⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡

⋆

St. Joan's was actually rather pleasant, as far as orphanages went, that is. It wasn't seedy or dilapidated and the girls' uniforms were in good condition and made of durable, insulating fabric – each girl had her own room and a guaranteed portion of food daily. She wagered that orphans from the other hellholes would love to switch with her given the chance – or, at least until they realized that the nuns didn't allow adoptions. 

Yes, see that was the catch. The building looked nice and so did the demure, religiously devout girls it raised – making it a very prominent and safe philanthropic cause for the wealthiest of Londoners, the money needed to come from somewhere, you know? – but that was it.

The moment you crossed that garish imitation of the pearly gates, you were theirs for life – well, until you turned 18, but she considered that a false sentiment. Because, once you turned 18, you were presented with 2 options; 1. You get thrown out to the streets with the crooks and the Protestants, or 2. You become another nun and stay there, forever.

Myrtle – or Elizabeth as she preferred to be called (because, Christ alive, who calls their kid Myrtle) – refused either option. Becoming a nun was a no-no because if there was one thing she learned, it was that there was nothing unholier than a place of worship. She refused to stay here and work alongside the nuns that turned a blind eye when she was bullied relentlessly by their favorites, and physically held her down through numerous exorcisms whenever she behaved too freakishly.

She also refused to be thrown out to the street – sure, her physical disfigurations might protect her from most unwanted advances – but this refusal came from pride, and a promise. When she arrived at the orphanage, she only spoke French – apparently – and was immediately foisted off to Jacques Fournier, a WWI veteran that worked as the communal cook, and the only French speaking person in the entire building. Jacques was probably the reason why she wasn't completely psychotic from the loving care she received growing up, he tempered her worst tendencies and cuffed her with his wooden spoon whenever she became too self-deprecating.

He also raised her to be proud – not arrogant, mind you – but to have that silent sort of confidence that only battle-hardened people like him seemed to possess. The 'Fuck Around and Find Out' demeanor, one that refused to give in to humiliation and swore vengeance. He made her promise that she'll emulate it, even if her act of revenge was simply escaping their cruel cycle and living well somewhere far away – and perhaps, never coming near a church again, "lest they'll call you the Antichrist, okay kid?".

Of course, her definition of living well included him, how could it not? He was the one that directed her to the library when her questions outgrew his sphere of knowledge, he taught her the way around a kitchen ("if you're planning on living alone, you have to be self-sustaining, sweetheart") and helped her with preparing whatever remedies she dreamt up for her brittle, oily hair and sallow, pale skin. 

When her body became too much of a cage – it never felt like her own, the books called it Dysmorphophobia, what a word – he paid for her ballet lessons and attended every single recital, no matter that she was placed in the background every time.

Whenever her current interests merged with his own, he debated her on politics and war and other such unfeminine subjects with glee – especially whenever she stood her ground on a topic that divided them. And whenever she would retaliate against a particular girl by spitting in her delegated plate – thank you, permanent kitchen duty – he would exclaim "Oh! I think my prescription just went up, God I'm blind" (he was a war pilot, 20/20 vision). He kept up the same attitude when a cup accidently slipped from her grasp and floated right back up.

Obviously, her retaliation wasn't confined to such petty antics, nor was her ability limited to levitating objects. If a girl was extraordinarily bothersome, she'd find herself infected with what came to be known as the Warren Virus – basically her skin would break out in painful hives and her friends would liken her to the closest match in beauty – Elizabeth herself – the hives would pass after a week or two, but they might scar if the girl was particularly cuntish.

Over the years, Elizabeth learned how to deal with her cumbersome body – Jacques taught her how to braid her hair, which turned out to be the gentlest hairstyle on her frail locks and so she wore it constantly. She came up with some solid recipes for medicinal salves that eased some color back into her face, and ballet seemed to help with orienting herself in her body. She wasn't healthy – not at all, in fact she felt herself growing weaker as time progressed – but her body seemed so hellbent on killing her from the inside that it refused any outside help, rendering her immune to the illnesses that swept the orphanage.

It might seem morbid but she was fine with dying young, growing up the way she did, though only so long as she managed to escape St. Joan's with Jacques beforehand – she refused to die without being able to say that she survived that nighmare. Perhaps she'd visit a few famed libraries along the way, maybe attend a mass just to spite the veteran cook. Such scenarios comforted her once, until a letter came by – adressed to her room and marred by her name – and threw her elaborate escape plans to shit.

⋆

A/n. Fun fact! dysmorphophobia was actually the term for body dysmorphia until the 80s, also Jacques is best dad and I love him.