[The Night Circus] "The Hanged Girl" (R)
Sep. 24th, 2013 06:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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fic_promptly's The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern), Celia, Her mother tried to kill her once. It didn't work.. WARNING: Contains child abuse and child endangerment, as well as weird use of religious themes and tarot imagery.
Paris, November 1872
She could see too much of the father in the child. If Celia did not get her own way in some trifling matter -- a promised outing canceled or postponed, a toy or a treat denied, even when it came time for bed or a bath -- the child would fume silently. At least she never created the usual scene of tears and stamping feet or flailing limbs, but that did not preclude other effects. Furniture would move; windows would creak and crack, dishes or books or bric-a-brac would fall from the shelves. Or if the incident happened in a public place, a wind would arise without explanation and blow papers and debris about. The child had barely turned five, and already the neighbors in their cul-de-sac lined with flats had started to whisper among themselves about her. They would stop when mother and child passed through, but the mother could see them, out of the corner of her eye, would see them making the sign against the evil eye with one hand, while they crossed themselves with the other.
She tried to keep the child's powers in check, seeing that she said her prayers and went to Mass every morning. Salt sprinkled in a circle on the floor around her bed, holy water sprinkled on the pillows and in her food. At least she did not howl or writhe madly at these gestures, but the mother could not help that it would soon start, when the child grew older.
Every day, the spells would grow stronger, to the point that the mother started to dread the future. What would happen when the girl grew to age and her skills grew beyond her mother's ability to contain them? Or worse, if she did prove to have a demon, and she turned on her own mother? She contemplated sending the child to her father -- it might help to keep the self-righteous housewives on their cul-de-sac from having a reason to look down their pious noses at her -- but how to find a traveling illusionist with whom she had spent one night of wonder that had resulted in the very child that plagued her life?
She set aside some of her meager income to save up the train fare and hotel fees to take the child to the miraculous baths at Lourdes, hoping to wash the child's demons away in the waters blessed by the Virgin Mary's presence. A kindly stretcher carrier, a pious older man who had lived in the village all his life, told her the child would grow strong and learn to use her gifts well, but the mother only heard wishful thinking in those sentiments.
The child found the trip delightful, and the fresh air of the mountain village did wonders for her color. But they returned to Paris with no change in her skills. She still moved dishes around on the table at home.
She could bear it no longer. In a fit of anguish, she prayed God gave her a sign as to what she must do to end these fears. And as she walked home from bringing an order to her client, an embroidered tablecloth for an up-coming Christmas banquet, she passed by a store-front fortune teller, silken curtains across the door and tarot images painted on the woodwork. The image of a man hanging from the branch of a tree. And she knew what she had to do. She took a detour to a rope maker's shop and bought herself a spool of packing twine.
Once home, and while the child lay asleep, she set to work braiding the twine into a thin but strong rope. By morning, she had what she needed, and as she heard the child stir awake, she slipped into the bedroom that they shared.
The child stirred under the bedcovers. The mother had to move quickly, lest the child fully awakened. If she looked into the child's eyes, she knew her resolve would crumble. Twining the rope around the child's neck, she bound it into a slip knot, the better to tighten the rope at the right moment. Lifting the child, she carried the girl to the wardrobe, slung the other end of the rope over a clothes hook, tightened it.
The girl started to choke, then to gag, she thrashed on the end of the rope and several inches above her head, the twin began to fray and then to break. She dropped to the floor, landing on her feet like a small cat, coughing and sputtering.
"Mama, what...?" she asked, as if to mean 'what happened?' around her aching throat.
The mother snatched her up, murmuring apologies, reassuring her that she was safe now, that the "bad man" who had come in to harm her would not come again. Not a lie. The evil image of a man had tempted the mother to this, as a "bad man" had tempted her into what lead to the creation of this child...
fic_promptly's The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern), Celia, Her mother tried to kill her once. It didn't work.. WARNING: Contains child abuse and child endangerment, as well as weird use of religious themes and tarot imagery.Paris, November 1872
She could see too much of the father in the child. If Celia did not get her own way in some trifling matter -- a promised outing canceled or postponed, a toy or a treat denied, even when it came time for bed or a bath -- the child would fume silently. At least she never created the usual scene of tears and stamping feet or flailing limbs, but that did not preclude other effects. Furniture would move; windows would creak and crack, dishes or books or bric-a-brac would fall from the shelves. Or if the incident happened in a public place, a wind would arise without explanation and blow papers and debris about. The child had barely turned five, and already the neighbors in their cul-de-sac lined with flats had started to whisper among themselves about her. They would stop when mother and child passed through, but the mother could see them, out of the corner of her eye, would see them making the sign against the evil eye with one hand, while they crossed themselves with the other.
She tried to keep the child's powers in check, seeing that she said her prayers and went to Mass every morning. Salt sprinkled in a circle on the floor around her bed, holy water sprinkled on the pillows and in her food. At least she did not howl or writhe madly at these gestures, but the mother could not help that it would soon start, when the child grew older.
Every day, the spells would grow stronger, to the point that the mother started to dread the future. What would happen when the girl grew to age and her skills grew beyond her mother's ability to contain them? Or worse, if she did prove to have a demon, and she turned on her own mother? She contemplated sending the child to her father -- it might help to keep the self-righteous housewives on their cul-de-sac from having a reason to look down their pious noses at her -- but how to find a traveling illusionist with whom she had spent one night of wonder that had resulted in the very child that plagued her life?
She set aside some of her meager income to save up the train fare and hotel fees to take the child to the miraculous baths at Lourdes, hoping to wash the child's demons away in the waters blessed by the Virgin Mary's presence. A kindly stretcher carrier, a pious older man who had lived in the village all his life, told her the child would grow strong and learn to use her gifts well, but the mother only heard wishful thinking in those sentiments.
The child found the trip delightful, and the fresh air of the mountain village did wonders for her color. But they returned to Paris with no change in her skills. She still moved dishes around on the table at home.
She could bear it no longer. In a fit of anguish, she prayed God gave her a sign as to what she must do to end these fears. And as she walked home from bringing an order to her client, an embroidered tablecloth for an up-coming Christmas banquet, she passed by a store-front fortune teller, silken curtains across the door and tarot images painted on the woodwork. The image of a man hanging from the branch of a tree. And she knew what she had to do. She took a detour to a rope maker's shop and bought herself a spool of packing twine.
Once home, and while the child lay asleep, she set to work braiding the twine into a thin but strong rope. By morning, she had what she needed, and as she heard the child stir awake, she slipped into the bedroom that they shared.
The child stirred under the bedcovers. The mother had to move quickly, lest the child fully awakened. If she looked into the child's eyes, she knew her resolve would crumble. Twining the rope around the child's neck, she bound it into a slip knot, the better to tighten the rope at the right moment. Lifting the child, she carried the girl to the wardrobe, slung the other end of the rope over a clothes hook, tightened it.
The girl started to choke, then to gag, she thrashed on the end of the rope and several inches above her head, the twin began to fray and then to break. She dropped to the floor, landing on her feet like a small cat, coughing and sputtering.
"Mama, what...?" she asked, as if to mean 'what happened?' around her aching throat.
The mother snatched her up, murmuring apologies, reassuring her that she was safe now, that the "bad man" who had come in to harm her would not come again. Not a lie. The evil image of a man had tempted the mother to this, as a "bad man" had tempted her into what lead to the creation of this child...
