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cursednet2022-09-08 10:24 am
maritorious) wrote in cursednet2022-09-08 10:24 am
video | un: desdemona
[Nancy's looking a lot better since her arrival. Her black eye has faded, the cut on her lip has healed, and the damned headache is at long last gone. She sits with a straight back, and occasionally glances off-screen to make sure she's doing it right. Not like she'd really know. But it's fun, to be a part of something new like this, these video messages. These videos.
In the background, The Smiths play quietly. She takes a drink of what could be anything. It's not. It's tea. And gin.
Mostly gin.]
Hello, I'm trying this for the first time. It's all so incredibly new and exciting. [Her accent remains unchanged.]
Which is why I'd like to ask everyone something: How many of you are out of place? And how many are out of time?
I was speaking at the roller rink with Captain Bonnet and we were wondering if there were others like us here, not just dragged from a few years or across the country, but across the ocean, hundreds of years out of the past, into this ridiculous future and have no idea what cars or neon or arcades are let alone jeans.
If so, I propose we have a meeting of sorts. Try to learn all these new things together. Or if anyone is willing to explain the last two hundred years in history, I'm really curious. I know some of you are from the future future from here, but I imagine that'd be easier. [Now she feels like shes' excluding a huge chunk of the population, but come on. People like her and Stede were at a distinct disadvantage.]
Er-- My name is Nancy, and I'm from 1838 London.
In the background, The Smiths play quietly. She takes a drink of what could be anything. It's not. It's tea. And gin.
Mostly gin.]
Hello, I'm trying this for the first time. It's all so incredibly new and exciting. [Her accent remains unchanged.]
Which is why I'd like to ask everyone something: How many of you are out of place? And how many are out of time?
I was speaking at the roller rink with Captain Bonnet and we were wondering if there were others like us here, not just dragged from a few years or across the country, but across the ocean, hundreds of years out of the past, into this ridiculous future and have no idea what cars or neon or arcades are let alone jeans.
If so, I propose we have a meeting of sorts. Try to learn all these new things together. Or if anyone is willing to explain the last two hundred years in history, I'm really curious. I know some of you are from the future future from here, but I imagine that'd be easier. [Now she feels like shes' excluding a huge chunk of the population, but come on. People like her and Stede were at a distinct disadvantage.]
Er-- My name is Nancy, and I'm from 1838 London.
no subject
Next you'll tell me some mean old man named "Fagin" sent you and Bill after him. Please! I've read Charles Dickens back to back! You can't fool me!
no subject
It ain’t a book. Ain’t some musical. It’s my life. I don’t know what to tell you to convince you otherwise. But if my life were a book, I’d find a different one to pretend from. With happy endings and princesses. It wouldn’t be this one, where I’ll be buried in an unmarked grave and forgotten!
no subject
It does have a happy ending. Oliver gets adopted by that rich guy.
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[The tears are back, but this time of joy.] He stays with Mr. Brownlow and the Maylies? It works! Oh god in heaven thank you! it's worth it, then. whatever's happened to me. To know it worked, and that he's safe! Thank you, lady!
[But the rest of them? She's not sure she even wants to know. Dodger's off to the colonies. Oliver happy in a wealthy home that will treat him well. And her. Dead. Wasn't that enough?]
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[This is getting a little
Uh
Fukawa can't think of what to say. This level of commitment seems unnecessary. Especially at this point, the cover's been blown. Why is she still sticking to the bit?
And why would anyone pretend to be a side character who dies partway through? Nobody, no matter how delusional, would model themselves after Nancy Sikes. They'd pick Elizabeth Bennett, maybe Anna Karenina. Cleopatra. Princess Kaguya.
This is...]
Yes, he had a secret inheritance all along that he never knew about. That's why there was a resemblance between him and that portrait in Brownlow's house. It's why that guy [Fuck, what's his name? She hadn't touched the book in years.] was working with Fagin to get at Oliver. He was his brother and wanted the money for himself.
no subject
You told me what happens to him. It's a great deal off my mind. I don't know what I would do, if he weren't safe.
Monks. The man's name is Monks, with the mark on his neck. I know him, seen him talking with Fagin. God in heaven, and I'm sure Fagin had his hand in that pot as well. Damn him to hell where he belongs with the rest of the Devils. It's better than he deserves, I'll tell you that.
I am dead, aren't I?
no subject
Fagin does get sent to the gallows. If that helps.
[Is she seriously giving credence to this? This is absurd. Even worse than fucking zombies, or time travel, because now the rules really are all broken.
And where does that leave this weird girl? Out of place, out of time, off the page and nowhere to go? Fukawa's gut twists.]
Yes. You're dead.
[There is a slight delay.]
But that Bill guy is too. The police chase him down, and so does a mob. He dies trying to escape them.
All the wrong-doers meet terrible ends. It's a morality tale after all.
Though I always thought it was a cruel one.
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[It's more than Fagin deserved. Let him swing. For all the people he's hurt, lives he's ruined. Good. Let him rot in hell.
But the rest... the rest of it? Well. She's not surprised she's dead. But Bill.
Bill. The man she'd been in love with since she can remember. She remembers the first time she'd ever seen him, picking the pocket of someone on the street. She'd thought it was a great idea, turned to the old man closest to her, and the next thing she knew she was eating sausages and drinking gin between the two of them. She remembers smiling at him, trying so hard to win a smile from him. Remembers when he finally staked his claim, before Fagin could ruin anything.
She remembers just being with him. Laying in bed on early mornings, holding him, letting him hold her. They were perfect. He loved her, and she knew it in everything he did, even if he didn't know how to say the words.
He'd murdered her. Just like she'd always known he would. Had always hoped, in some sick strange way, that if she had to die, it would be by his hand. It all made sense now. And now, he was dead, too.
And what sort of mob, she wonders, would have cared about another dead whore?
all the wrong-doers met terrible ends.
And that meant her, too. She'd tried, but she'd never made up for what she'd done in her life.
It's a sobering thought, one she immediately drowns with more alcohol. She wants to lay down and sob, but that's not something she can do. She's never been able to. They were British, after all. Stiff upper-lip and a sniffer of brandy.
Keep calm and drink all the whiskey you can get your hands on.]
I will pray for Bill. I forgive him, hope he finds his way here one day, back to me.
no subject
On days like this, she wonders if her true talent wasn't Fucking It All Up. Look at this here, she's done it again. The space between responses has grown, the replies tight and trite. How was she supposed to predict that Nancy was telling the truth? Anyone would have assumed the same. Anyone!
And still she's fumbled the ball. Made it all worse by opening her big, ugly mouth.
The closing words turn her gut anew. No, she can't let that stand. Her experience in love may be complicated (may exist more in the mind than in reality), but she knows one thing for certain.]
You should forget him. You're better than he is.
Like I said, I think it's a cruel story. There's a big difference between crimes of malice and crimes of hunger. It's easy for those who life comfortable lives to condemn those who don't.
no subject
I'm as bad as I've always thought. But at least I did one good thing in my life. I can be proud of that.
[Oliver was safe.]
no subject
You aren't bad. You were born in a bad situation and given bad choices. None of that crap would have happened to you if you had enough money to survive and family to help you.
You'd never hurt someone for fun, right? You'd never kill anyone just to hear them scream, right? Where do you think your "crimes" really stand? People like Fagin and Bill, [And oh so many more, she could name names Nancy doesn't know, shouldn't have to — she's kept her other half at bay so far, but for how long can she keep that up?] people who are cruel for their own gain, their own egos or amusement? They're on a completely different level than you or I! Don't count yourself among their number so easily!
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Fagin sent me further. He put me on the streets when I was old enough men'd want me.
I can't stop loving him. That's not for me to decide.
Second chance as long as I'm here, at least. God in heaven help me. [She's well into the drink now, not even bothering with a cup, just straight from the bottle.]
no subject
[And lord, she'd forgotten about that part. Of course he would do that. What else was a woman good for when she didn't have dowries, no inheritance? Fukawa always hated beautiful girls, the sorts who could twist men around their fingers with cheap promises and filthy acts.
It's something entirely different when it's on the streets.]
Fine, it's true, no one can help who they love. But even feelings like that can fade. If you don't know how long you have here, then you can't waste more time than you've already lost. Maybe your heart will hurt for now, but it will pass someday. The longer you stay alive the more inevitable it is.
Of all the hundreds of thousands of millions of people that have died, you've been given another chance. I'm not wasting mine. And neither should you.
no subject
[No. She wouldn't. He'd lost her life because she saw the injustice in how they were treating Oliver. She saw the writing on the wall and how it would lead to the destruction of another child.]
I'm not wasting it. I'm just having a drink about it. Then I'm gonna go out, and have another.
[But she had a broken heart, and that would take time.]
no subject
Is there anything left to say?
Fukawa's about ready for a drink herself. She's never had one, though she's old enough now to try. What was the limit around here? Would they take pity on her if she said she'd wasted the afternoon counseling a girl from a book she half-remembered?]
Whatever. Do what you want. I guess it's no business of mine how you deal with this stuff.
[She could tell her she's sorry. For doubting her, for railing on her so hard, for being useless in spite of it all.
Fukawa tucks the phone away instead. She'd rather not think about it.
She could do with some fresh air.]