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camusscigarette · 6 months

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Violets for Roses:

Chapter II: A Swan's Song drowns it's Victim in Pools of Crimson:

TW: Flashbacks of Rape, torture, blood.

{In bold is meant to be in Russian. 1) I don't speak russian so I can't type it out. 2) Using google translate feels like an insult to the language. Because I believe that I either write the language in correct grammar and it makes perfect sense or I don't. So. Bold is meant to be spoken in Russian!!!!}

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When she came back to her Mansion she was surprised to find it empty, only a nice breakfast left for her on the kitchen counter. Syrniki.

Was it his way to tell her he suspects something? Or does he think himself smart enough to figure out the truth? Only time will tell. For now she simply took a seat on her kitchen counter and poured a bit of honey on the syrniki before she took a bite out of it, and a soft moan escaped her lips. She ate two more before putting them back in her fridge and prepared herself a cup of Black coffee to go on with her day. After all, she was a psychiatrist, she never get a break.

Hours went by, and with each hour a patient passed her by, with stories that have no end and she listens and somehow relives the stories of her patients. Sometimes she believes that none of their stories will ever compete with hers, even if this isn't a competition on who's trauma is worse but she was fully convinced that none of her patients stories will make her feel as miserable as her memories in the Red Room ever did. After all..she did spend almost a century there. Almost. If she hadn't escaped in the 90s she doesn't think she would've made it any further. After all she faked so many passports, identities, and diplômes to get where she is. It was more than exhausting to start off from zero. From stealing money ever so effortlessly to rent a small apartment, change her hair and adapt a new identity as well as the work she had to do in order to create a fake identity, fake passport and ID, fake driving license. Fake, fake, fake, fake. She was faker than those women made out of plastics, she was far greater than a Plastic surgeon's creation, yet she was much dirtier. Her ledger was overflowing with red..After all..Almost a century of being one of the most dangerous assassins...The Black Widow. Even if she had convinced herself that she did what she did because she had no choice, because she was a mere puppet in the puppeteer's hands, a poor and destroyed rag doll barely hanging, a mother making sure to obey all commands to insure her daughters live day by day. The Sacrifices she made were all in the name of loyalty. Not to her country. Not that bastard whom called himself her Husband while all he did was fuck her till she eventually learned how to dissociate when it all happens at the ripe age of 16. She was young when she gave birth to Natalya, that she remembers. She remembers how for the first time in her life. she witnessed Madame Boleslava cry. She was much older when she gave birth to Yelena though, because Dreykov was far too obsessed with making her the best out of all 28 girls. The program consisted of 28 girls, only 14 are supposed to survive. Yet barely 5-3 made it out alive. And Dreykov insisted on making her one of them. So long hours of torturous training she would endure secretly with The Winter Soldier. A man whom watched her grow older until he eventually became her lover in the Mid 50s. Years and years later when he recalled zero memories of ever meeting her. Sometimes she finds herself thanking God silently for not enduring the intense brainwashing the Winter Soldier underwent in Hydra. The Red Room sure sucked, but at least her mind was her own most of the times. They programming consisted of torture. It consisted of a game of survival where only those who wish to stay alive succeed. Maybe brainwashing with machines is easier..but at least by your own free will..your thoughts remain somewhat your own. Your thoughts..remain your own until they're no more but the voices of those who pick up your limp bodies like dead weight and lead you out of the torture chamber. Or sometimes Dreykov's room when you are far too violated to walk.

“Come on, Lisichka..Time to get up” Alexei, the right hand of Dreykov who was a much more Caring man than Dreykov will ever be, whispered softly and quietly as she draped a blanket over her bruised body.

She could only groan tiredly, barely capable of opening her eyes. Her body had rope burns all over as well as remains of the burning wax candle still stuck to her skin. Some bite marks here and there and quite the amount of blood staining her inner thighs and the bed sheets.

"Mm'Lexei?" She asked in a groggy whisper. "He—He tied me up too much."

"I know Lisichka. I know.." The man mumbled as he swallowed down his disgust and carefully tried to pick her up in his arms. She was light as a feather and limp as a corpse. Her body still has not recovered it's full blood circulation due to the intense bondage she was forced to submit.

"He said it's time for Natalya to have a sister" She added again, her eyes remaining closed. "Alexei I don't want to get pregnant again" She admitted as her voice trembled.

"Melina and I will try our hardest to ensure you don't fall pregnant" He reassured her, carrying her down the halls.

" He hurts me a lot..I don't think I can bare another child in such a state. I sometimes pray to The Lady Theotokos that she'd make this night my last. Always praying to make it my last..but I always wake up. Why do I always wake up Alexei?"

He had to swallow thickly as he adjusted her position into his arms so that her head lays on his chest. "I don't know, Lisichka. I truly, don't know.."

She snapped back out of the memory and stared at the new patient now seated infront of her in Silence. She was a young woman in her early 20s it seems. Blondie with blue eyes and an ideal body, the perfect american dream. But it wasn't her beauty that captured her attention, rather the ballerina pointe shoes that were tied to the woman's bag that had her slightly dissociative at the moment.

She eventually snapped out of it and stared at her patient with a polite and somewhat comforting smile. "Béatrice" She said ever so softly, her french accent, an accent she has turned into her mother tongue made it's appearance as shee smiled at the blondie. "What brings you here?".She asked her, notebook in hand and a pen in the other while she crossed a leg over the other.

"Well.. I'm here because I've been suffering from nightmares really. But the thing is..those nightmares feel real, almost too real" Béatrice said with a small frown.

"Mhm" She hummed, her eyes narrowing slightly as her mind began to work on it. "Alright. Please do tell me more about those nightmares. If you're comfortable of course, Béatrice" She added again, flashing the woman a reassuring smile.

"Well..I don't know how start. It always begins the same as always" She said carefully, as if her mind was reformulating the dream before her eyes to narrate. "I'm somewhere dark and rather cramped. But there's always this red symbol on the walls and I don't really know what it signifies because it's very blurry, and I can't tell what it is"

That had Bedelia's frown deepen ever so slightly.

"There's this screaming and I see this beautiful woman who's hair is all splayed out onto white sheets, white pillows, creating a contrast against her auburn hair. And she's in so much pain. I try to reach out for her but she always disappears and everything is dark again. But I can hear a fuckin noise. Like a clock. It ticks and ticks and ticks..until it dings. Four times. Always four times. And I see this..tall and rather.. disgusting looking man. A gun in hand, and it's pointed to my head. But when he shoots. And at this point you might think he shot me but he didn't. He didn't and I don't know how because not even for a second do I close my eyes as he holds the gun at my head. But he doesn't shoot me. And somehow the man shifts into that beautiful woman whom was in pain..and I feel..I feel this connection to her so I as try to reach to her the scenario shifts and we're being separated by a group of armed men. And everything goes black"

Bedelia felt an odd sense of dread fill her from head to toe. The hairs on the back of her neck rising almost immediately as Béatrice got to the last part.

"Can you describe that woman to me?" She asked her ever so softly, clearing her throat as she doodled on her notebook.

"I can't see her face. I can only see her red hair and her pale skin" Béatrice replied quietly. "I don't know who she is, or if my mind has created her..but she's so..so familiar to me yet I can not remember where I have seen her before" She explained further as her head tilted to the side with a puzzled look.

"Ah" She said in a rather monotone voice and noted down a few things.

"I like to think sometimes it's because I was separated from my mother when I was young" And that statement ignited more curiosity in her.

"How did you lose your mother, if you don't mind me asking?" She asked her ever so softly, making sure to portray the right emotions.

"My mother was a sex worker. She had to abandon me when I was young, at one of her friends house. I don't know much about her anymore. She..My aunt used to tell me that my mother worked the work she did because she had to make sure I remained alive and well fed. She told me that mother was supposed to come back but it seems like..we lost her in this world." The younger woman explained with a sad smile.

"I'm sorry about your mother, Béatrice" This time her empathy and emotions portrayed were real. Because Bedelia felt a sort of connection to both Béatrice and her mother. She made so many sacrifices for her daughters, only to end up losing them all three. One by death. Two by the system of the Red Room. Bedelia felt the grief Béatrice most likely feels as well, speaking of her mother after all must bring out such sorrowful emotions.

"It's okay. I'm a bit glad she..she left me with someone who took care of me. I mean..my mother knew how terrible it would've been if she had abandoned me in the streets, or put me into foster care. I think..I think it says a lot about her intentions— her good intentions when it came to me" Something about the way this young woman phrased her sentence, her emotions felt off to her.

"You seem very forgiving of your mother" She couldn't not point it out. It fascinated her far too much.

"I am not. I simply.. have convinced myself that I shouldn't be mourning the loss of a mother that never..and will never be" That confused Bedelia more and more as she gave her a raised brow. "I am not so proud of my mother and her sacrifices. But then again..I sort of understand that she did what she had to for the sake of surviving...but in the end it cost her her life" She said with an awkward chuckle as Bedelia had to bite back her tongue before saying anything further.

"Your nightmares could be an underlying guilt for..over judging your mother or..It could be a form of your mother you have buried deeply into you unconscious state of mind. Where..you try to grasp onto an image of her, and stick it to it, but it seems like... little you..has this certain image of your mum that can not be changed so easily" Bedelia explained as she wrote down a few things into her Notebook, but in reality she was drawing a portrait of what she remembers from Little Yelena's chubby baby face.

This session sure seems to be rather.. interesting...

୨°•☽♡☾•°୧

As she was seated by her fireplace, a half empty bottle of Sauvignon on her coffee table, a full glass of wine in hand and French oldies playing in the background. It was a rather relaxing and soothing atmosphere where she could easily let go of her worries for the day.

Béatrice was a rather interesting patient..she had..unlocked some memories of hers she'd rather keep buried but nothing a good glass of wine can not fix.

As she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, humming along the soft melody of Joe Dassin , the annoying sound of the doorbell rang and she had to force herself to answer.

And to her surprise (not so surprised) it was Hannibal.

"Hannibal" She said in her usual composed and detached voice, eyeing him carefully as she didn't open the door fully. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" She asked again with a raised brow.

"I have a few questions, I'd like honest answers to" He said simply. "May I come in?" He asked again with his usual Charming smile she somewhat liked. He was a charmed after all..an Ideal Lover. The most dangerous of seducers, but two can play this game after all..A Black Widow is known to feast upon her mate after intercourse. We'll see who devours the other first. Will it be the Cannibal himself? Or the Black Widow whom has killed far too many to possibly have a record of them all?

Only time will tell.

And so she stepped aside and allowed him in, closing the door behind him before she walked him to the living room, the atmosphere somehow turning slightly tense.

"You made me faint. By pinching my vagus nerve" He stated simply as he took her glass of wine from off the coffee table and drank a large sip of the Garnet liquid.

"I did" She found no use of denying it as she took a seat on her armchair, crossing a leg over the other.

To say it fascinated him how she oh so casually answered him, made him more and more intrigued by this mysterious woman he found himself obsessing over as of late. A small twitch of his lips indicated that he was enjoying where this conversation is currently leading them to.

"Did you feel threatened? A predator like me usually tends to project such aura" He spoke matter of fact while Bedelia had to resist the urge to roll her eyes .

"Threatened is not used in it's right context. I was simply reminding you that there are boundaries I'd rather you do not cross, for there will always be consequences to one's actions" She shot back with a tilt of her head and stood up to face him.

That only made this flame in the pit of his stomach ignite even more. A certain hunger and desire overtaking him to the point where he took a few steps closer to her, his nose begging to inhale the woman's intoxicating perfume. A perfect mix of jasmine and other white flowers, amber, and a certain muskiness with a lilt of spicy wood. A scent he'd love to drown his senses with.

He tilted her chin upwards with just his index finger and whispered into her ear "Dance with me?" And leaned back, staring at her lips and then looking back up at her eyes. She had to give it to him, he intrigued her, much more than she'd like to admit. And so, she gave a small nod of her head and took his offered hand, letting him lead her to the side before he settled his hand onto her waist and she on his shoulder as they began to gently sway to the soft symphony of Aznavour's ‘La Bohème’.

And so they danced..

#Spotify #bedelia du maurier #hannibal lecter #hannibal the cannibal #hannibal #bedannibal #natasha romanoff #la bohème #red room #violets for roses

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byneddiedingo · 9 months

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Lillian Gish at MGM

John Gilbert and Lillian Gish in La Bohème (King Vidor, 1926)

La Bohème (King Vidor, 1926)

Cast: Lillian Gish, John Gilbert, Renée Adorée, George Hassell, Roy D'Arcy, Edward Everett Horton, Karl Dane, Mathilde Comont, Gino Corrado, Eugene Pouyet. Screenplay: Frédérique De Grésac; titles: William M. Conselman, Ruth Cummings; based on a novel by Henri Murger and an opera libretto by Luigi Illica and Giuseppe Giacosa. Cinematography: Henrik Sartov. Art direction: Cedric Gibbons, A. Arnold Gillespie. Costume design: Erté. Film editing: Hugh Wynn.

Bohème without Puccini, except for a few themes from the opera interpolated into the piano accompaniment for some contemporary prints. The screenplay by Frédérique (billed as Fred) De Grésac is said to be "suggested by Life in the Latin Quarter" by Henri Murger, which is also the source of the opera libretto by Luigi Illica and Giuseppe Giacosa. But the librettists took liberties with Murger, combining several characters and incidents, that are copied in the movie, so it's pretty clear that De Grésac paid at least as much attention to the opera as he did to Murger. It's very much a vehicle for Lillian Gish, making her debut at MGM. She wanted John Gilbert to play Rodolphe to her Mimi, but sometimes seems to be playing an anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better game with her co-star. There is, for example, a scene in which Gilbert acts out the proposed ending to the play he is writing, with much swashbuckling. Then, a few scenes later, Gish acts it out again with similar verve for a potential backer for the play. Their courtship is a surprisingly hyperactive one, particularly in the scene in which they and their fellow bohemians go on a picnic that involves much running about. And Gish is not content to die calmly: On hearing that she won't live through the night, she makes a mad dash across Paris to be reunited with her lover, at one point allowing herself to be dragged along the streets while hanging onto the back of a horse-cart. Gilbert poses with feet apart and arms akimbo much too often, and the starving bohemians are given to much dashing and dancing. (Among them is the endearing and enduring Edward Everett Horton as Colline.) It's all a bit too much, and I have a feeling that the print I saw shown at the wrong speed, giving it that herky-jerky quality we used to attribute to silent films before experts corrected the speed at which they should be projected. The costumes are by the celebrated designer Erté, who is said to have had so much trouble working with Gish that he gave up designing for Hollywood.

Lars Hanson and Lillian Gish in The Scarlet Letter (Victor Sjöström, 1926)

The Scarlet Letter (Victor Sjöström, 1926)

Cast: Lillian Gish, Lars Hanson, Henry B. Walthall, Karl Dane, William H. Tooker, Marcelle Corday, Fred Herzog, Jules Cowles, Mary Hawes, Joyce Coad, James A. Marcus. Screenplay: Frances Marion, based on a novel by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Cinematography: Henrik Sartov. Art direction: Cedric Gibbons, Sidney Ullman. Film editing: Hugh Wynn.

I'm pretty sure that any high school students who think they can get by watching Frances Marion's adaptation of Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter instead of reading it are likely to be disappointed in English class. That said, no film version is going to reproduce the depth of characterization, the symbolic force, or the intellectual density of Hawthorne, so we should be grateful for what this one does give us: one of Lillian Gish's greatest performances. This was Gish's second film for MGM, after La Bohème, and it suggests that her talents were better suited to a contemplative director like Victor Sjöström -- or Seastrom, as MGM insisted on anglicizing his name -- than to King Vidor's more action-oriented style. If her Mimi in La Bohème was disturbingly hyperactive, her Hester Prynne is a marvel of understated acting. She uses her eyes and mouth and the tilt of her chin to convey a miraculous range of emotions, from stubbornness to fear, from strength to frailty. It's a pity that her Dimmesdale, Lars Hanson, doesn't match her in subtlety. He's more successful in this regard in their 1928 collaboration The Wind, which was also directed by Sjöström.

#The Scarlet Letter #Victor Sjöström #Lars Hanson #Lillian Gish #La Bohème #King Vidor #John Gilbert

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