Writing Rabbit Hearted Girl

[Claire]

(Just so you know, this thing is over 4000 words long. Hope it doesn't scare you away. Also FUUUUUUUUU I made a booboo in the thread title).


[center]Rabbit Hearted Girl[/center]

I could tell by looking at him that the man was no good. He was this squashed rotund little person with a frantic static buzzing around his head, and dark eyes deadened by hunger. His ratty brown coat told me that he was poor, but I could smell that he spent his days chain smoking and drinking in lieu of earning his keep. There was no one to miss him. As I observed him from a shadowed alley, he observed a gaggle of tipsy, singing women emerging from the bar. He licked his lips, his fingers contorting into talons.

When he made his move, so did I.

Nobody saw the man disappear, of course. One moment he was there, creeping down the sidewalk, and the next he was not. It was a relief rather than a shock. No one had seen me at all. I moved as swiftly and silently as the breath following a speeding train.

The next morning some unfortunate passerby would find the man slumped on the ground between the buildings, sitting in puddles of fragments of glass. One hefty shard would be lodged in the front of his neck, and his shoulder would be in the wrong socket - he must have fallen from some great height, drunken, and impaled himself on his own bottle of beer. [i]Câ??est la vie[/i], they would say as they cleared away the trash.

There would be no blood, but it would go unnoticed.

I quietly slunk away from the scene, just out of reach of the gaslit street lamps. My veins were tingling with new, foreign energy, and I suddenly knew what a soap bubble must feel like right before it collides with someoneâ??s finger. The ground couldnâ??t properly absorb the adrenaline hammering against the soles of my feet. I wanted to climb to the rooftops and leap across the ceilings of Paris, as if they were made of soft rubber. It would have been the easiest thing, but I simply put one foot in front of the other until I was home again. After all, I had work in the morning.

***

Weâ??d barely been in Paris a week before the money was gone. It had been left behind in Austrian concert halls, in German opera houses, in Dutch art galleries and in hotels and train depots from here to Firenze. I suppose itâ??s not too surprising, since neither Rosa nor myself had had any steady source of income in the past sixty years. Not even the dead can see Europe for free.

I thought weâ??d hop on the first train back to Toscana, hidden in a storage car if necessary. But one morning, a few hours before sunrise, Rosa came home to our tiny apartment with her curly hair tangled and blood smeared across her lips and said sheâ??d found me a job.

â??What did you do?â? I said. â??Who did you kill?â?

â??Donâ??t worry about that. You just be glad I took the initiative.â?

The prestigious Académie de Ballet a few blocks away would be needing a new rehearsal pianist, she told me. That was something I could handle, no doubt about it. Rosa herself had been giving me piano lessons since we met, and she knew that half a century of practice was more than enough.

â??I donâ??t think thatâ??s a good idea,â? I said.

â??But it is,â? she said, pushing me towards the door. â??It is a [i]great[/i] idea, because I am not going back to Italy.â?

And that was that. Rosa dragged me to the academy, a looming brick building with stained glass windows and a tall dome that made it look like a cathedral, and we waited inside for someone to show up and hire me. When the director arrived, she and Rosa had a long conversation in French, occasionally punctuating their nonsensical words with excited gestures towards the piano in the corner of the room, the walls lined with mirrors, and my oblivious, perturbed self.

I didnâ??t speak French. I knew English because I had a British governess when I was a kid, and I knew Italian for obvious reasons. Neither of those languages would help much in this situation.

So I have no idea what either of them ever said, but a few hours later I was slouched at the baby grand, staring furiously at the keys as I felt the eyes of twenty Parisian girls tearing through my clothes. They all wore skin tight black leotards and sweet perfume that made my sinuses burn, and they all bickered giddily in the same high-pitched gibberish. I decided right away that they were just stupid little girls and that I hated them all.

Rehearsal ended after about five hours too many, and when it was finally dark enough outside that I wouldnâ??t go up like a furnace full of kerosene, I headed to the nearest bookstore to find the French translations of the books Rosa and I had brought from home. I figured if I had to withstand all the gossip, I should at least learn to understand it.

The plaques naming the genre of every shelf were in French, but some of the words were understandable enough. I had no business looking for [i]aventure[/i], [i]amour[/i], or [i]mystere[/i], though. Itâ??s awfully stereotypical, but every book in Rosaâ??s personal library deals with the most terrifying monsters, the most grotesque murders, the most hellish nightmares imaginable. I found the aisle that seemed close enough to what I needed: [i]horreur.[/i]

But I stopped when I first glanced down the rows of books. There was a tall girl in a black leotard, with her red hair done up in a messy bun and a massive white purse slung over her shoulder. I remembered seeing her amongst the other ballet students, though altogether they were nearly indistinguishable. They were a bee-hive. Perhaps Iâ??d been mistaken about this section. Surely those prattling flibbertigibbets had no use for such dark, frightening books.

She noticed me and gasped so quietly she probably assumed I couldnâ??t have heard. Then she mustered a brief, perfunctory smile, and said something. I assumed it meant hello, or quite possibly who the hell are you? I nodded noncommittally, just to be polite, then glanced at the selection of books in front of me: [i]Docteur Jekyll et Monsieur Hyde[/i], [i]Dracula[/i], [i]Frankenstein[/i].

How bizarre.

The girl pulled a volume from the shelf and began skimming the pages, tracing the words with her finger. Her green eyes lit up at something, and I heard a tiny chuckle in the back of her throat. She would most likely buy this book, this gothic novel. This scary story.

I grabbed everything I needed and rushed out of the store.

***

A few weeks passed, and though I was far from fluent, I could actually comprehend most of what everyone said. I heard them whispering to each other during practices, sometimes about their vapid lives, sometimes about me. I didnâ??t catch the specific gossip at first, because nobody ever properly pronounced my name. In Paris, I was [i]Lucy-oh[/i]. But now that I understood, I couldnâ??t stop myself from listening. It was involuntary. And I regretted every second of it.

â??[i]Mon père ne veut pas envoyer de l'argent[/i].â? Daddy wonâ??t send me any money because I want to buy diamond necklaces that are heavier than my head.

â??[i]Je ne vais pas manger de bonbons plus[/i].â? Iâ??m giving up sweets because Iâ??m not a stick figure.

â??[i]Je me sens mal, je pense que je suis contracter la maladie de Lucio.[/i]â? Iâ??m blaming my sore throat on [i]Lucy-oh[/i], because he looks like he has about a hundred thousand contagious diseases.

More or less.

***

I ran out of reading material very quickly and returned to the bookstore to pick up more. When I rounded the corner of the horror section, I came face to face with the redhead once again. This time she didnâ??t gasp. She looked right into my eyes and said hello, again, I was sure of it now.

â??[i]Bonsoir[/i],â? I said. Do you come here very often?

She nodded. Once a week, at least. Books donâ??t last very long.

I noticed the book in her hand and stifled a laugh. I almost told her that [i]Dracula[/i] is a bit of a joke, that itâ??s only a little accurate and really an overblown portrayal of my bunch. I doubt that would have gone over well. Instead I stepped an inch or so away and focused on the books in front of me.

She wanted to know if I liked horror.

I suppose so. Itâ??s more or less all Iâ??ve been reading lately.

She asked if Iâ??d read [i]Frankenstein[/i]. I had, in multiple languages.

â??Oh, you speak English?â? she said. Her voice was distinctly British. I had not expected this, but I said yes.

"That's a relief. Your French is too clumsy."

She then invited me to see the [i]Frankenstein[/i] film later that night.

My first reaction was a resounding no, inside my head. She was a silly human girl, and though not really as much as a twit as I initially believed, she was still guilty by association with the others from the ballet academy. I could see her digging her nails into my shoulder and screaming as Frankensteinâ??s monster burst alive, a horrid mass of mismatched limbs that I would most certainly find comical.

â??I canâ??t tonight. Iâ??m sorry.â?

No, itâ??s best I donâ??t go anywhere with you.

***

Rosa had a different idea.

â??A girl asked you to take her to the cinema and you [i]politely declined[/i]?â? she said after chucking a pillow from the sofa at my head.

â??I donâ??t even know her name,â? I said.

â??You can ask.â?

â??Why should I know her name? I donâ??t really need to.â?

Rosa went over to the door, pulled my coat from the peg on the wall, and tossed it over my head. â??Weâ??re going to see the moving picture tonight.â?

I donâ??t know what it was about Rosa. She was impossible to ever argue with. She wanted me to get a job in Paris so we wouldnâ??t have to go back to Italy, back to a house where she slept by herself in a bed built for two. We left our home in the first place because [i]she[/i] wanted to get away from it, and I just tagged along. I can empathize with her on all of that, but I there was no use trying to make me more sociable. Itâ??s something thatâ??s woven into my fabric.

Before I could come up with another argument, we were out the door. Rosa had a very strong grip.

When we reached the theatre, we found the redheaded girl at the ticket booth, exchanging coins with the clerk. She was surprised when she saw Rosa and me, but I donâ??t think much of her reaction was on account of [i]my[/i] presence.

â??So, [i]Lucy-oh[/i], you decided to come after all,â? she said, eyeing Rosa, who was very deliberately detached from me completely. The two of us could have been twins, for all the girl knew. Or at least brother and sister. We had the same dark curly hair, the same sickly pale skin, the same strange sunken yellowish eyes. I knew Rosa would play this up. I knew she would assure everyone that we werenâ??t and couldnâ??t possibly be [i]together[/i].

Rosa quickly jabbed her elbow into my side, so fast that the girl wouldnâ??t notice.

â??Yes, I suppose I did. Here I am,â? I said. Hope everyoneâ??s happy.

Rosa genially introduced herself as my sister, as I expected her to. Then she asked the girlâ??s name because she knew I couldnâ??t figure out how.

â??Charlotte,â? said the girl.

As I stepped up to the booth to buy our tickets, Rosa glanced at me in a way that suggested I had over-reacted before. [i]Is this really so hard[/i]? her eyes said. [i]You pansy[/i].

***

Charlotte turned out to be a very courteous film watcher. She didnâ??t read the subtitles aloud, she didnâ??t scream when the skeletal shell of Frankensteinâ??s monster sat upright and waved a gnarled bony hand at the audience seemingly all on its own. She didnâ??t even gasp. I couldnâ??t be sure, but at one point she may have even giggled at the absurdity of it all, alongside Rosa and myself. I felt a bit more buoyant walking out of the theatre afterwards.

But at the academy, where Rosa couldnâ??t twist my ear to make me talk, I still kept to myself. So maybe Charlotte had a brain that wasnâ??t made out of twisted ballet flat laces. Maybe she was interested in more than wearing absurd amounts of perfume and finding a handsome, muscular husband. Maybe she had substance. I still couldnâ??t associate with her, because I knew exactly what would happen. I could grow to appreciate the way she smelled like her skin was made out of rose petals. I could grow to like her wild auburn hair, to miss her bright green eyes when they werenâ??t staring straight into mine. I could grow to actually [i]like[/i] her.

And then what would happen? Would she feel the same? Would she wonder why I never took her out to dinner, why she never saw me outside during the day?

She wouldnâ??t wonder for long, Iâ??m sure. [i]Dracula[/i] may be hokey, but itâ??s not entirely wrong. Charlotte was smart and well-read, and she would figure me out right away. I can already hear the scream sheâ??d been saving since the Frankenstein film. I can see the terror in her eyes. And I can understand her telling everyone she knows, all those irksome chatterboxes at the academy, all of Paris itself. So to keep me from ending up dead, really dead, I would have to break her neck. Iâ??d snap her spine with one arm. It would be quick, maybe painless. Painless for one of us, at least. Sheâ??d at least have relief immediately afterward.

No, I couldnâ??t let any of that happen. I would just sit at the piano and shut up. I would find a different bookstore to shop at. I would remain detached and everything would be fine, and I wouldnâ??t end up like Rosa, always on the run from a memory.

If only life went according to plan.

â??Hello? Is anybody home?â?

I snapped out of my morbid trance and looked at Charlotte, who was waving her hand in front of my face. I wanted to pretend I hadnâ??t heard the doorbell ring, that Iâ??d stepped out to lunch.

"Sorry," I said. "I was just lost in thought."

She had enjoyed our time last night. There was another movie playing later, [i]The Wizard of Oz[/i]. Not really our usual fare, but the main villain was an evil, conniving, intimidating witch. Did I want to go see it?

I glanced away, rapidly searching for a better focal point than her large, pleading eyes. The sheet music on the piano seemed impartial.

â??I canâ??t, Charlotte.â? I canâ??t.

She said it was fine, but I could see that she didnâ??t really believe me. Iâ??d set her up to distrust me when I joined her for the first film even though I said I wouldnâ??t. I felt like my long dormant stomach was attempting to digest a brick.

Rosa asked me what happened today when I made it home. I said nothing. I shut myself up in my bedroom and went straight to sleep.

When I woke up a few hours later, I had a moving image of Charlotte and myself looping in my mind. We were at the theatre, laughing uncontrollably at the grainy pictures on the screen. Her hand was locked around mine and it was so warm I could have been holding a tiny sun.

I donâ??t know where the scene came from. I havenâ??t had a dream since 1842.

***

She was angry. It rolled off of her in tangible waves that almost made my hair stand on end. Her eyes seemed less green, less shiny, probably because she refused to look at me. She acted perfectly normal around her friends, laughing at their catty jokes, smiling at them, talking in a smooth, level voice. To me, it was a sharp piece of sandpaper scraping against my chest.

Was it possible that I could regret avoiding her even more than I would have regretted seeing her?

Rehearsal did not last long enough, for once. I knew that when the dancers fell out of their last dramatic tableau, Charlotte would gather her belongings and storm out without a single word. At least while we were in the same room she was acknowledging me with her ire. But class ended and everything played out exactly as I imagined, for what seemed to be the very first time. She was gone before I could push myself away from the piano.

Sheâ??s just being ridiculous, I told myself. I never said I would meet her. I explicitly told her I couldnâ??t. She had no reason to expect me. Sheâ??s being preposterous. Sheâ??s just like the other girls after all.

I repeated this in my mind all the way home. Things were turning out how I intended, after all, and I should have been glad of it. But Charlotte stayed mad for the rest of the week, and I never felt any better about it. In fact, I started feeling worse. I started feeling angry myself, but it was totally misplaced. I wasnâ??t angry with [i]her[/i]. I wanted to split myself in half, and one part of me would rant with her about how much of an asshole that other me was. Then weâ??d go out for ice cream or something fun like that. The sensible half of me would be able to eat actual food and walk around town with her during the day, like real people do.

It was starting to drive me crazy. I kept pacing around the apartment, wearing tracks in the carpet with my bare feet. Rosa watched me from the sofa, but she never asked what was wrong with me. I think she was over everything.

Then, at the peak of my burgeoning hysteria, Charlotte finally looked at me. We locked eyes for a solid second before she glanced away again. But that was enough. That was like sticking a needle into one of the balloons floating around in my stomach.

I felt like maybe I could approach her after rehearsal and she wouldnâ??t punch me in the face. So I zoomed over to her, maybe a little faster than I really should have, just to make sure she wouldnâ??t escape.

I asked her if sheâ??d picked up any new books. Literature was a safe enough subject. Start slow. Rebuild.

â??[i]Non[/i].â?

And she returned to her purse. She was already gone. Iâ??d been left behind.

[i]Non[/i].

I couldnâ??t take it anymore. I had to talk to her. I followed her out of the classroom, passing the disapproving faces of her petty friends. I didnâ??t care if they already saw me as outlandish and creepy, or if they thought Charlotte was perfectly justified in ignoring me. I had to fix everything.

â??Why are you mad at me?â? I said. Charlotte stopped. The other girls were suddenly mesmerized. Theyâ??d never heard me speak so confidently. I hoped they didnâ??t understand.

â??Iâ??m not mad,â? she said. Sheâ??s just [i]tired[/i]. Itâ??s production week. Sheâ??s stressed, and sheâ??s been staying up too late.

But then I mentioned how she hadnâ??t spoken to me in over a week. How she wouldnâ??t even look at me. I wanted to bring up all the little things I sensed, like how the temperature was noticeably lower around her shoulders, but my resolve was wavering. Maybe she really was tired and I was worsening everything by pressing a subject that didnâ??t even [i]exist[/i]. Iâ??d been wrong about Charlotte before. Was I really so vain that I could make anything about myself?

She stood still, glaring at me, her eyes as emerald as ever. I had one more chance.

â??Iâ??m sorry.â?

â??You donâ??t have to apologize.â? Her features remained rigid. She started walking again.

â??[i]Attendre[/i],â? I said. â??Wait. Iâ??ll take you to a movie tonight. Iâ??ll take you to three movies, and to your favorite restaurant, and Iâ??ll buy you whatever books you want. Or we donâ??t have to do any of that. We could do whatever you want. Or nothing, if you want nothing.â?

The words sounded fairly convincing, to me. I did mean them. For a moment I was afraid she would take it the wrong way and think I was implying that all she wanted was material compensation. The sides of my mouth ached from my clenched teeth.

â??If you want,â? she said. [i]If you want[/i]. And though her mouth was still an inflexible line, I swear I could see a smile somewhere in her face. She headed down the hallway, leaving me feeling about twenty pounds lighter. The other girls were clutching their cheeks in unmitigated delight, but for once they didnâ??t bother me at all.

***

We met outside the theatre around midnight. Charlotte was dressed comfortably in a loose sundress and cozy blue peacoat, like this was just an ordinary thing. Iâ??d broken out my most expensive pleated vest. I hoped she didnâ??t think much of it.

She went over the list of films showing and said she wasnâ??t very interested in any of them. They were all tragic romances. I was fine with this turn of events.

Instead of seeing a picture, we went for a walk. Things were quiet between us for a little while, and I was starting to feel a little anxious again. It was possible that sheâ??d agreed to go out with me to just shut me up.

We came upon a church. It was a fairly small building with only one solitary steeple and a plain, drab front. I remembered the Catholic cathedrals from my childhood ages ago, and though I was no longer sure what exactly had control over the universe, I still had some respect for the grandeur of the high vaulted ceilings, stained glass artwork, and even the stone gargoyles that entered my nightmares when I was five or six. This church had none of that, and I didnâ??t understand how anyone could find God in such a dowdy old place.

Charlotte stopped, fixated on the tip of the skyward cross.

â??Letâ??s climb up there,â? she said.

And before I could stop her, she was scouring the sides of the building for footholds. I didnâ??t want to climb the church. Someone would come along and tell us to get down, I was certain. Or maybe Charlotte would fall. Sheâ??d step on a loose shingle and slide right off the roof and I wouldnâ??t be able to catch her. The building may not be as big as God, but I was positive it could muster the same amount of wrath.

She called for me, â??[i]Lucy-oh[/i],â? from behind the church. There was a latticework that could easily be used as a ladder. I hurried to catch her but sheâ??d already ascended.

â??Iâ??ll stay down here,â? I said. â??Just in case.â?

â??Are you scared?â?

â??Iâ??m afraid youâ??ll fall off and get hurt,â? I said. Then she laughed.

â??Iâ??ll land on my feet. Iâ??ll be fine. And if you donâ??t start climbing, Iâ??m going to jump.â?

I reached the roof in a matter of seconds.

Paris stretched out before us, just a cluster of black boxes perforated by bright yellow squares. I could see the top of my apartment, where Rosa was probably sitting by the window reading. I hadnâ??t told her I was going out with Charlotte because I half-expected her to say something along the lines of I told you so. And I could see the dome of the academy, which seemed to be the tallest thing in this part of the city. Charlotte would probably love to climb that.

She laid down on her back and stared straight up, deep into the vibrant cosmos dotted across every inch of the dark purple sky. The moon was just a curved silver splinter in the middle of the starry field.

"Come here," she said, patting a space of the roof next to her, and I joined her. She pointed at some indeterminate plot of sky and said the constellation looked like a teapot. I squinted, following the tip of her finger to the alleged shape, but I couldnâ??t see anything other than a splatter of stars.

â??Then what do you see?â?

I looked at her then, and it was like Iâ??d swallowed the heavens. I was buried in a bouquet of roses, shrouded in a bright green haze. Everything was hot, though down below it was an early December morning. Something unbelievable had happened, something outrageous and impossible. And for once, it didnâ??t feel me with dread. I felt hopeful. I felt happy.

â??I just see stars,â? I said, gazing back up at the galaxy. She smiled and told me she could see them, too. Edited October 1, 2010 by Tonks

[The Spectacular Professor]

[quote name='Tonks' date='30 September 2010 - 10:56 PM' timestamp='1285912578' post='700831']
(Just so you know, this thing is over 4000 words long. Hope it doesn't scare you away. Also FUUUUUUUUU I made a booboo in the thread title).
[/quote]
[font="Comic Sans MS"]A mistake in the thread title? That's ridiculous! I see no such thing!

[size="1"]This is either the best winking smiley ever or the worst.[/size][/font]

[Claire]

[quote name='The Professor' date='02 October 2010 - 02:33 AM' timestamp='1286001199' post='700848']
[font="Comic Sans MS"]A mistake in the thread title? That's ridiculous! I see no such thing!

[size="1"]This is either the best winking smiley ever or the worst.[/size][/font]
[/quote]

Yeah, you're right, I definitely don't make mistakes ever.

[size="1"]Thanks. :3[/size]

[oxic_berry]

wow! that was really good! :D i loved your writing style ^___^ the story and writing was engaging and descriptive (but thank you for not describing [i]everything[/i], i hate it when writers do that!) and i admit, i was sad to see the bottom of the page when i'd reached it do you plan on writing any more to this particular story?

[Claire]

[quote name='oxic_berry' date='07 October 2010 - 11:48 AM' timestamp='1286466485' post='700962']
wow! that was really good! :D i loved your writing style ^___^ the story and writing was engaging and descriptive (but thank you for not describing [i]everything[/i], i hate it when writers do that!) and i admit, i was sad to see the bottom of the page when i'd reached it do you plan on writing any more to this particular story?
[/quote]

Sweet, thanks so much for reading it! I actually have quite a bit more to write for these particular characters; it's just difficult to keep going when I'm not writing on a deadline. Hopefully, after my creative writing class reviews this part of the story, I'll figure out how to continue it.

[oxic_berry]

sweet :3 oh, and just out of curiosity, why'd you decide to title it "rabbit hearted girl"? just curious! keep finding inspiration ;D peace!

[Claire]

[quote name='oxic_berry' date='07 October 2010 - 05:19 PM' timestamp='1286486379' post='700967']
sweet :3 oh, and just out of curiosity, why'd you decide to title it "rabbit hearted girl"? just curious! keep finding inspiration ;D peace!
[/quote]

I usually steal from music when it comes to titling my stories. In this case, I'd been listening to Florence and the Machine the entire time I was writing the story (more than seven hours!! all in one sitting because of my deadline, yikes) and decided to use this line from the song [url="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7nxO-yPQesA"]Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)[/url]. It doesn't have any really specific meaning; it just felt right.