address. Gently I tapped on the door. It opened slowly, cautiously. "Bonjour. Might I come in for a moment, s'il vous plait? Oui? Merci."
The last man I was with…hated his wife. Same brown curls, he said. Same strange eyes, he said. Even the swell of our breasts were the same and the length of our slender necks. Even the sound of our moans…and our cries.
And, you know, he was both right and wrong. Same brown curls, yes. Same strange eyes, even. The swell of our breasts was remarkably similar and our necks both long and slender. But as I stood in the dark alleyway listening to him scream over and over again through the thin pane of window glass--soothing my wounds--when he came back from work to find my work, my assertion was proven correct…
he did not hate his wife.
La Rue Norvins à Montmartre, Paris, France, 1775
I was only twelve when he found me--Germaine. Dirty, lost and hungry, I had stumbled near unconscious in my exhaustion on Rue Norvins after escaping the tyranny of God's mistresses in a convent for unfortunates in St. Aurore. En angliase, if you say it fast enough, the word sounds like 'horror' and it would not have been a lie. God wanted my heart, my soul, my devotion and loyalty and all I got in return was hard labor, raggedy clothes, scraped knees and red knuckles, drafty rooms with thirty or forty dirty children to them and dry stale bread. Germaine only wanted one thing. My body. And although he sold this and took what I made on the streets, I always had food. He was also kind enough to deflower me before setting me out into the world that became smaller with each returning patron. In his own way, he made it special by making it fast. It hurt less that way. I think that he always had a sore spot for me that lasted longer then the soreness of my initial encounter. At first I thought he did not care for me…but then I realized…that the fault was my own, that my standards for humanity had simply been too high.
I learned the ways of the world through the indifference it showed to me and others. By the time that I was fourteen, I had mothered two children. I never saw them past their first wails as Germaine quickly took care to still their cries with the crafty twist of their necks like spring chickens. However, I stopped wailing along with them after the third child, quietly bearing the fate of my fourth, and last, with quiet acceptance. And although it would make me seem kinder to say that I felt that something within me snapped, like my spirit, that is simply not true. There comes a time when you accept the horrors unfolding around you as natural occurrences. Just as it would comfort you to know that my occupation tormented me, I could not say that was the truth either. Every year I grew more fond of it despite its dangers and social disgrace. As a whore, society expected little from me and therefore I had more freedom than the well-bred ladies whose layered silks and lofty homes were really more like a gilded cage despite my father's title in the court of Versailles. Yes. My father's. Ah, but to have the die cast and learn that life favored no one. I was illegitimate, born of a wealthy father and a whore. My half-sisters? Wealthy, but blind to the gold chains wound tightly by their men around their throats that kept them docile and emaciated from being real women. I felt pity for them for I had clearly gotten the better end of the short stick.
I remember clearly when Germaine succumbed to me. When he gained my respect and, perhaps, if only in the smallest dose, my trust (for I know his actions were dictated by how valuable I still was). I had returned after a particularly difficult evening when political tempers must have been high or the coffers of the monarchy empty--again--for no wages had been paid that week and men took out their frustrations on malleable flesh. Blood and seed spilled down my thighs from swollen folds of delicate flesh that should be revered not plundered like some pirate fantasy for small boys. What concerned me more was the deep open gash from my lower belly which grew shallow and thin but led to my livelihood. The last man I was with…hated his wife. Same brown curls, he said. Same strange eyes, he said. Even the swell of our breasts were the same and the length of our slender necks. Even the sound of our moans. I smirked when I thought of telling him that if that were the case, than his wife was faking her pleasure. But somehow that set him off. Same smile. Same damn smile which made it seem like she was always laughing at him. I did not remember much more. My skull received a good knock. I hardly saw Germaine before I passed out in our modest room. Days came and went. I was a liability now. If I did not heal, I would be as useful as a horse with a broken leg. It was always easier to get a new horse.
Instead, he spoke to me through the fever. He answered things that I did not realize that I had said through my pains. "Do you know why it is easier to get a new horse? Even if you could heal it?" He said. "Because for the tamer, it is always a bigger thrill to break a new one in. The wild ones. And he will keep trying, he will keep pursuing that end, until he does break her. Tame her. And then, cherie, he moves onto the next horse." I heard it even through my screams as he sew me up. Sweat clung to my brow and slid down the side mixing with my tears. Angry tears. Oddly enough, it was the shock of blazing stars that jolted through my mind when he hit me that made me stop crying. "Do not be tame, Catherine. Do not ever be tame."
From then on, I was silent as he worked, mulling over his words with glassy open eyes like one who had been enlightened to the world of men. I knew then where the real power lay and with whom. I knew how to retrieve what power I had lost to him. I will always thank Germaine for that revelation. Weeks later when I had properly healed and had regained my strength and ability to walk without cringing, I found myself traveling through the cobblestone streets, my hood pulled over my head so that I only saw the road ahead. He told me never to look back. Never. Germaine had followed him home one night and provided me with only a penknife and an address. Gently I tapped on the door. It opened slowly, cautiously. "Bonjour. Might I come in for a moment, s'il vous plait? Oui? Merci."
The last man I was with…hated his wife. Same brown curls, he said. Same strange eyes, he said. Even the swell of our breasts were the same and the length of our slender necks. Even the sound of our moans…and our cries.
And, you know, he was both right and wrong. Same brown curls, yes. Same strange eyes, even. The swell of our breasts was remarkably similar and our necks both long and slender. But as I stood in the dark alleyway listening to him scream over and over again through the thin pane of window glass--soothing my wounds--when he came back from work to find my work, my assertion was proven correct…
he did not hate his wife.