Charlotte: A Story-lette

[Not ever even long enough to be "short stories," I tend to write fiction pieces that I've termed, for lack of a better phrase, story-lettes.]

“My good sir, you are simply too amusing!”

“Then why do you not laugh, dear Charlotte?”

“Oh, I fear that if I start, I shall never stop – I should frighten the whole company with my peals of mirth!”

And so it went, ball after ball. The girl Charlotte said all the right things, smiled at all the right places, danced some few dances (only the slowest and most reserved) – her voice had all the correct inflections of gaiety and amusement, but she never laughed. And somehow, for all the sparkling words that flowed around her cadre of beaux, for all that she smiled pleasantly at any who came in her circle, that smile never quite reached her eyes. She seemed in some way detached from the scene, like an actress who has recited her lines once too often. She looked at the young men when they spoke to her (more often than not to give her compliments on her beautiful gown or delicate ears or some other such nicety), but though they would not admit it to themselves,  her eyes often looked far away, like she never really saw them.

But for all that, she was a charming conversationalist. She always knew the right things to say, when to compliment and when to expect a compliment. She never gossiped, but still made one feel that she was revealing something – made you feel privileged by letting you know something delicious. She spoke demurely to the hostess, did not seek attention to herself. She let the other ladies know that their dresses were simply stunning, that any of the young men would be lucky to take them as a partner. She sent men towards the other girls, that she might not seem conniving and greedy. She always sat up straight, back never touching the chair. In short, Charlotte was the model of perfect propriety.

She could never be induced to step out on the balcony, unless there were a matron present. She would never consent to take a turn in the gardens, unless her governess came along. She would not dance the livelier dances, always insisting that some girl or another just over there had been so very lonely this whole night, and she would simply feel like an ogre if she, Charlotte, prevented him from asking that sad young woman. She would gesture very delicately towards someone else, and lest he be thought too attached or too ungallant, the young man would go. And Charlotte would quickly engage an older lady in conversation, forestalling any more invitations for that particular dance.

Finally, finally, Mama would indicate that they could go home. Charlotte would quickly – but ever so graciously – bid farewell to her young men and her hostess. No one could persuade her to stay, not for one more dance or a glass of punch. Nothing could be done to convince the girl with the smile like marzipan fruits to remain. She and her mama would walk sedately, serenely to the carriage, and that was that.

As the carriage lurched home, Charlotte would let out tiny gasps, hold a hand to her ribs. The other hand would curl with nails stabbing inward to keep her exhalations from turning anything more than minute. Her mother stared out the window, although there was nothing to see in the dark.

When they reached the house, Charlotte made directly for her bedroom, where her maid always waited with damp cloths and bandages. She was taken out of her dress (ever so carefully), and oh. Under the dress and the corset were bandages, wrapped full around her torso, soaked through with blood.

***

In her childhood, Charlotte had not run like other boys and girls. She did not play croquet or go swimming.  Where it was once broad and toothy, her smile shrank with each passing year, eventually becoming as shallow and transitory as the marzipan delicacies to which it was so often compared.  (Her beaux thought they were giving her a grand compliment, by declaring her smile to be such a thing so delicate and sweet. But Charlotte knew otherwise.) Her laughter died more quickly at each joke; the maids and the menservants might not have a date, but they came to realize that the giggles and shrieks that used to chase through the halls were absent. Eventually, the only sounds to be heard in the house were those of the clocks, and occasionally Charlotte’s piano playing. Ordered, sedate, muted.

She did not muddy her dresses or stare out windows when she should have been learning French verbs. Etre and avoir held her full attention. She did not raise her voice, or cry when something did not go her way, or scream in pain when she fell down.  Indeed, Charlotte did not fall down. She remained stiffly upright at all times, whether seated at the dinner table or at her school desk or on the piano bench. For a while her brow was constantly furrowed, until her mother said (ever so quietly, delicately), “One does not frown, Charlotte. It is unbecoming.”  Then there were no more frowns, only the marzipan smiles.

And the blood oozing out her ribcage. Always the blood.

The sinister and macabre Grimm (...grim...) fairy tales have always been my favorite. The Girl With Glass Feet is excellent, if grim tales are also your sort of thing.

xo, 

Devo