Focus, Patience and Complexity
Summary: What was Esther thinking when Kate came in to give her 'The Talk'?
A/N: Okay, so I rewatched Orphan last night and I can't believe I nearly forgot about my love for the Leena Klammer character. She is definitely one of the most bad ass female characters on screen and I wrote this as a tribute to her. This story may be a little disturbing, but this is Leena Klammer after all. Remember, she's an intelligent psychopath that can only mimic emotion, not understand it. And while she may appear charming and polite on the outside, there's no doubt that she is demented and is crazy as hell. Her mind is like glass. Sharp, but broken. I've read that described to Tom Riddle (from Harry Potter) on a forum and that supposedly came out from a book, but I don't remember which. I thought that was also a perfect description for her. So anyway, enjoy and review!
Disclaimer: Orphan does not belong to me. I make no money off of this.
Painting is one of the only things that brings me peace.
It is more than just drawings and brushstrokes; it is focus, patience and complexity. Goodness knows I need two out of three now after what I stumbled onto last night, and art has always provided me with a safe outlet. I see my paintings as an extension of myself, they have to represent me in some way after all. So I have learned to apply glow paint to my portraits, a funny little technique that allows me to glimpse the fullness of all my masterpieces that is only provided by the glare of the UV light. These paintings hide all of my pretty little secrets that only I can appreciate. I am always in awe of the finished product, most people don't see the beauty of it but most people don't understand real art. Real art is violent, like Pollock's chaotic splash of colour. It's a raw expression of feeling. And what is more raw than blood, torture and sex?
It occurred to me as I awoke this early morning that I have not yet painted a portrait of Kate; of course, I did not want to waste any of my precious patience by sketching the bitch's face - as I would probably be tempted to grab a knife and stab the real thing, and I cannot afford that right now. I do have plans, after all. But after tonight, I figured that it might not hurt, and I relish in the secret touches that I will put once this painting is finished. She will look so good with a slit throat and a knife through her head, don't you think?
I enjoy this quiet solitude, away from the two irritants that continue to pester me. Little Max is okay, I can tolerate her because she is merely a child and understands her place, something I have yet to teach her brat of a brother and her slut of a mother. I can't understand how John has managed to put up with everything all these years - hell, I can't understand why he doesn't just a grab an axe and cut off his nagging wife's head.
I hear someone knocking and the sound of the door opening. "Esther?"
I ignore her calling and continue to paint. Focus, patience and complexity. Focus, patience and complexity. Focus, Leena. Focus.
She closed the door and made her way over to my bed, "We have to talk about last night."
She sounds so embarrassed and cold laughter nearly bubbles out from my throat. Instead, I settled for a simple question. "Do we?"
I keep my voice quiet, childish and composed. In truth, I wanted to laugh at her and point out her incompetence. How has she managed to keep a leash on John these past few years? No wonder he cheated on her, she can't even give him a proper fuck. That display of sexual prowess (or lack thereof) last night was pitiful. I would have given John more than that. I can give him more than that.
"Yes we do. See, there are certain things that grown ups do that...children aren't supposed to see. And, uh, that was one of 'em," Her tone trails off awkwardly and she waits for a response from me.
For a brief moment, I contemplated bashing her face in with this easel. Repeatedly. The stupid bitch is disturbing my peace and serenity, I am an artist that enjoys quiet and I don't need pests like her bothering me during my work. I don't need some impotent, pathetic individual like her to lecture me either. As if I don't know the gritty inner workings of the world, when I am the last person that needs sheltering from it. Who is she to talk down to me? Her, the alcoholic crybaby who nearly drowned her own daughter in the pond. The soliloquy in her diary would have been touching if I had a heart. She is weak and it sickens me, just as it sickened me when she put on that pathetic display for a bunch of meaningless roses and a dead infant that she never even knew.
I was brilliant too, no? I put on the most compassionate and sincere face that I could muster, even though it was hard not to retch in disgust at her emotional breakdown. I fought the urge to tell her to be a real woman and to stop crying, but I had to keep up a charade. It took a lot of effort but I managed to get a tear in. Later on, I laughed so hard about it to myself. One good thing that came out of that little exchange? I discovered the source of her torment, and I relished at the sight of her in so much pain. I don't know why it excited me so much, but I had the urge to keep pushing the button even more by asking her what happened to the dead infant even though Max had already told me. That kind of pain always draws me in; it is the best kind of torture there is and one of the many reasons why I love playing mind games. I don't know why it makes me feel good to hurt someone like that, but I do take pleasure in their tears - almost as if I could see their soul breaking. I hope I get to see that from Kate when I get through with her.
I am so excited that I almost miss her calling me again.
"Esther, listen to me."
I turned around, I figured I might as well humour her.
"When grown ups love each other very, very much...they want to show it to each other, they want to express it," She attempted to explain, almost blubbering and I mask my amusement.
Time to fuck with her mind.
"I know. They fuck," I turned back around but not before seeing the look of astonishment on her face. I still want to take a carving knife to that idiot's face and slice her lips off.
Now she will be surprised at the knowledge that I have of sex, will probably tell John about it because she can never keep her fat lips closed and then the games would begin.
I smirked and turned my attention back to the masterpiece that I know will soon become a real life performance art.
Focus, patience and complexity, Leena.