#i do think. nicola would have an inferiority complex

[fourleafclovxr]

1: heartbreaker

Sophie broke up with Nicholas last week, and with Tarquin the week before that, and so on, and so forth: an endless stream of boys. There’ve been more notable ones, Nicola supposes. Tedros, early on, who had never much liked Sophie anyway. Rhian, who had actually seemed quite serious about it until he ran back to Kei. Hort, who had definitely been serious about it, poor thing.

There was Rafal, but no one really likes to talk about Rafal, least of all Sophie. Nicola hadn’t known her, then; she only knows about Rafal through Agatha, and even then only through fragmented pieces of the story, Agatha’s hesitance to reveal anything of Sophie’s that she didn’t already flaunt.

She knows that Rafal turned Sophie against everyone else she’d ever loved. She knows that Rafal had made Sophie feel special.

And, from being Sophie’s proclaimed best friend, she knows this, too: that Rafal was the one who started Sophie down her path. Sophie speaks of it lightly, like it’s all one big joke, but sometimes her eyes grow distant when she says: I’m grateful for him, really, darling. He made me more me.

Nicola still doesn’t know what that ‘me’ is, to Sophie. She doesn’t quite get how Sophie sees herself, or wants to see herself. Untouchable. That’s her best guess.

Nicola has never known her to be anything else.

It still surprises her, to this day, when Sophie takes her hand. It surprises her that Sophie, with her alabaster skin and glittering emerald eyes and golden hair, with her smile that’s never left a line on her face, is real. Is a tangible thing. A person who would hold Nicola’s hand as they traipse through the empty streets, stars twinkling above them. The world is so empty sometimes.

It doesn’t matter, because Sophie fills the space.

Her fingers slip through and out of Nicola’s, and she twirls as they make their way down the street, laughing brightly at the vast, dark sky. Her voice echoes. There’s lipstick smeared down her mouth. Today Nicola picked her up from a bar, found her halfway in some random boy’s lap, dragged her out. For a second she had a handle of it. But Sophie is fleeting, free, always just out of reach.

Well. Nicola has put up with it for this long. Longer than anyone, really, except Agatha, and Sophie is practically her sister. She doesn’t mind going on.

God, she really is doomed, isn’t she?

“This is how to be a heartbreaker,” Sophie sings, “boys they like a little danger…” She doesn’t finish the lyric, doesn’t follow through, just throws her head back and laughs, and for all that it’s worth Nicola knows she’s going to be the next one. If not the next, then it’ll still be her eventually, after however long it takes Sophie to get bored of her, too. It’s been a good run. It’s been longer than she expected.

But Sophie is so beautiful, has never been more beautiful, Nicola thinks that every time she sees her. No wonder the world falls at her feet. No wonder she gets away with it.

She’s never going to notice Nicola, waiting patiently for her to stay still. She’s never going to notice how it’s always Nicola picking her up, dragging her out, getting her through the messes she makes. Maybe it’s a good thing. Can’t get her heart broken if Sophie never gets her hands on it in the first place.

Still, she thinks wistfully, as Sophie whirls in the midst of her laughter— it would be nice to be seen.

“We’ll get him falling for a stranger, a player,” Sophie goes on, with all too much conviction. “Singing I lo-lo-love you—”

She turns back to Nicola, then, and there’s something strange and sad in her eyes. It’s at odds with the sickeningly upbeat way she cheers the last line. “At least I think I do!”

With Sophie, there is always a way out. That is, for her. Not for anyone who might believe her. And certainly not for Nicola, who knows her well enough to not believe her— and wants this, wants her, anyway.

//

hopefully writing one SGE drabble a day for november, using nosebleedclub's november prompts!

[gerdy-sertorius]

After thinking about it for like, three hours straight, it is official. Ms. @queenlucythevaliant has in fact convinced me that Brontë's Heathcliff is the initial Earnshaw’s bastard son, and that’s even undoing the massive damage Nicola Edwards did to my perception of that theory. Ms. Lucy has a wonderful analysis of why that is (Like drinking light — In Defense of Wuthering Heights (tumblr.com)), but to simply and abominably briefly go over it, it focuses on one major point. That all of what would come in the book would be the sin of the father being visited upon the son, and how that failure as a patriarch, a husband, and a father would set the seeds for the horrors that would eventually come. The genius of the book comes in the third act, but you really ought to read her analysis, it is far better than I could do. But there is one character, one that I certainly should not love as much as I do, that I feel does not get their due in her excellent analysis, and that is Hindley Earnshaw, the upcoming master of Wuthering Heights. Please forgive in advance my appalling characterization.

Hindley, throughout the book, is objectively a terrible human being. He is an abusive patriarch, one who in a large part forms the trauma that drives Heathcliff and Cathy together, and messes Heathcliff up so badly. He, among other things, tries to murder Heathcliff (multiple times), starves both Heathcliff and Cathy, loses the entirety of Wuthering Heights to gambling debts, and drops his infant son over the bannister of a staircase. He is by no means a sympathetic character, at most a pathetic one, someone that is pitiable but not much more. Yet, to me, he has always been oddly compelling, and I think that the “Heathcliff Earnshaw” theory really adds to his character. 

Much has been made of the fact that when Heathcliff first arrives at the manor within the coat of Master Earnshaw, he replaces Cathy’s horsewhip, in turn becoming it, eventually. Heathcliff becomes her tool to seek revenge for both his own sake and for hers, to be driven to any goal she should like. Yet for Hindley, what is he but the instrument of the devil, the fiddle? He arrives, dark and strangely off-putting, and in turn (implicitly) usurps Hindley as the favorite son. Heathcliff, throughout the book, could perhaps be summed up in one word — ressentiment. The inferiority complex that turns into frustration, yet the aggrieved oft cannot face the purveyor of it. Yet, at the beginning, Hindley is the one who bestows upon both himself and (eventually) Heathcliff the phenomenon. He is the heir, yet the second favorite. He does not have his father’s love in the same way that Heathcliff does, a new member of the house picked up off the very streets. And he cannot understand why Heathcliff would be the one to obtain his father’s love. As much as one can enjoy being loved, it hurts to know that you are only the next best thing. It hurts playing the second fiddle. 

It’s also important to recognize the age gap dynamics at play here. Heathcliff and Cathy are roughly the same age, and so they go and play together, they enjoy their life as children are wont to do with their contemporaries. Hindley is declared to be at least a good bit older than them, and the text says that as he was growing up, he had for his playmate Nelly Dean, who, from the very nature of the relationship, was never on equal footing. She could not engage in the same freedom that Heathcliff and Cathy had, she was simply a servant and a child, doing her job to the very best, and regardless of how much she may or may not have enjoyed Hindley’s company, that thread would underlie everything they did together. 

And he takes it out on Heathcliff. He is the usurper, he is happy and has his father’s real love. He has a true friendship, one that doesn’t exist just because his father is paying for it. Hindley is full of wrath, and Heathcliff quickly learns that Hindley’s kindled fury burns as it fills the air around him, blazing as it fills the room with smoke, obscuring the original purpose of that anger. And that anger is all for naught, for as Hindley torments Heathcliff, his father looks on him with anger, and perhaps worse, disappointment. Multiple times, the old Master Earnshaw starts to try to beat Hindley with his stick, and every time lamenting that he could not. When the decision finally comes to send Hindley to college, out of Earnshaw’s sight, the man says that he doubts Hindley could thrive anywhere. Hindley, in trying to cope with being the second favorite, dooms his place as the heir that shall never have his father’s approval, and at his father's death, he wasn’t even at home to see it. And the worst of it is that it is only because Hindley leaves that Heathcliff and Cathy are able to become close, to become the people so inseparably tied that they would almost bring down two families.

After he ascends to the role of patriarch, he becomes even worse, particularly upon seeing his wife’s dislike of Heathcliff. Beatings and fastings were commonplace. This was the height of his cruelty. Nelly Dean, his own servant and best friend, questioned his mistreatment of them. And after his wife died, things went downhill quickly. He had nobody who loved him anymore except the old, loquacious, contemptible butler. His father hated him to his death, his wife was gone, no siblings anymore, and his sole true friend a turncoat. He had a son, but all that did was remind him of his lost love. He took to drink and gambling, trying to forget that love was ever a thing. And Nelly Dean watched as her playmate from years past threw his own life away. He had no life anymore, he had squandered anything that could have been love. But really, it was only natural.

What other option did he have?

[12-3amproductions]

Cat Mother

Admins: This story is one of the strangest that we have ever collected.

Nicola, 19, student

I was very alienated as a child. My father left my family when i was very young, leaving my mother to struggle on, holding down two jobs to put my younger brother and myself through school. As a result, i was very insecure and neurotic. I could not get along with my classmate due to my inferiority complex. My schoolwork suffered and i became a loner.

The neighbourhood i grew up in, did not help much. It was quite a tough area. At 14, i took to the streets, for staying at home depressed me. The neighbourhood kids hated me because i was quite a tomboy, with my baseball cap, short hair and tough bad-boy manner. They ganged up on me when they could and shunned me when they couldn’t.

The worst thing about it all was that the frustration was feeding upon itself and eating me up inside. One day, i took my anger out on one of the neighbourhood cats. I tied a string of firecrackers to its tail and set them alight, delighting in the cat’s squalling panic as it tried to run away from the deafening explosions.

However this exploit of mine did not go unnoticed. In our neighbourhood was a strange old lady they called the Cat Mother. She kept a lot of cats and used to feed all the stray cats around. As i stood back to admire my handiwork, laughing as the poor dumb animal ran around in circles, the Cat Mother went up to the cat and picked it up, cradling it protectively in her arms. She then gave me a look which filled me with remorse. It wasn’t harsh, but it made me feel guilty and confused. I did not understand it then, but what i was feeling was actually shame for my own cruelty. But being the kind of person i was then, i was determined to get even with her.

That night, i climbed into the backyard of her old terrace house, thinking I’d “fix” her cats. But it was not to be as simple as that. They were swift and agile, fleet-footed in the dark yard. They circled me, hissing and snarling. I could see their feline eyes shining in the darkness all around me, they seemed to fill up the night. I was lost in fear and panic, panting with exertion, my heart thumping wildly. Then, i caught a strong whiff of soap and powder, and felt a firm, dry hand clasp me by the scruff of my neck. It was Cat Mother!

She was a dark Portuguese woman with an immense head of silver hair. Her wrinkled face was hard and her eyes glittered in the darkness. I was frightened and confused. She seemed like the biggest cat in the yard.

“What are you doing here, young lady?” she asked. But as she spoke, i felt a calming effect, for her deep mellow voice had notes of kindness and peace ringing in it. I felt ashamed and i broke down sobbing, blurting out my wicked plans. Her expression softened to a smile. I had expected anger and hatred. Instead, i received forgiveness. I ran home all the way from the Cat mother’s house that night. I felt light_headed and dreamy, filled by a strange new exhilaration. I knew that at last, i had found a friend.

The next day, i went over to the Cat Mother’s house to apologize. She invited me in for tea. Her dusty old house was dim and stuffy in the daytime. There was cat fur everywhere and the place was filled with pictures of Jesus Christ. I enjoyed her company very much. She was the first person i could talk to. And it seemed that she enjoyed my company too, for she invited me to visit her as often as i liked. Over the next few weeks, i got to know Mrs Marcia De Silva very well. She had been a schoolteacher and was now retired. She was almost 80 years old but was still very healthy and active. I started hanging around at her place. She helped me with her schoolwork and my results were improving tremendously. At the end of that year, i topped my class. She was so happy for me her eyes were shining with tears. Even my own mother couldn’t believe how well i did, but Mrs De Silva did not seem too surprised. Mrs De Silva and i got to be very close. She gave me a new direction in life. Away from the path of self destruction and onto something more worthwhile and meaningful. Even my mother was very grateful to this mysterious new “Aunt” i had.

However, age was catching up with the Cat Mother. It really disturbed me when she placed an ad in the newspapers requesting for adoption of her cats. The ones that were not adopted were placed in an animal shelter. She sighed wearily when the last of her cats were gone.

“l’II miss them all terribly. But i must do this. After all who is going to take care of them when i am gone?” she said. I dare not question her about this, the implication of it all was too terrible for me to face.

I went to her house even more often from that day on. I knew she’d be lonely now that all her cats were gone. I did not want her to feel as lonely as i had been. No one should ever be as lonely as i had been. But one day, when i went to her place after school, there was an eerie silence in the air. The dim, dusty old house was now strangely filled with a radiant glow. My heart seemed caught in my throat as i rushed about the place, calling out to her, “Mrs De Silva... Mrs De Silva....”

But there was no reply. Running down the stairs into the hall, i was startled by the presence of a strange man. The sunlight streaming in through the windows caused his hair to shine. I could not see his face properly. He looked at me and smiled. And although i did not know this man or what he was doing there, i felt no fear.

“Are you looking for Mrs De Silva?” he asked. His voice had the same gentle quality as Mrs De Silva’s.

I nodded and said, “Yes, where is she?”

Again he smiled, and my heart was touched by an inexplicable feeling of tenderness. He then said, “Mrs De Silva won’t be staying here any more.”

“Where’s she gone? Who ARE you?” i asked, struggling with the sobs building in my throat. I knew then i would never see the Cat Mother again. 

“I am... a friend,” he said, and seeing the state i was in, he continued, “Don’t worry about Mrs De Silva. For you see, all along, i’ve lived in her house. But now, it’s time for her to come to my house and live with me.” He began to walk out the door. But before he left, he shook my hand saying, “Goodbye little girl, don’t be sad.”

And when he shook my hand, i saw that there were holes in his hands, as if nails had been driven through them. After he left, the house grew dark and cold. I knew that Mrs De Silva was dead. I shall never forget the Cat Mother, Mrs Marcia De Silva, and all she had done for me.

Admins: Lovely story! Well it is supernatural, so we would take this in!

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