Post by Dewey on Feb 13, 2006 15:55:10 GMT -5
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Rating: 13+
A/N: Argh! Well, this took longer than anticipated to finally post. Between school and losing absolutely everything that was on my computer, I haven't had a lot of luck with this story. I'm testing the waters so to speak, by posting the first part of Chapter One; hopefully it will give me the incentive to write faster. Enjoy!
Catwoman
Chapter One: A Beautiful End
Eleanor stood at the doorway, taking expensive fur coats and hanging hats on hooks: What a life! She found it boring and tedious, yet at the same moment, satisfying and time fulfilling. She hadn’t a life; no husband or children to share it with. The only companion she had left was her good-for-nothing father, but wait, thought she, there was an elderly Mr. Jenkerson who lived on the floor below herself.
Masses were flooding in for the Henderick/Mills party and so became her afternoon. They all occurred to her as being single people of no relation to the wedding party, with nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than attend a stuffy ceremony.
The organist began playing Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Eleanor was finally relaxed for the first time in weeks. It seemed as the few bride’s maids and groom’s men moseyed down in black and white that she had a feeling of accomplishment, why, she hadn’t the slightest idea. But as Lohengrin began, that feeling was overrode. Catherine Henderick looked beautiful in her frilly dress, perfectly accentuated in pearl colored beads and lacey train. She looked like she had wandered in from the room in which Felix Mendelssohn had first played A Midsummer Night’s Dream for his sister, Fanny; a shining absentminded gaze in her eyes, and fully-flushed cheeks.
It was a wonder there was a wedding in that church, not many were held there. No one wanted to attend the church; for reason unknown. It was said, though, that Eleanor’s mother, Patricia Gunn, had been murdered there in cold blood. And moreover, wed and entombed.
The bride first said her vow of commitment, and then the groom. Father Mackenzie joined the cord around their hands, forever binding them, before saying a few last imperative words. They kissed; sweet, slow, and passionate, and yet, still they ran down the aisle. Eleanor had never understood it, and never would she. The onlookers threw rice at the newly bound couple, minutes later they left, no doubt to find some other suitable means of wasting away.
She shared an irrelevant glance with the priest. He sent a slight frown and walked out the small door behind the pulpit. Then, until death do she part, she began her lonely ritual of gathering the small grains of rice one-by-one.
All day, she pretends to be someone who she is not. In place of the ugly young spinster she though herself, the beautiful goddess Aphrodite stood. And instead of piling rice, she was gathering wildflowers. The men and women and tots had left, and so had grace.....
She swept the large pile of clean, white rice into an old dustbin. She brushed what remaining earth was left on her hands before announcing her departure. Father Mackenzie seemed to care not, so unlike his usual amiability. Eleanor returned the dustbin to its rightful place: the hall closet, and snatched up her graying overcoat and black handbag from the hook they were hung upon.
She opened the old, wooden door and left without sound. Eleanor looked up at the heavens; they were gray and showing signs of rain. She could already taste the bitter tang of a heavy drizzle. She quickly ran onto the footpath and began the journey home. She wasn’t but a few meters from the church when the rainfall commenced. It started at a volley rather than a slight spray, and the thought made her feel even more dejected. ‘Don’t be imprudent,’ she breathed, ‘we love the rain, don’t we?’
She pulled last week’s edition of The London Times from the inside pocket of her coat and held it atop her head. The rain was quickly falling and she hadn’t a place to break once the paper was fully saturated. Impending a decision, she took off at a full sprint, leaving the paper to drift slowly to the pavement.
The sidewalks weren’t crowded, which made to be all that much easier. Having no breakpoint, she concluded to just sprint all the way to the small tenement building. The pavement was hard and irregular with many jagged rocks and crooked bends. The only thing she could hear was the dull clip-clapping of her apposite pumps and the swishing of her dripping woolen skirt about her knees. The rain was now falling so hard that Eleanor couldn’t see even the person nearest her. She scarcely made out the faint silhouette of a building in front of her and sped on. She stumbled, losing her footing on a rather large pebble. An implacable CRACK was heard, and Eleanor reacted just in the niche of time to catch herself.
She stood up awkwardly, then bent her right leg slowly up at the knee and completed breaking the half-damaged heel off her pump. She brought her foot once more upon the pavement before glowering irritable at what once was a part of her favorite shoe. She kept the heel in her grasp as evidence of a horrid day. She grumbled and clumsily sprinted the remainder of the way.
Finding the entryway, Eleanor quickly dove through. She was amazed to observe that it was indeed the building that housed her apartment. Her day not at all having the ability to get worse, she trudged up the staircase directly to the front of her. But of course, it did get poorer, for as she prodded through her handbag she was not to find her key. Eleanor scowled menacingly as to how and when her life had gone such amiss.
She felt a looming presence approach her, and turned abruptly, creaking her neck in the process.
“Is everything all right?” asked a tall, bearded man clad in trench coat and deep sienna-colored sou’wester.
“Oh, I’m quite all right!” she answered a bit louder and harsher than she had anticipated, rubbing her neck bone soothingly.
“Why don’t you follow me?” he told her, seemingly not hearing her response.
The man made his way down the old, grimy corridor; toward the end. Eleanor hadn’t a choice but to finish. She followed, always five paces behind, just on the off chance he might try something shrewd. He stopped before the last door on the left, and taking what she assumed was a key from his pocket, opened the door.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, waving a hand toward an old, threadbare sofa.
“Thank you,” she replied, passing through the doorway to enter the room. She set her handbag on the fetid carpeting and awkwardly took off her wet coat.
The man turned to look at her after closing the door behind him. “You can set that by the radiator if you like,” he told her quietly.
And so she set it on the floor beside the radiator. The man removed his own coat and hat, carried them to the radiator, and set them next to Eleanor’s. She took a seat on one end of the sofa and soon he joined her at the other end. There was a moment’s pause before the man spoke.
“I have some dry clothing if you would like to change into them until your own dry,” he offered.
She smiled. “Thank you. I would be much obliged.”
He quickly stood and entered a door off of the small main room. He wasn’t gone but a minute or two and came back wearing a dry shirt and trousers, carrying a small bundle. “The bathroom is right there,” he said, pointing to the only door other than the one from which they entered through and the one from which he had just come, “if you wish to change.” He handed her the bundle and she walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
There was only a toilet, sink, and small tub crammed tightly into the room: there was no light; a cracked mirror was situated above the sink, from which oddly sinister darkness reflected upon, making the woman’s spine tingle. She sat the dry clothing on the sink before cautiously sitting upon the toilet. Her broken right pump was taken off, as was the left, her stockings were removed and set on the tub, and again she stood; her skirt and blouse were soon stripped off her nearly naked body and laid over the edge of the tub; and in a sense of modesty, she left her underclothes on. The dry clothes were hastily put on and her pumps were set on the side of the toilet closest to the tub. She opened the door and quickly joined the man on the couch.
“Thank you for being so kind to me. If it was not for you, I would still be standing in the corridor looking like a lost child.” She said it graciously, yet the man caught a glimpse of a dry sarcasm that one would think she didn’t have.
“It was the least I could do,” he told her.
“I’m Eleanor Gunn, by the way.”
“Albus Dumbledore.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dumbledore.”
“Albus... and the pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Gunn.”
She blushed crimson before shyly asking him to call her Eleanor.
“What is it you do for a living, Eleanor?” he asked her.
“I work at the church, down the road,“ she answered, “as a caretaker of sorts, I suppose you could say. And what of yourself?”
“I’m a private detective.” He grinned sheepishly. “You could say I’m between proper jobs at the moment.”
The woman chuckled good-naturedly, it was soft and yet somehow loud and magnificent to the man’s ears. It was innocent like a child’s, and for some reason so tremendously feminine. She had the pretense of not laughing often, of a saddingly boring life. He assumed that was why her laughter was so sweet to his senses... yes, that was why. It was only then it hit him that she was barely out of late childhood, twenty, twenty-one at the most. She had the seriousness of someone well past their prime, and the careful wisdom of one whose childhood had been taken from them at an early stage of life. She well could have been mistaken for someone many times her age had it not been for the purity in her eyes. The eyes gave her away. She was cautious, too cautious; she was afraid of getting hurt emotionally; she didn’t know what she was to become of once she grew old.
“If you do not mind my inquiring,” he began, “wherever is your family?”
She was silent for a moment as if she did mind that he asked such a question, but his voice compelled her like a ghostly force to answer. His voice was a thrilling sound, it excited her, exposed her to every lie she had ever learned of human nature. That a person’s voice could not pleasure the senses, that every syllable that was spoken did not cause your stomach to drop, make your breath quicken, your heart beat louder. His voice reminded her of the mirror in the bathroom; it made her spine tingle, and yet how very beautiful it appeared.
“They were murdered years ago.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“It is all right. They are nothing but a faint memory now.”
The room was again stricken with silence. The silence was neither comfortable or uncomfortable, neither embarrassing or intended, and the occupants of the room were both taken by surprise when the man spoke.
“Was your shoe ruined?” he inquired softly.
“I’m afraid so.” And it was then she got a good look at his face. “Your eyes are blue,” she stated aloud, regretting having done so.
“Indeed they are,” he replied, chuckling.
“I hadn’t realized,” she explained, pinking noticeable around her cheeks.
“It’s quite all right. I myself have enough trouble at times remembering their color.”
Rating: 13+
A/N: Argh! Well, this took longer than anticipated to finally post. Between school and losing absolutely everything that was on my computer, I haven't had a lot of luck with this story. I'm testing the waters so to speak, by posting the first part of Chapter One; hopefully it will give me the incentive to write faster. Enjoy!
Catwoman
Chapter One: A Beautiful End
Eleanor stood at the doorway, taking expensive fur coats and hanging hats on hooks: What a life! She found it boring and tedious, yet at the same moment, satisfying and time fulfilling. She hadn’t a life; no husband or children to share it with. The only companion she had left was her good-for-nothing father, but wait, thought she, there was an elderly Mr. Jenkerson who lived on the floor below herself.
Masses were flooding in for the Henderick/Mills party and so became her afternoon. They all occurred to her as being single people of no relation to the wedding party, with nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than attend a stuffy ceremony.
The organist began playing Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Eleanor was finally relaxed for the first time in weeks. It seemed as the few bride’s maids and groom’s men moseyed down in black and white that she had a feeling of accomplishment, why, she hadn’t the slightest idea. But as Lohengrin began, that feeling was overrode. Catherine Henderick looked beautiful in her frilly dress, perfectly accentuated in pearl colored beads and lacey train. She looked like she had wandered in from the room in which Felix Mendelssohn had first played A Midsummer Night’s Dream for his sister, Fanny; a shining absentminded gaze in her eyes, and fully-flushed cheeks.
It was a wonder there was a wedding in that church, not many were held there. No one wanted to attend the church; for reason unknown. It was said, though, that Eleanor’s mother, Patricia Gunn, had been murdered there in cold blood. And moreover, wed and entombed.
The bride first said her vow of commitment, and then the groom. Father Mackenzie joined the cord around their hands, forever binding them, before saying a few last imperative words. They kissed; sweet, slow, and passionate, and yet, still they ran down the aisle. Eleanor had never understood it, and never would she. The onlookers threw rice at the newly bound couple, minutes later they left, no doubt to find some other suitable means of wasting away.
She shared an irrelevant glance with the priest. He sent a slight frown and walked out the small door behind the pulpit. Then, until death do she part, she began her lonely ritual of gathering the small grains of rice one-by-one.
All day, she pretends to be someone who she is not. In place of the ugly young spinster she though herself, the beautiful goddess Aphrodite stood. And instead of piling rice, she was gathering wildflowers. The men and women and tots had left, and so had grace.....
She swept the large pile of clean, white rice into an old dustbin. She brushed what remaining earth was left on her hands before announcing her departure. Father Mackenzie seemed to care not, so unlike his usual amiability. Eleanor returned the dustbin to its rightful place: the hall closet, and snatched up her graying overcoat and black handbag from the hook they were hung upon.
She opened the old, wooden door and left without sound. Eleanor looked up at the heavens; they were gray and showing signs of rain. She could already taste the bitter tang of a heavy drizzle. She quickly ran onto the footpath and began the journey home. She wasn’t but a few meters from the church when the rainfall commenced. It started at a volley rather than a slight spray, and the thought made her feel even more dejected. ‘Don’t be imprudent,’ she breathed, ‘we love the rain, don’t we?’
She pulled last week’s edition of The London Times from the inside pocket of her coat and held it atop her head. The rain was quickly falling and she hadn’t a place to break once the paper was fully saturated. Impending a decision, she took off at a full sprint, leaving the paper to drift slowly to the pavement.
The sidewalks weren’t crowded, which made to be all that much easier. Having no breakpoint, she concluded to just sprint all the way to the small tenement building. The pavement was hard and irregular with many jagged rocks and crooked bends. The only thing she could hear was the dull clip-clapping of her apposite pumps and the swishing of her dripping woolen skirt about her knees. The rain was now falling so hard that Eleanor couldn’t see even the person nearest her. She scarcely made out the faint silhouette of a building in front of her and sped on. She stumbled, losing her footing on a rather large pebble. An implacable CRACK was heard, and Eleanor reacted just in the niche of time to catch herself.
She stood up awkwardly, then bent her right leg slowly up at the knee and completed breaking the half-damaged heel off her pump. She brought her foot once more upon the pavement before glowering irritable at what once was a part of her favorite shoe. She kept the heel in her grasp as evidence of a horrid day. She grumbled and clumsily sprinted the remainder of the way.
Finding the entryway, Eleanor quickly dove through. She was amazed to observe that it was indeed the building that housed her apartment. Her day not at all having the ability to get worse, she trudged up the staircase directly to the front of her. But of course, it did get poorer, for as she prodded through her handbag she was not to find her key. Eleanor scowled menacingly as to how and when her life had gone such amiss.
She felt a looming presence approach her, and turned abruptly, creaking her neck in the process.
“Is everything all right?” asked a tall, bearded man clad in trench coat and deep sienna-colored sou’wester.
“Oh, I’m quite all right!” she answered a bit louder and harsher than she had anticipated, rubbing her neck bone soothingly.
“Why don’t you follow me?” he told her, seemingly not hearing her response.
The man made his way down the old, grimy corridor; toward the end. Eleanor hadn’t a choice but to finish. She followed, always five paces behind, just on the off chance he might try something shrewd. He stopped before the last door on the left, and taking what she assumed was a key from his pocket, opened the door.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, waving a hand toward an old, threadbare sofa.
“Thank you,” she replied, passing through the doorway to enter the room. She set her handbag on the fetid carpeting and awkwardly took off her wet coat.
The man turned to look at her after closing the door behind him. “You can set that by the radiator if you like,” he told her quietly.
And so she set it on the floor beside the radiator. The man removed his own coat and hat, carried them to the radiator, and set them next to Eleanor’s. She took a seat on one end of the sofa and soon he joined her at the other end. There was a moment’s pause before the man spoke.
“I have some dry clothing if you would like to change into them until your own dry,” he offered.
She smiled. “Thank you. I would be much obliged.”
He quickly stood and entered a door off of the small main room. He wasn’t gone but a minute or two and came back wearing a dry shirt and trousers, carrying a small bundle. “The bathroom is right there,” he said, pointing to the only door other than the one from which they entered through and the one from which he had just come, “if you wish to change.” He handed her the bundle and she walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
There was only a toilet, sink, and small tub crammed tightly into the room: there was no light; a cracked mirror was situated above the sink, from which oddly sinister darkness reflected upon, making the woman’s spine tingle. She sat the dry clothing on the sink before cautiously sitting upon the toilet. Her broken right pump was taken off, as was the left, her stockings were removed and set on the tub, and again she stood; her skirt and blouse were soon stripped off her nearly naked body and laid over the edge of the tub; and in a sense of modesty, she left her underclothes on. The dry clothes were hastily put on and her pumps were set on the side of the toilet closest to the tub. She opened the door and quickly joined the man on the couch.
“Thank you for being so kind to me. If it was not for you, I would still be standing in the corridor looking like a lost child.” She said it graciously, yet the man caught a glimpse of a dry sarcasm that one would think she didn’t have.
“It was the least I could do,” he told her.
“I’m Eleanor Gunn, by the way.”
“Albus Dumbledore.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dumbledore.”
“Albus... and the pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Gunn.”
She blushed crimson before shyly asking him to call her Eleanor.
“What is it you do for a living, Eleanor?” he asked her.
“I work at the church, down the road,“ she answered, “as a caretaker of sorts, I suppose you could say. And what of yourself?”
“I’m a private detective.” He grinned sheepishly. “You could say I’m between proper jobs at the moment.”
The woman chuckled good-naturedly, it was soft and yet somehow loud and magnificent to the man’s ears. It was innocent like a child’s, and for some reason so tremendously feminine. She had the pretense of not laughing often, of a saddingly boring life. He assumed that was why her laughter was so sweet to his senses... yes, that was why. It was only then it hit him that she was barely out of late childhood, twenty, twenty-one at the most. She had the seriousness of someone well past their prime, and the careful wisdom of one whose childhood had been taken from them at an early stage of life. She well could have been mistaken for someone many times her age had it not been for the purity in her eyes. The eyes gave her away. She was cautious, too cautious; she was afraid of getting hurt emotionally; she didn’t know what she was to become of once she grew old.
“If you do not mind my inquiring,” he began, “wherever is your family?”
She was silent for a moment as if she did mind that he asked such a question, but his voice compelled her like a ghostly force to answer. His voice was a thrilling sound, it excited her, exposed her to every lie she had ever learned of human nature. That a person’s voice could not pleasure the senses, that every syllable that was spoken did not cause your stomach to drop, make your breath quicken, your heart beat louder. His voice reminded her of the mirror in the bathroom; it made her spine tingle, and yet how very beautiful it appeared.
“They were murdered years ago.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“It is all right. They are nothing but a faint memory now.”
The room was again stricken with silence. The silence was neither comfortable or uncomfortable, neither embarrassing or intended, and the occupants of the room were both taken by surprise when the man spoke.
“Was your shoe ruined?” he inquired softly.
“I’m afraid so.” And it was then she got a good look at his face. “Your eyes are blue,” she stated aloud, regretting having done so.
“Indeed they are,” he replied, chuckling.
“I hadn’t realized,” she explained, pinking noticeable around her cheeks.
“It’s quite all right. I myself have enough trouble at times remembering their color.”
