Fragility
monster.
Paul was whistling Das Engelandlied. My heart was crashing in my chest. He continued -- cheerfully, almost -- as he returned to the front seat and gunned the engine, pulling away from the curb. A cold sweat began to trickle down my spine, pooling at the small of my back. I briefly wondered, hands trembling, if my naivety would cost me my life one day. The whistling stopped, then, sharply. His cold eyes came into view in the rear-view mirror, meeting mine and keeping them. "So you're his precious princess."
I didn't say anything.
"It is not everyday that anyone meets...one of you," he said, returning his eyes to the dusty road. 'One of you' felt as if he were talking about a new species of animal.
"What an honor this must be for you, then," I said.
"Hardly," he said dryly. "You people are otherwise unremarkable." He paused for a moment.
"Then why work for us 'unremarkable' people?"
"Unlike you, Princess," he said. "I need a job."
I kept quiet.
"I should have you know that I was considerably worried about this job. Working for a rich man, driving his spoiled ward around," he said. "Especially a man with such a reputation as him."
"I'll thank you not to speak about him with disrespect."
This girlish, fleeting moment of sharpness caused him to laugh. "No disrespect intended! What a joy it is to work for a man who shares my views."
"You mean your fascist views?"
"Oh," he said. "You do not agree with his pro-German mentality?"
"No," I said, my blood beginning to boil.
"What a shame!" he said. "Don't you know the consequences of such things?"
"There are none. Not here."
"Oh, but there will be, my dear," Paul said. "Sooner than you think."
"If there will be consequences," I said. "Then I'll face them."
"And what a waste that would be," he said and chuckled. "Though, a wealthy, pretty girl like you is worth more dead than alive."
The moment Paul pulled the car through the gates and around the circular driveway of the chatêau, I didn't even wait till he fully stopped the car. I did not want to be near him any longer -- he frightened me, his very image frightened me. I kicked the door open and bounded out, running up the driveway and small steps. I could've sworn I heard him laughing after me. Even as I stumbled on colt-like legs through the halls, I anxiously awaited the footsteps that echoed mine.
I went to leave my coat and bag in my room before returning to the hall that housed my uncle's office. It was another vast space, the walls artfully decorated with artifacts of old and watercolor paintings done by local artists, precious vases perched upon small, delicate tables, the carpeted floors additionally decorated with Persian rugs. One had to be bombarded by arts and worldliness when walking the halls of the chatêau.
A fleeting thought entered my psyche as I stopped before the door, closed fist up: Go back to your tower room and dress. Don't fuss about this. Tell Lily you can't go -- tell her he says no, Mama is sick in Gloucestershire, you must go see her...
But why? Why was I not allowed any of this? A shred of freedom, to feel lovely and beautiful in a ball gown and my hair done, seeing the world for what it's worth, experience something new; have a young uniform tap me on the shoulder, smile at me, teeth white and perfect, hold out his arm and lead me onto the dance floor and spin me around in perfect unison with the other dancers. Afterwards, we'd drink champagne and our heads would float and the world would blur and we'd hear laughs from all around. He'd tell me about his regiment and his medals would shine on his breast-pocket, showing the world how wonderfully brave he was in his effort to keep us safe. He'd ask me what I do -- snorting, besides breaking my heart -- and I'd tell him about my dancing. He asked me if I liked it terribly and I would smile demurely without showing my teeth and say that I do. It would be beautiful and I would never want to forget such a night. Maybe he'd kiss me, tell me he loved me, tell me he'd protect me. Maybe he'd promise me the moon and the stars and the universe and disappear like a phantom at the stroke of midnight. Maybe the world would fall away and he'd still be there. I should be allowed to forget everything for a night, to strip away my insecurities and fears, and let go.
I knocked upon the door thrice. A voice immediately sounded, half-tired. "Who is it?"
"It's Vee," I returned.
"Come in." I turned the knob, entered within the smallest amount of space between the door, shut it as quietly as possible, and leaned against it. One had to be wait to be called in further and it would take some time, depending on who one is. In the time allotted, one would be almost forced to look upon the grandeur and beauty that my uncle's office, a very fraction of the rest of the chatêau; it seemed to take up a great deal of space, considering that the room was fairly empty. A giant floor to ceiling window overtook the northern wall. To the west and the south laid the man’s treasured collections of books, ranging from French to German to Danish and a myriad of other languages in between. Before the west wall of books was a desk, a great oak piece of wood in the end of the room, with a single matching chair in front of it. Uncle sat behind it, legs on the desk, crossed at the ankles. He was nursing a small tumbler of gin.
"Where's Jack?" I asked, stepping toward his desk.
"Good afternoon to you, too," he said dryly.
I swallowed hard. "Good afternoon."
He smiled -- good doggie -- and took a long pull of the drink. "What were you saying, darling?"
"Where's Jack?" I asked again.
"Sad to say, he was let go."
"Why?" My voice was stupidly high.
"I could've excused the things he said to me, but they were so awful and evil, said with such hatred. Things that someone like you should hear, and certainly nothing that should be said to an employer. You won't be seeing the likes of him about here any longer."
"What did he say that was so awful?"
"What do you care?"
I bit my lip. "He was my friend."
"Friend!" Uncle scoffed. "You shouldn't consider some lowly servant a friend, Vee. It's desperately unbecoming." He took another sip from his drink.
He continued, “He was a driver, nothing more.”
“He’d only been kind to us,” I said.
He waved my words away, much like shooing away a fly. "Now," he said, putting the drink down on the table and retrieving a silver cigarette case from the drawer next to him. He removed his legs from the table as he lit the cigarette with a Zippo lighter. "There must be something else you wish to ask me if you're still here."
Blood began to drum in my ears. "Yes."
Uncle slowly blew out a plume of blue smoke. "Out with it, then."
"I was invited to a party in three weeks," I said, breathing evenly through my nose. "And I wished to ask you if I could attend." I added, almost desperately, "Please."
"Who invited you?"
"Lily Mads," I replied monotonously. "Her grandfather is a friend of Papa's."
"Is this...Lily Mads your friend?" Her name was said with distaste.
"Yes."
"I see," he said, giving me an up-down. "Why should I allow you to go, darling?"
"I don't know." Truly I didn't.
"Will this girl be disappointed if you don't attend?"
"I think so."
"And do you want desperately to attend?"
I took a moment too long in answering. "Yes."
He smiled and chuckled lowly. "Then you must do something for me, pretty thing. It's only fair -- quid pro quo."
A sickened sensation -- quick needle pricking -- imbedded itself in my stomach. I recognized it, too late, as fear. I knew what he meant; he did not need my permission to do it, but this time, he could only use my request to his advantage. This was how his game was played -- I was the constant loser and he was the only player to gain. No matter how much I would beg or scream or cry or threaten escape, the end would come anyways. As frightened as I would be, I would take it as it came and remember the rules that I’d set for myself: lock the door securely and don’t say a word, shut up and nod, speak only when spoken to, move only when told to, do what you’re told, show no feelings otherwise, shut them away and never let them out, don’t scream, for God’s sake, don’t scream, let him do what he pleases because I deserve it. I provoke it, he said once quietly, when it was all over and he thought I still slept. And finally, I would allow him to bleed me dry, break me apart, shatter the fragile world that I keep safe.
I shook my head.
“No?” he said lowly.
“Not this way,” I said. "I'll do anything else--"
"You can't have something for nothing, my love," he said. "It is not the way the world works."
“But...”
“You desperately want to go, don’t you?”
“It’s not nothing...”
“Do you want to go or not?”
I shut up and I think that worked as an answer.
He snuffed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray on the desk. He then got up from the seat, coming to stand before me. He seized my chin, turning it up so I was forced to look at him. I thought I might faint when he asked me, "What do you say, Vee?"
"Fine." My voice was barely audible.
The smile returned. "Go make yourself pretty, now. They'll be here soon." I couldn't run out fast enough.
--
Hours later, I was perched on the velvet settee in one of the -- many -- drawing rooms within the chatêau, dressed properly: a long dark dress with thin straps, delicate slippers, a single diamond bracelet on my left wrist. My hair was done up, fashioned into a complicated up-do that my aunt's lady's maid painstakingly put together, so I would look appropriate enough.
This was done so that my uncle bolster might the men's -- big, boisterous, German -- respect. It was no mystery that my uncle supported Germany and that he would be put back on the throne, should Germany prevail. He would rule the world, they said. The world would kneel at his feet, they said.
Laughter echoed in the the halls. The men had arrived in their black cars, dressed in their appropriate uniforms, come to call upon their friend -- the powerful man with a niece to take care of and a wife he barely tolerated. I stood up, breathed in as the door opened and it began.
There were three this time. Uncle was with them already -- dressed for dinner in a suit -- and had his arm around the shoulders of one of the men, the leader, a fat man with brown eyes and brown hair. He was flanked by a ferocious looking German Shepherd with a cage-like muzzle around its long snout.
"Gents!" Uncle said, coming over to put his cold hands upon my shoulders. I froze, the men's eyes on me. "This is my niece, Vee." Then he added, almost cheerfully, "She speaks German," and propelled me forward. My slipper stopped a few inches from the dog, who bared its teeth at me. I immediately stumbled back, swallowing down a scream.
I attempted to breath evenly through my nose so I wouldn't crumbled into tears before these men. This was humiliating.
The man noticed my discomfort. "Haben Sie Angst vor Hunden?" Three pair of eyes still coldly bore into me -- a heated pair aimed at my back -- as I attempted to find words. Uncle continually put me into situations like that, and it's grown to be a considerable source of fear to me -- saying the wrong thing, facing the consequences.
"Nein," I said softly, finally meeting their gaze. "Aber dieser macht mir Angst."
The men burst into laughter as their leader said, "Ah, the little girl finally speaks!"
Little. Little meant weak, small, meek, careful, childish -- little dove, little princess, little sweetie, little darling. "Little" was Uncle's favorite word to describe me.
"Don't ever call me 'little'," I said, clenching my fists at my side. I should've taken the man's words to heart, smiled, preened, but I could not. At that, I felt Uncle's hand curl around the exposed skin of my arm, pulling me back sharply.
"Now, now, Vee, no need to go biting the heads off of people," he said, laughing as he pulled me to him and kissed my cheek. The grip on my arm tightened into a pinch as he said through his teeth, "It's a compliment."
My blood boiled in my veins. I would not allow myself to become a stoic arm adornment for a man wishing to secure a higher-up's ties. I tore my arm away, caring little of the consequences that would come later, and said fiercely, "I don't need anyone's compliments."
The room fell so silent one could easily hear a pin drop. Uncle's face slowly burned into the color of a heart attack. He grabbed hold of my wrist tightly as the leader said, "A fiery one, isn't she?" The leader gave a chuckle, but the sound was far from cheerful. "Perhaps you should learn to keep those mannerisms of hers in check, David."
Uncle laughed nervously. In company, he'd always made sure to look like he had control of every single little detail. I felt the tiniest bit proud of myself for breaking that proverbial vase all over the place.
"Oh, of course, Werner!" Uncle said, and I hunted a bit of nervousness in his voice. "You know how women are -- tempestuous and hysterical."
"It's sad, really," Herr Werner said, jerking his chin in my direction. "Ugly manners don't fit the face."
I could've ripped his face from his skull for that.
Uncle laughed. "Oh, she means no harm." Herr Werner grunted his agreement -- little girl's all bark.
Uncle cleared his throat and said, "Gents, why don't you start heading over to the dining room? We'll be there in a moment." The men left quietly, the long-shouted dog padding loudly after its master. The door was silently -- respectfully, almost -- closed.
When the footfalls faded, Uncle shoved me into a chair nearby, steeling his hands on the arm rest so I was trapped there. My heart screamed.
"Have you lost your fucking mind?" he asked of me, his face centimeters from mine. His breath smelled of alcohol.
"I won't be disrespected," I hissed through my teeth. "Especially by some lowly German pig."
"That pig, you stupid girl, will secure our future, a future brighter than the sun," he said, caressing my cheek with his cold hand.
"What sort of future is that?" I asked ruefully, despite the fact that I wanted desperately to faint.
"I will be King again."
This was a delusion of Uncle's -- or his German friends -- that I'd heard when I wasn't supposed to, hiding behind a pillar or crouched behind a door: Hitler will win this war, crushing his enemies under his boot. My Uncle Bertie -- the current King -- will be put to death along with his family, and Uncle David will be restored to the throne for reasons I did not know. I'd rather swallow poison than be a part of this new world.
"A King with blood on his hands," I said.
"A King, no less," he said. At that, he removed his hands from the armrest and just stood before me, watching, scrutinizing, his eyes moving occasionally up and down.
"I won't take any part of this," I said, and removed myself from the chair, getting as far away from him as I could.
"No?" he said lowly.
"No," I said, and my voice broke when I said, "I don't like this."
"You don't," he deadpanned.
"How can you not see what these people stand for?" I said. "How could you be so blind?"
"How dare you," he said quietly.
"I do dare!" I said, very close to tears. "I dare as much as I please! I tire of this! It's wrong. They're evil, they're--"
"You forget yourself, Vee," Uncle said.
"Don't you see what they've done to you? What they fill your head with?" I said, my heart beating madly in my chest. I felt an errant tear crawl down my face. "You can't be King again -- you won't be King again--"
I stopped, because he'd come very close to me, trapping me against the desk. He reached up and seized the back of my hair, so I was forced to look at him; him, the monster that he turned into when the sun went down.
"Shut up," he said softly. "Or I'll break every bone in your body."
When I didn't reply, digging my fingernails into the wood behind me, he said, "Where in the hell would you be without me, my counsel, my generosity, my forgiveness?"
"I don't know," I mumbled, dropping my hands to my lap. Truthfully, I didn't.
"You don't know, do you?" He barked a laugh. "You poor thing -- you'd probably be dead, or rotting in some orphanage, because your stupid, sap of a father wouldn't have the wages to care for you."
My throat thickened with the onset of tears.
"Or worse: you'd be one of those street urchins, dying of disease," he said. "But you are here, in England, living in the lap of luxury, given whatever you want without a second thought, and yet you have the gall to disrespect me."
"I'm sorry," I said lowly, feeling lower than a dog. "I didn't mean any of it."
He smirked. "Of course you are. And I trust we shouldn't need a visit to the orphanage?"
I shook my head. This was another form of punishment of my Uncle's -- parading around an orphanage, dressed in our best as we were guided around by the director, under the pretense of donating so that those within it would have better lives. But, as Uncle put it, it would be a tour of my new home if I didn't behave. The last time he's utilized this was four years ago, when I was 12. I do not remember what I did to cause him to drag me there, that sad, awful place, filled with girls my age who were skinny and starving and cold, glaring at my warm, clean coat and boots, the handsome, rich man's arm around my shoulders.
It was also at that time that I'd witnessed a girl dying. As the director was explaining the orphanage's dire financial situation, a girl in the corner bed began to scream her friend's name -- Helen, Helen! -- and when she lifted Helen's pale form into a sitting position, the poor soul spat up blood into the thin blanket. We were immediately rushed out of the room as a doctor was called, Uncle shielding my eyes, but the damage was done.
”Remember where you’d be without me, lovely,” he said. “You’re so incredibly lucky that I adore you.”
The worst form of adoration, I thought as he pulled me into a tight embrace. His hand found the back of my hair again, tightening. I realized a moment too late.
“I love you, too,” came the proper reply.
As he left, he called over his shoulder, "Do join us when you're ready."
I stayed within the same position for a few moments, shaking, trying not to crumble entirely. I could not -- would not -- give this man the pleasure of knowing he won. Reaching adequate composure -- calm heart, calm mind -- took a few more moments, and then I left to join the wolves.
When I arrived, a chair was already pulled from me beside Uncle, who made a great show of welcoming me.
"My little Queen has finally arrived," he said, and kissed my cheek. This caused the men to laugh -- an integral part of the show, luring them in like fish on a line.
It was then that my uncle began to weave a tale that was part fact, part fiction. It was a way to get their support, to hear the tale of how he'd needed all of this support because, for God's sake, he had this niece with an unfortunate past to take care of.
It began the way it always had -- in the very beginning. My mother, his youngest sister, and my father were young when they had me, and so, he did them the good deed of taking me, barely a day old, from them to raise on his own. He claimed irresponsibility, my mother's love of the bottle and her white pills that caused euphoria, my father's lust for women other than my mother.
He did not mention that my mother was, in fact, dead and buried for sixteen years, that he didn't know if my father lusted after any other woman at all, because he hadn't the faintest where my father was even.
"Would you consider this an ideal living situation for England's new princess?" Uncle asked the men. They presented their disagreements in unison, and the tale resumed.
I allowed myself to drown in memories of better times.
It was in my sixth year, he recounted, that the day came that his father -- George V -- decided that I would be promised to someone. That someone was the Swedish King's grandson, who was two years older than me. He was black-haired and lanky. When he smiled, I saw that he was missing the same front teeth as I was. I liked him instantly; he made me laugh and played hide and seek with me. We grew up together, but only seeing each other four months out of the year, as agreed. Each time I saw him, I'd offhandedly mention that he'd change and he said that I did as well, never mentioning specifically what had changed. He'd often blushed when he said that. But his changes were prominent: his voice deepened, his chest broadened, his teeth were straight. At night, when I was alone in my canopied bed, I allowed myself, pale and guilty, to think of him as beautiful.
In my twelfth year and his fourteenth I began to think of him differently. I wanted to be with him constantly; I wanted him to hold my hand. My heart beat an instant faster when I saw him each morning. He'd tried to kiss me that year. We were sitting in the garden and I was reading The Count of Monte Cristo out loud. He told me to stop, put his hand on my shoulder, and brushed his lips against mine. I let my eyes flutter closed, but the burning feeling -- guilt -- hurt and I shoved him back and ran off into the woods, where we were Fairy King and Queen. I hid behind a tree, willing the burning to go away; his footfalls behind me matched my heartbeat.
"I'm sorry, Five!" he called into the dark sea of trees. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just..." He did not say anymore. I stepped out from behind the tree and found him yards away, at the mouth of the forest. I asked him why he did it, shivering because I wanted him to kiss me.
"You make me feel nice." was all he said, panting.
A week later, Papa died and my world blackened in a flash of white. A week and a day later, I didn't see that boy again. Three years later, on my fifteenth birthday, I saw him on the streets of Denmark -- one of many come to see as Papa passed through the streets of Copenhagen on his horse, Jubilee -- a beautiful, handsome soldier in uniform, laughing, with a lovesick blonde on his arm. The tiny light in my world, far beyond the blackness, finally died.
The tale was over. The German men laughed.
--
Darkness fell upon the chatêau and the sky outside my window was sprinkled with white pinpricks of stars. I kept myself turned to the wall, the canopy of my four-bed drawn closed. I'd tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep for hours. But my heart would not shut off and rest. Footfalls sounded outside my door and a moment later, the door opened, flooding my room with a hazy light. I did not move. The door was promptly closed; the turn of the lock sounded, echoing in my heart.
My canopy was swept away, exposing me. A cold hand caressed my arm. I suppressed a shiver. "My fragile princess." Uncle out his hand over my mouth and I began to pray silently as he put his hand up my nightgown.
This was my cross to bear.
I was there, there, in the darkness, all over again and the light was dying. I was dying again. Each night, this torture would come again and I did not fight it. I was the blood and skin he wanted and craved like a needed drug. I was his to do what he pleased with. I'd often wondered what I'd done to deserve this; he said I did, that I provoked him, that I tempted him. He called me a slut, horrible, a whore. He whispered disgusting things into my ear, kept his hand on my mouth to drown out the screams. I wanted to faint. I wanted to black out from the pain. I wanted to die. I prayed to some celestial being in the universe to please help me, make it stop.
When I was younger, I cried because I didn't like this. It felt wrong. It made me feel things I didn't understand. As I grew, I did not cry anymore. I allowed it to happen because I couldn't stop it. I tried thinking of myself elsewhere or as a ghost, at the end of the room, watching this unfortunate act -- dirty, whispered words, hands that hurt -- happen to some poor girl and attempting to think of some way to save her. But in the end, I was me. I was the girl he was doing this to, ripping her apart like paper and leaving her to put herself back together.
Hours later, it was over and the monster was satiated. I kept my gaze at the wall and did not breath.
"I love you," he said, running a hand over my exposed skin. He kissed my cheek. Then, blessedly, he left.
I got up from the bed, blind in the darkness, panting, and tried to hold up my ripped nightgown as I limped to the bathroom -- almost an eternity away -- wincing at the pain between my legs. My whole body hurt; it was alive and raw with unwanted feelings. I turned on the dim light in the bathroom and shut the door and hobbled over to the standing tub, turning the knob so only boiling water would run.
My breath came out in gasps -- out of fear of him coming back, out of guilt, out of wanting so desperately to be dead. Hot tears fell down my face as I let the ruined nightgown -- stained and bloodied -- fall from my body. I climbed into the tub and hugged my knees to my chest as I trembled and cried and prayed. The boiling water fell down my back, over the scars and scratches and red marks, hurting me and cleansing me in unison.
I watched through bleary eyes as blood swirled down the drain like a helix.
I didn't say anything.
"It is not everyday that anyone meets...one of you," he said, returning his eyes to the dusty road. 'One of you' felt as if he were talking about a new species of animal.
"What an honor this must be for you, then," I said.
"Hardly," he said dryly. "You people are otherwise unremarkable." He paused for a moment.
"Then why work for us 'unremarkable' people?"
"Unlike you, Princess," he said. "I need a job."
I kept quiet.
"I should have you know that I was considerably worried about this job. Working for a rich man, driving his spoiled ward around," he said. "Especially a man with such a reputation as him."
"I'll thank you not to speak about him with disrespect."
This girlish, fleeting moment of sharpness caused him to laugh. "No disrespect intended! What a joy it is to work for a man who shares my views."
"You mean your fascist views?"
"Oh," he said. "You do not agree with his pro-German mentality?"
"No," I said, my blood beginning to boil.
"What a shame!" he said. "Don't you know the consequences of such things?"
"There are none. Not here."
"Oh, but there will be, my dear," Paul said. "Sooner than you think."
"If there will be consequences," I said. "Then I'll face them."
"And what a waste that would be," he said and chuckled. "Though, a wealthy, pretty girl like you is worth more dead than alive."
The moment Paul pulled the car through the gates and around the circular driveway of the chatêau, I didn't even wait till he fully stopped the car. I did not want to be near him any longer -- he frightened me, his very image frightened me. I kicked the door open and bounded out, running up the driveway and small steps. I could've sworn I heard him laughing after me. Even as I stumbled on colt-like legs through the halls, I anxiously awaited the footsteps that echoed mine.
I went to leave my coat and bag in my room before returning to the hall that housed my uncle's office. It was another vast space, the walls artfully decorated with artifacts of old and watercolor paintings done by local artists, precious vases perched upon small, delicate tables, the carpeted floors additionally decorated with Persian rugs. One had to be bombarded by arts and worldliness when walking the halls of the chatêau.
A fleeting thought entered my psyche as I stopped before the door, closed fist up: Go back to your tower room and dress. Don't fuss about this. Tell Lily you can't go -- tell her he says no, Mama is sick in Gloucestershire, you must go see her...
But why? Why was I not allowed any of this? A shred of freedom, to feel lovely and beautiful in a ball gown and my hair done, seeing the world for what it's worth, experience something new; have a young uniform tap me on the shoulder, smile at me, teeth white and perfect, hold out his arm and lead me onto the dance floor and spin me around in perfect unison with the other dancers. Afterwards, we'd drink champagne and our heads would float and the world would blur and we'd hear laughs from all around. He'd tell me about his regiment and his medals would shine on his breast-pocket, showing the world how wonderfully brave he was in his effort to keep us safe. He'd ask me what I do -- snorting, besides breaking my heart -- and I'd tell him about my dancing. He asked me if I liked it terribly and I would smile demurely without showing my teeth and say that I do. It would be beautiful and I would never want to forget such a night. Maybe he'd kiss me, tell me he loved me, tell me he'd protect me. Maybe he'd promise me the moon and the stars and the universe and disappear like a phantom at the stroke of midnight. Maybe the world would fall away and he'd still be there. I should be allowed to forget everything for a night, to strip away my insecurities and fears, and let go.
I knocked upon the door thrice. A voice immediately sounded, half-tired. "Who is it?"
"It's Vee," I returned.
"Come in." I turned the knob, entered within the smallest amount of space between the door, shut it as quietly as possible, and leaned against it. One had to be wait to be called in further and it would take some time, depending on who one is. In the time allotted, one would be almost forced to look upon the grandeur and beauty that my uncle's office, a very fraction of the rest of the chatêau; it seemed to take up a great deal of space, considering that the room was fairly empty. A giant floor to ceiling window overtook the northern wall. To the west and the south laid the man’s treasured collections of books, ranging from French to German to Danish and a myriad of other languages in between. Before the west wall of books was a desk, a great oak piece of wood in the end of the room, with a single matching chair in front of it. Uncle sat behind it, legs on the desk, crossed at the ankles. He was nursing a small tumbler of gin.
"Where's Jack?" I asked, stepping toward his desk.
"Good afternoon to you, too," he said dryly.
I swallowed hard. "Good afternoon."
He smiled -- good doggie -- and took a long pull of the drink. "What were you saying, darling?"
"Where's Jack?" I asked again.
"Sad to say, he was let go."
"Why?" My voice was stupidly high.
"I could've excused the things he said to me, but they were so awful and evil, said with such hatred. Things that someone like you should hear, and certainly nothing that should be said to an employer. You won't be seeing the likes of him about here any longer."
"What did he say that was so awful?"
"What do you care?"
I bit my lip. "He was my friend."
"Friend!" Uncle scoffed. "You shouldn't consider some lowly servant a friend, Vee. It's desperately unbecoming." He took another sip from his drink.
He continued, “He was a driver, nothing more.”
“He’d only been kind to us,” I said.
He waved my words away, much like shooing away a fly. "Now," he said, putting the drink down on the table and retrieving a silver cigarette case from the drawer next to him. He removed his legs from the table as he lit the cigarette with a Zippo lighter. "There must be something else you wish to ask me if you're still here."
Blood began to drum in my ears. "Yes."
Uncle slowly blew out a plume of blue smoke. "Out with it, then."
"I was invited to a party in three weeks," I said, breathing evenly through my nose. "And I wished to ask you if I could attend." I added, almost desperately, "Please."
"Who invited you?"
"Lily Mads," I replied monotonously. "Her grandfather is a friend of Papa's."
"Is this...Lily Mads your friend?" Her name was said with distaste.
"Yes."
"I see," he said, giving me an up-down. "Why should I allow you to go, darling?"
"I don't know." Truly I didn't.
"Will this girl be disappointed if you don't attend?"
"I think so."
"And do you want desperately to attend?"
I took a moment too long in answering. "Yes."
He smiled and chuckled lowly. "Then you must do something for me, pretty thing. It's only fair -- quid pro quo."
A sickened sensation -- quick needle pricking -- imbedded itself in my stomach. I recognized it, too late, as fear. I knew what he meant; he did not need my permission to do it, but this time, he could only use my request to his advantage. This was how his game was played -- I was the constant loser and he was the only player to gain. No matter how much I would beg or scream or cry or threaten escape, the end would come anyways. As frightened as I would be, I would take it as it came and remember the rules that I’d set for myself: lock the door securely and don’t say a word, shut up and nod, speak only when spoken to, move only when told to, do what you’re told, show no feelings otherwise, shut them away and never let them out, don’t scream, for God’s sake, don’t scream, let him do what he pleases because I deserve it. I provoke it, he said once quietly, when it was all over and he thought I still slept. And finally, I would allow him to bleed me dry, break me apart, shatter the fragile world that I keep safe.
I shook my head.
“No?” he said lowly.
“Not this way,” I said. "I'll do anything else--"
"You can't have something for nothing, my love," he said. "It is not the way the world works."
“But...”
“You desperately want to go, don’t you?”
“It’s not nothing...”
“Do you want to go or not?”
I shut up and I think that worked as an answer.
He snuffed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray on the desk. He then got up from the seat, coming to stand before me. He seized my chin, turning it up so I was forced to look at him. I thought I might faint when he asked me, "What do you say, Vee?"
"Fine." My voice was barely audible.
The smile returned. "Go make yourself pretty, now. They'll be here soon." I couldn't run out fast enough.
--
Hours later, I was perched on the velvet settee in one of the -- many -- drawing rooms within the chatêau, dressed properly: a long dark dress with thin straps, delicate slippers, a single diamond bracelet on my left wrist. My hair was done up, fashioned into a complicated up-do that my aunt's lady's maid painstakingly put together, so I would look appropriate enough.
This was done so that my uncle bolster might the men's -- big, boisterous, German -- respect. It was no mystery that my uncle supported Germany and that he would be put back on the throne, should Germany prevail. He would rule the world, they said. The world would kneel at his feet, they said.
Laughter echoed in the the halls. The men had arrived in their black cars, dressed in their appropriate uniforms, come to call upon their friend -- the powerful man with a niece to take care of and a wife he barely tolerated. I stood up, breathed in as the door opened and it began.
There were three this time. Uncle was with them already -- dressed for dinner in a suit -- and had his arm around the shoulders of one of the men, the leader, a fat man with brown eyes and brown hair. He was flanked by a ferocious looking German Shepherd with a cage-like muzzle around its long snout.
"Gents!" Uncle said, coming over to put his cold hands upon my shoulders. I froze, the men's eyes on me. "This is my niece, Vee." Then he added, almost cheerfully, "She speaks German," and propelled me forward. My slipper stopped a few inches from the dog, who bared its teeth at me. I immediately stumbled back, swallowing down a scream.
I attempted to breath evenly through my nose so I wouldn't crumbled into tears before these men. This was humiliating.
The man noticed my discomfort. "Haben Sie Angst vor Hunden?" Three pair of eyes still coldly bore into me -- a heated pair aimed at my back -- as I attempted to find words. Uncle continually put me into situations like that, and it's grown to be a considerable source of fear to me -- saying the wrong thing, facing the consequences.
"Nein," I said softly, finally meeting their gaze. "Aber dieser macht mir Angst."
The men burst into laughter as their leader said, "Ah, the little girl finally speaks!"
Little. Little meant weak, small, meek, careful, childish -- little dove, little princess, little sweetie, little darling. "Little" was Uncle's favorite word to describe me.
"Don't ever call me 'little'," I said, clenching my fists at my side. I should've taken the man's words to heart, smiled, preened, but I could not. At that, I felt Uncle's hand curl around the exposed skin of my arm, pulling me back sharply.
"Now, now, Vee, no need to go biting the heads off of people," he said, laughing as he pulled me to him and kissed my cheek. The grip on my arm tightened into a pinch as he said through his teeth, "It's a compliment."
My blood boiled in my veins. I would not allow myself to become a stoic arm adornment for a man wishing to secure a higher-up's ties. I tore my arm away, caring little of the consequences that would come later, and said fiercely, "I don't need anyone's compliments."
The room fell so silent one could easily hear a pin drop. Uncle's face slowly burned into the color of a heart attack. He grabbed hold of my wrist tightly as the leader said, "A fiery one, isn't she?" The leader gave a chuckle, but the sound was far from cheerful. "Perhaps you should learn to keep those mannerisms of hers in check, David."
Uncle laughed nervously. In company, he'd always made sure to look like he had control of every single little detail. I felt the tiniest bit proud of myself for breaking that proverbial vase all over the place.
"Oh, of course, Werner!" Uncle said, and I hunted a bit of nervousness in his voice. "You know how women are -- tempestuous and hysterical."
"It's sad, really," Herr Werner said, jerking his chin in my direction. "Ugly manners don't fit the face."
I could've ripped his face from his skull for that.
Uncle laughed. "Oh, she means no harm." Herr Werner grunted his agreement -- little girl's all bark.
Uncle cleared his throat and said, "Gents, why don't you start heading over to the dining room? We'll be there in a moment." The men left quietly, the long-shouted dog padding loudly after its master. The door was silently -- respectfully, almost -- closed.
When the footfalls faded, Uncle shoved me into a chair nearby, steeling his hands on the arm rest so I was trapped there. My heart screamed.
"Have you lost your fucking mind?" he asked of me, his face centimeters from mine. His breath smelled of alcohol.
"I won't be disrespected," I hissed through my teeth. "Especially by some lowly German pig."
"That pig, you stupid girl, will secure our future, a future brighter than the sun," he said, caressing my cheek with his cold hand.
"What sort of future is that?" I asked ruefully, despite the fact that I wanted desperately to faint.
"I will be King again."
This was a delusion of Uncle's -- or his German friends -- that I'd heard when I wasn't supposed to, hiding behind a pillar or crouched behind a door: Hitler will win this war, crushing his enemies under his boot. My Uncle Bertie -- the current King -- will be put to death along with his family, and Uncle David will be restored to the throne for reasons I did not know. I'd rather swallow poison than be a part of this new world.
"A King with blood on his hands," I said.
"A King, no less," he said. At that, he removed his hands from the armrest and just stood before me, watching, scrutinizing, his eyes moving occasionally up and down.
"I won't take any part of this," I said, and removed myself from the chair, getting as far away from him as I could.
"No?" he said lowly.
"No," I said, and my voice broke when I said, "I don't like this."
"You don't," he deadpanned.
"How can you not see what these people stand for?" I said. "How could you be so blind?"
"How dare you," he said quietly.
"I do dare!" I said, very close to tears. "I dare as much as I please! I tire of this! It's wrong. They're evil, they're--"
"You forget yourself, Vee," Uncle said.
"Don't you see what they've done to you? What they fill your head with?" I said, my heart beating madly in my chest. I felt an errant tear crawl down my face. "You can't be King again -- you won't be King again--"
I stopped, because he'd come very close to me, trapping me against the desk. He reached up and seized the back of my hair, so I was forced to look at him; him, the monster that he turned into when the sun went down.
"Shut up," he said softly. "Or I'll break every bone in your body."
When I didn't reply, digging my fingernails into the wood behind me, he said, "Where in the hell would you be without me, my counsel, my generosity, my forgiveness?"
"I don't know," I mumbled, dropping my hands to my lap. Truthfully, I didn't.
"You don't know, do you?" He barked a laugh. "You poor thing -- you'd probably be dead, or rotting in some orphanage, because your stupid, sap of a father wouldn't have the wages to care for you."
My throat thickened with the onset of tears.
"Or worse: you'd be one of those street urchins, dying of disease," he said. "But you are here, in England, living in the lap of luxury, given whatever you want without a second thought, and yet you have the gall to disrespect me."
"I'm sorry," I said lowly, feeling lower than a dog. "I didn't mean any of it."
He smirked. "Of course you are. And I trust we shouldn't need a visit to the orphanage?"
I shook my head. This was another form of punishment of my Uncle's -- parading around an orphanage, dressed in our best as we were guided around by the director, under the pretense of donating so that those within it would have better lives. But, as Uncle put it, it would be a tour of my new home if I didn't behave. The last time he's utilized this was four years ago, when I was 12. I do not remember what I did to cause him to drag me there, that sad, awful place, filled with girls my age who were skinny and starving and cold, glaring at my warm, clean coat and boots, the handsome, rich man's arm around my shoulders.
It was also at that time that I'd witnessed a girl dying. As the director was explaining the orphanage's dire financial situation, a girl in the corner bed began to scream her friend's name -- Helen, Helen! -- and when she lifted Helen's pale form into a sitting position, the poor soul spat up blood into the thin blanket. We were immediately rushed out of the room as a doctor was called, Uncle shielding my eyes, but the damage was done.
”Remember where you’d be without me, lovely,” he said. “You’re so incredibly lucky that I adore you.”
The worst form of adoration, I thought as he pulled me into a tight embrace. His hand found the back of my hair again, tightening. I realized a moment too late.
“I love you, too,” came the proper reply.
As he left, he called over his shoulder, "Do join us when you're ready."
I stayed within the same position for a few moments, shaking, trying not to crumble entirely. I could not -- would not -- give this man the pleasure of knowing he won. Reaching adequate composure -- calm heart, calm mind -- took a few more moments, and then I left to join the wolves.
When I arrived, a chair was already pulled from me beside Uncle, who made a great show of welcoming me.
"My little Queen has finally arrived," he said, and kissed my cheek. This caused the men to laugh -- an integral part of the show, luring them in like fish on a line.
It was then that my uncle began to weave a tale that was part fact, part fiction. It was a way to get their support, to hear the tale of how he'd needed all of this support because, for God's sake, he had this niece with an unfortunate past to take care of.
It began the way it always had -- in the very beginning. My mother, his youngest sister, and my father were young when they had me, and so, he did them the good deed of taking me, barely a day old, from them to raise on his own. He claimed irresponsibility, my mother's love of the bottle and her white pills that caused euphoria, my father's lust for women other than my mother.
He did not mention that my mother was, in fact, dead and buried for sixteen years, that he didn't know if my father lusted after any other woman at all, because he hadn't the faintest where my father was even.
"Would you consider this an ideal living situation for England's new princess?" Uncle asked the men. They presented their disagreements in unison, and the tale resumed.
I allowed myself to drown in memories of better times.
It was in my sixth year, he recounted, that the day came that his father -- George V -- decided that I would be promised to someone. That someone was the Swedish King's grandson, who was two years older than me. He was black-haired and lanky. When he smiled, I saw that he was missing the same front teeth as I was. I liked him instantly; he made me laugh and played hide and seek with me. We grew up together, but only seeing each other four months out of the year, as agreed. Each time I saw him, I'd offhandedly mention that he'd change and he said that I did as well, never mentioning specifically what had changed. He'd often blushed when he said that. But his changes were prominent: his voice deepened, his chest broadened, his teeth were straight. At night, when I was alone in my canopied bed, I allowed myself, pale and guilty, to think of him as beautiful.
In my twelfth year and his fourteenth I began to think of him differently. I wanted to be with him constantly; I wanted him to hold my hand. My heart beat an instant faster when I saw him each morning. He'd tried to kiss me that year. We were sitting in the garden and I was reading The Count of Monte Cristo out loud. He told me to stop, put his hand on my shoulder, and brushed his lips against mine. I let my eyes flutter closed, but the burning feeling -- guilt -- hurt and I shoved him back and ran off into the woods, where we were Fairy King and Queen. I hid behind a tree, willing the burning to go away; his footfalls behind me matched my heartbeat.
"I'm sorry, Five!" he called into the dark sea of trees. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just..." He did not say anymore. I stepped out from behind the tree and found him yards away, at the mouth of the forest. I asked him why he did it, shivering because I wanted him to kiss me.
"You make me feel nice." was all he said, panting.
A week later, Papa died and my world blackened in a flash of white. A week and a day later, I didn't see that boy again. Three years later, on my fifteenth birthday, I saw him on the streets of Denmark -- one of many come to see as Papa passed through the streets of Copenhagen on his horse, Jubilee -- a beautiful, handsome soldier in uniform, laughing, with a lovesick blonde on his arm. The tiny light in my world, far beyond the blackness, finally died.
The tale was over. The German men laughed.
--
Darkness fell upon the chatêau and the sky outside my window was sprinkled with white pinpricks of stars. I kept myself turned to the wall, the canopy of my four-bed drawn closed. I'd tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep for hours. But my heart would not shut off and rest. Footfalls sounded outside my door and a moment later, the door opened, flooding my room with a hazy light. I did not move. The door was promptly closed; the turn of the lock sounded, echoing in my heart.
My canopy was swept away, exposing me. A cold hand caressed my arm. I suppressed a shiver. "My fragile princess." Uncle out his hand over my mouth and I began to pray silently as he put his hand up my nightgown.
This was my cross to bear.
I was there, there, in the darkness, all over again and the light was dying. I was dying again. Each night, this torture would come again and I did not fight it. I was the blood and skin he wanted and craved like a needed drug. I was his to do what he pleased with. I'd often wondered what I'd done to deserve this; he said I did, that I provoked him, that I tempted him. He called me a slut, horrible, a whore. He whispered disgusting things into my ear, kept his hand on my mouth to drown out the screams. I wanted to faint. I wanted to black out from the pain. I wanted to die. I prayed to some celestial being in the universe to please help me, make it stop.
When I was younger, I cried because I didn't like this. It felt wrong. It made me feel things I didn't understand. As I grew, I did not cry anymore. I allowed it to happen because I couldn't stop it. I tried thinking of myself elsewhere or as a ghost, at the end of the room, watching this unfortunate act -- dirty, whispered words, hands that hurt -- happen to some poor girl and attempting to think of some way to save her. But in the end, I was me. I was the girl he was doing this to, ripping her apart like paper and leaving her to put herself back together.
Hours later, it was over and the monster was satiated. I kept my gaze at the wall and did not breath.
"I love you," he said, running a hand over my exposed skin. He kissed my cheek. Then, blessedly, he left.
I got up from the bed, blind in the darkness, panting, and tried to hold up my ripped nightgown as I limped to the bathroom -- almost an eternity away -- wincing at the pain between my legs. My whole body hurt; it was alive and raw with unwanted feelings. I turned on the dim light in the bathroom and shut the door and hobbled over to the standing tub, turning the knob so only boiling water would run.
My breath came out in gasps -- out of fear of him coming back, out of guilt, out of wanting so desperately to be dead. Hot tears fell down my face as I let the ruined nightgown -- stained and bloodied -- fall from my body. I climbed into the tub and hugged my knees to my chest as I trembled and cried and prayed. The boiling water fell down my back, over the scars and scratches and red marks, hurting me and cleansing me in unison.
I watched through bleary eyes as blood swirled down the drain like a helix.
♠ ♠ ♠