Alone in Brilliant Circles, Stoker (2013)
Tuesday, 28 July 2020 19:42![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
derwent_fTitle: Alone in Brilliant Circles
Fandom: Stoker (2013)
Rating: Teen and up audiences
Summary: Evelyn through the years.
Warnings: underage drinking, alcohol abuse, emotional/psychological abuse
Notes: Title from Ellen Kay's "Pathedy of Manners".
When she was eight years old, Evelyn snuck out of her room and hid behind the balustrade on the second floor, the one that gave a view of the hall beneath. Below, her parents’ guests were milling about. The women glittered in their gowns and jewels, reflecting the light from the chandelier. She peeped through the balustrade, and saw her mother fluttering around the room, waltzing from one guest to another. Little Evie memorised every gesture she made: the width of her smile, the angle of her head, the sway of her body as she moved. The money her father spent to send her to a finishing school in Europe had not been a waste.
The next day, she spent the afternoon in front of her body-length mirror, practising. Her father was at work, her mother gone she knew not where.
She tilted her head the way she had seen her mother did last night. This was the smile her mother used when someone complimented her. This one was her smile when her father said something awkward and her mother had to defuse the tension. She tried to move her body as fluidly as her mother had done, but her childhood limbs refused to cooperate. Her mother had taken ballet lessons when she was Evie’s age, so maybe that was why. She resolved to ask for ballet lessons tonight at dinner.
Afterwards, she practised her piano lesson, with a book perfectly balanced on the top of her head, as always.
*
When she was eighteen, Evelyn used to wake up with her heart pounding. The pounding would continue throughout the day. Her mouth felt dry no matter how much water she drank. She’d put on her makeup with shaking hands.
It got worse during school. She would pretend to listen to others, but her mind was busy re-enacting various scenarios and what the proper reaction would be. What should she say when someone complimented her hair? How sympathetic should she look when one of her girlfriends inevitably cried over her latest breakup? She had to be careful not to overdo it, but she could not be too subtle either – she had to reach that perfect balance.
The tumult in her mind left her exhausted, in mind as well as in body. But she could not spoil herself. There were so many things to do: there was the piano competition next month, and also there were things for her college application. Though her own mother had not gone to college, her father had insisted she went to the best. Thankfully she had quit ballet when she was sixteen. Her teacher had asked her to reconsider, claiming that she had the potential to make it to professional level, but privately Evelyn had scoffed. She took ballet only to achieve that elegance of movement that her mother had. Besides, she knew how consuming professional ballet world is, and that was not what she envisioned for her life, thank you.
Alcohol helped. It helped a lot. She had found out the previous year, when she finally gathered the courage to steal from her parents’ well-stocked drink cabinet. She had not been found out, and it emboldened her. A drink before a piano recital, before attending a lunch hosted by one of her mother’s friends, before college interviews – never much, just a sip or two, just enough to calm her nerves and made her relaxed. It was nothing serious; she promised herself she would not let the drinking get out of her control. She knew what out-of-control drinking looked like. It looked like some of the ladies in her mother’s crowd: the slight hesitation in their steps, the laughter that was just slightly too loud, the covert glances traded by others in disapproval.
She would not end up such a pathetic sight, she vowed to herself.
*
When she was twenty-eight, Evelyn met Richard Stoker for the first time.
It was a summer vacation in Vienna. She had gone with her parents. Her friends were either busy with their family or their careers. She had neither. Her last boyfriend had spoken of settling down and having a big family, his eyes shining in remembrance of his own raucous home, always filled with the noise of him and his siblings. Evelyn had shuddered inside and broke the relationship off. Two children was the limit she’d set. Secretly she had never been fond of children, finding them too difficult to control.
She didn’t have a career either. Being the sole heiress of her father’s fortune, she was set for life. She has a job with a charity foundation, but it was no real work. All she did was looking gorgeous, hosting fundraises, and giving little speeches here and there.
One night at a gala, she had danced with a man who, in what was a delightful coincidence, was an American as well. Her delight grew when he talked about his budding architecture firm. On paper, he was perfect.
But more importantly, she sensed the restlessness beneath all his charm and confidence. This man lacked something, just like her. She guessed that it had something to do with his family. Whenever the discussion turned into the issue of family, Richard was always vague about his own. His parents had passed away, that much she managed to gather. There seemed to be a brother – or two? She did not press further. The ambiguity made her suspect that he was a self-made man, and really, what could be more romantic than that? The poor orphan who climbed his way up the socio-economic ladder and the refined heiress of an old established family. This is the stuff that countless romance books were made of.
So, there was a hollow inside him, something not quite complete, not quite finished. She knew this, because there was the same hollowness inside her. And she looked at him, at the two of them together, and thought yes, I can work with this. He had potential; they had potential. She could take them in her hands and shape them to what should be.
The pounding heart never really left her. She was just so good at hiding it now.
*
When she was thirty-eight, Evelyn hosted a birthday party for India.
All the kids in her class were invited. An event organizer was hired. A cake was ordered: India’s favourite. They fought over her dress: Evelyn wanted India to wear something sweet, pink or purple; India refused. Evelyn’s words grew more acerbic; India grew even sulkier. Richard settled the matter by suggesting yellow; a compromise.
Past parties had not always been a success, but Evelyn held hopes for this one. In the previous years Evelyn had tolerated India’s less-than-stellar behaviour; she was still a child, could hardly be expected to understand the work that go into these events. This year, though, India was turning eight. She should be more capable of comprehending the importance of such events.
It did not turn out the way she hoped, of course. India was polite, but that was all. She showed very little enthusiasm in the activities, in a few of them she showed none. The children shuffled around; clearly they did not know how to act around their strange classmate in this strange situation. Evelyn used all the tricks she knew to defuse the awkwardness, but without India’s cooperation, there was not much she could do.
After the guests had all gone home, she threw a fit. Why couldn’t India appreciate the efforts she put into this party? At eight, she should know better. Evelyn would be the first to admit that she was not always perfect in her childhood parties. There were times when she disliked her mother’s choice of decorations, of dresses, of gifts, but she was mature enough to go along and play the part of a happy, grateful daughter. It was what was required of her; her mother played her part, and Evelyn played hers. Why couldn’t India understand this?
India watched her silently, answering in monosyllables. Evelyn threw her hands up in frustration and stomped off to her room. Let Richard deal with India.
*
When she is forty-eight, Evelyn wakes up in an empty house.
Richard is dead, India’s gone. Charlie’s body is buried in her garden. There are blood stains on her bedroom wall.
She sits up.
She does not know what to do. She remembers that a few days ago she had made a sardonic comment about being locked up in this house for the rest of her life.
But now, now she is free, those who tied her to this house are all gone. No Richard, no India. There are no more roles for her to play – no longer a grieving widow (though she had not managed to pull that role off), no longer a mother (didn’t manage to pull that one off either). She is free now, to create a new role, a new persona to inhabit.
In her whole life, she has never been so lost.
Fandom: Stoker (2013)
Rating: Teen and up audiences
Summary: Evelyn through the years.
Warnings: underage drinking, alcohol abuse, emotional/psychological abuse
Notes: Title from Ellen Kay's "Pathedy of Manners".
When she was eight years old, Evelyn snuck out of her room and hid behind the balustrade on the second floor, the one that gave a view of the hall beneath. Below, her parents’ guests were milling about. The women glittered in their gowns and jewels, reflecting the light from the chandelier. She peeped through the balustrade, and saw her mother fluttering around the room, waltzing from one guest to another. Little Evie memorised every gesture she made: the width of her smile, the angle of her head, the sway of her body as she moved. The money her father spent to send her to a finishing school in Europe had not been a waste.
The next day, she spent the afternoon in front of her body-length mirror, practising. Her father was at work, her mother gone she knew not where.
She tilted her head the way she had seen her mother did last night. This was the smile her mother used when someone complimented her. This one was her smile when her father said something awkward and her mother had to defuse the tension. She tried to move her body as fluidly as her mother had done, but her childhood limbs refused to cooperate. Her mother had taken ballet lessons when she was Evie’s age, so maybe that was why. She resolved to ask for ballet lessons tonight at dinner.
Afterwards, she practised her piano lesson, with a book perfectly balanced on the top of her head, as always.
*
When she was eighteen, Evelyn used to wake up with her heart pounding. The pounding would continue throughout the day. Her mouth felt dry no matter how much water she drank. She’d put on her makeup with shaking hands.
It got worse during school. She would pretend to listen to others, but her mind was busy re-enacting various scenarios and what the proper reaction would be. What should she say when someone complimented her hair? How sympathetic should she look when one of her girlfriends inevitably cried over her latest breakup? She had to be careful not to overdo it, but she could not be too subtle either – she had to reach that perfect balance.
The tumult in her mind left her exhausted, in mind as well as in body. But she could not spoil herself. There were so many things to do: there was the piano competition next month, and also there were things for her college application. Though her own mother had not gone to college, her father had insisted she went to the best. Thankfully she had quit ballet when she was sixteen. Her teacher had asked her to reconsider, claiming that she had the potential to make it to professional level, but privately Evelyn had scoffed. She took ballet only to achieve that elegance of movement that her mother had. Besides, she knew how consuming professional ballet world is, and that was not what she envisioned for her life, thank you.
Alcohol helped. It helped a lot. She had found out the previous year, when she finally gathered the courage to steal from her parents’ well-stocked drink cabinet. She had not been found out, and it emboldened her. A drink before a piano recital, before attending a lunch hosted by one of her mother’s friends, before college interviews – never much, just a sip or two, just enough to calm her nerves and made her relaxed. It was nothing serious; she promised herself she would not let the drinking get out of her control. She knew what out-of-control drinking looked like. It looked like some of the ladies in her mother’s crowd: the slight hesitation in their steps, the laughter that was just slightly too loud, the covert glances traded by others in disapproval.
She would not end up such a pathetic sight, she vowed to herself.
*
When she was twenty-eight, Evelyn met Richard Stoker for the first time.
It was a summer vacation in Vienna. She had gone with her parents. Her friends were either busy with their family or their careers. She had neither. Her last boyfriend had spoken of settling down and having a big family, his eyes shining in remembrance of his own raucous home, always filled with the noise of him and his siblings. Evelyn had shuddered inside and broke the relationship off. Two children was the limit she’d set. Secretly she had never been fond of children, finding them too difficult to control.
She didn’t have a career either. Being the sole heiress of her father’s fortune, she was set for life. She has a job with a charity foundation, but it was no real work. All she did was looking gorgeous, hosting fundraises, and giving little speeches here and there.
One night at a gala, she had danced with a man who, in what was a delightful coincidence, was an American as well. Her delight grew when he talked about his budding architecture firm. On paper, he was perfect.
But more importantly, she sensed the restlessness beneath all his charm and confidence. This man lacked something, just like her. She guessed that it had something to do with his family. Whenever the discussion turned into the issue of family, Richard was always vague about his own. His parents had passed away, that much she managed to gather. There seemed to be a brother – or two? She did not press further. The ambiguity made her suspect that he was a self-made man, and really, what could be more romantic than that? The poor orphan who climbed his way up the socio-economic ladder and the refined heiress of an old established family. This is the stuff that countless romance books were made of.
So, there was a hollow inside him, something not quite complete, not quite finished. She knew this, because there was the same hollowness inside her. And she looked at him, at the two of them together, and thought yes, I can work with this. He had potential; they had potential. She could take them in her hands and shape them to what should be.
The pounding heart never really left her. She was just so good at hiding it now.
*
When she was thirty-eight, Evelyn hosted a birthday party for India.
All the kids in her class were invited. An event organizer was hired. A cake was ordered: India’s favourite. They fought over her dress: Evelyn wanted India to wear something sweet, pink or purple; India refused. Evelyn’s words grew more acerbic; India grew even sulkier. Richard settled the matter by suggesting yellow; a compromise.
Past parties had not always been a success, but Evelyn held hopes for this one. In the previous years Evelyn had tolerated India’s less-than-stellar behaviour; she was still a child, could hardly be expected to understand the work that go into these events. This year, though, India was turning eight. She should be more capable of comprehending the importance of such events.
It did not turn out the way she hoped, of course. India was polite, but that was all. She showed very little enthusiasm in the activities, in a few of them she showed none. The children shuffled around; clearly they did not know how to act around their strange classmate in this strange situation. Evelyn used all the tricks she knew to defuse the awkwardness, but without India’s cooperation, there was not much she could do.
After the guests had all gone home, she threw a fit. Why couldn’t India appreciate the efforts she put into this party? At eight, she should know better. Evelyn would be the first to admit that she was not always perfect in her childhood parties. There were times when she disliked her mother’s choice of decorations, of dresses, of gifts, but she was mature enough to go along and play the part of a happy, grateful daughter. It was what was required of her; her mother played her part, and Evelyn played hers. Why couldn’t India understand this?
India watched her silently, answering in monosyllables. Evelyn threw her hands up in frustration and stomped off to her room. Let Richard deal with India.
*
When she is forty-eight, Evelyn wakes up in an empty house.
Richard is dead, India’s gone. Charlie’s body is buried in her garden. There are blood stains on her bedroom wall.
She sits up.
She does not know what to do. She remembers that a few days ago she had made a sardonic comment about being locked up in this house for the rest of her life.
But now, now she is free, those who tied her to this house are all gone. No Richard, no India. There are no more roles for her to play – no longer a grieving widow (though she had not managed to pull that role off), no longer a mother (didn’t manage to pull that one off either). She is free now, to create a new role, a new persona to inhabit.
In her whole life, she has never been so lost.
