|The Baker Of London
Author: Helen Young PM
This is actually an assignment I had for school, which inspiration came from Sweeney Todd. So this follows really no story/movie/play plot. But I hope you enjoy it anyways. (A bit more of a summary in the story) So please review, whether you loved or hated it.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Poetry/Drama - Eleanor L. & Benjamin B. - Words: 1,114 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 12-02-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8760379
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: So this is something I actually had to write for school. I had to write a story based on American Gothic Literature styles of writing. Somehow involving pain, and love. So, naturally. I thought of Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney Todd. This shows a very sadistic form of Mrs. Lovett though. Sorry for the lack of a cheerful, giddy Mrs. Lovett. Also, this doesn't really follow the play/movie time line either as you will notice. So enjoy, and please review. I love critiques. ^.^
The Baker Of London
On a cold autumn night I sat in my shop and starred out into the streets of London. It was nearly dark, and the chilling air caused children to scurry home. The wind rose slightly, blowing tree branches from side to side. Even the rats took shelter in sewer grates, willing to scavenged on a warmer day.
I took another sip from the glass in my hand and looked up to the ceiling with curiosity. The barber in the shop above had been unusually silent on that night, grieving the disappearance of wife.
I told him what I'd seen. His sweet Lucy leaving in the dead of night. She carried in her arms, a bag, stuffed to the brim with clothing and money. I warned him she'd do it, all those years ago. And she did, the night previous, without uttering a good bye.
So the barber of London grieved alone, his heart shattered and sadness in his tone. I'd wait for him to mourn his time, for I knew she wouldn't return. And I would win the barber of London.
I couldn't suppress the urge to walk up the flight of stairs. To check on him as he cried alone, and wipe away his tears. I saw him by the window, starring into the streets of London. I crept into the shop and walked up behind him. I followed his gaze to the streets, and saw nothing but a few drops of falling rain.
"She isn't returning." I whispered. He tensed, but did not reply. "You need to move on, Benjamin." He turned to me this time. His eyes, so deep brown showed sadness like I hadn't seen before. I noticed his face was defined by lines of sorrow and pain.
"My dear, Eleanor, if I know Lucy, she'll be back." He stated calmly. I admired the belief he had in his wife. Though I knew better than he. Lucy Barker would never again return to the barber of London.
"And what if she does not return?" I asked, curiosity getting the best of me.
"Then I will surely die of heart ache." My chest tightened in the most uncomfortable way. I excused myself from the shop and rushed down the stairs. My cheeks were stained wither salty tears. What he'd said had hurt me so. For I, was in love with the barber of London.
How could I even pretend to be surprised? He'd loved his Lucy dearly. As much as I loved him. My anger rose and my pulse pounded fiercely. I began throwing things off tables and counters. Pots hit the floor with loud clashed and precious china dished shattered against the wall. Of course he'd never love me. For I was just the baker of London.
When my rampage ceased, and my pulse slowed, I starred at the mess I'd made. All the while I'd thrown my fit, I heard not a peep from the barber of London.
Sighing, I turned and opened the door, which led to the basement bake house. I descended the stairs, keeping my foot steps as silent as I could. The fire roared in the oven, illuminating the room with an orange glow. A small bag of money sat on the floor, concealed from the sight of and unknown observer. A few clothing items were now grey ashes in the bottom of a fire.
I hummed a light tune as I crept to the corner closet. The old wooden door creaked only slightly as I opened it and peered in.
The golden haired beauty laid upon the floor. Her cold, lifeless form lay limp on the stone ground. Unseeing eyes were closed and unspeaking lips, forever silenced. In front of me laid the dead wife, of the barber of London.
"Poor little dear." I whispered with a smirk. I pulled on her arm, causing her head to roll back. The bold red gash across her pale skin, ran across her neck. Dried blood coated the wound, and the front of her dress.
I gave her arm another tug, pulling her out of the closet. I hummed my tune as I pulled her across the floor with ease. Her form weighing very little. I pulled open the oven door, the light from the fire cast around the room and over the dead barber's wife. Lifting her the best I could, I quickly tossed her in the oven.
Her golden hair lit up instantly, along with her pure silk dress. I pushed her legs in the oven as well and quickly shut the door. I watched through the window as she burned and burned. I watched until Lucy Barker was no more.
Finally she was gone for good. I had finally won. I cried out in triumph, as loud as I could. And finally, finally, I could be with the barber of London. I cleaned myself up and I walked up the stairs, ready to face the barber of London.
"My darling!" I called, once outside the door. "She's gone you know. You won't see her anymore." I heard nothing from inside but silence dead as night. I took a deep breath and marched on in, nowhere in sight was the barber of London. I sighed heavily, and lit a small candle, my eyes searching the room.
A glimpse in the corner, something caught my eye. Turning, I gasped, seeing what I dreaded most. Feet dangling above the floor, with a rope around his neck, was the beautiful barber of London.
I fell to my knees and couldn't breath, feeling myself die inside. The rope around his neck created bruised red marks, identical to those of his Lucy. Tucked in his jacket I saw a small note. A note from the barber of London.
I took the note quickly and opened it, reading it silently to myself:
If I cannot be with my Lucy, I have no reason to be alive.
How could the barber of London ever love me?
For I was just the baker of London.