Blood drips on asphalt. Blood drips on concrete. The body pays it no mind.
——————
Oh look it’s the one other Stepford Wife beside Rachel who has lines in the script!! That’s the one thing I wish I could change without having to scrap it and start over to be fair, because even in the source material the other Stepford Wives had loads of lines, but then again I wanted to avoid overstuffing it with more characters than it needed.
I originally conceived of this character as a cis woman, but then I thought a little more about the conversion therapy aspect of the present day Stepford Wife method and I figured it’d make a little more sense for this character to be nonbinary. One thing I worked in is the idea of certain characters’ paths crossing before the story even takes place. There was a couple called the Cornells in the originals so I’m thinking the guy who kidnapped Ellie is the adult son of the Cornells, if they even had kids. I didn’t find a mention of any kids in the book so maybe I’ll have to watch the film again?
ETA: since reading the book again AND rewatching the film i just decided to go ahead and make shit up anyway
——————
Ellie, The Punk
Sitting at the vanity table in the master bedroom, Mrs Cornell finishes wiping away the makeup from her face with a gentle cleansing cream. She turns her head to one side, then another, before she raises a hand to the deep gash on her forehead - she can’t remember how it got there, but if she sweeps her bangs across her forehead just right, then she should be able to keep it hidden from her husband.
A knock at the front door from downstairs pulls her from her thoughts. Slowly she stands up, slipping on a sheer feather trim robe over her pink satin negligee, and starts to wish she hadn’t taken her makeup off as she heads downstairs. Adam doesn’t like to see her without it. With a deep breath, she carefully opens the door.
Why is she relieved that it’s not Adam?
“Hey, uh… Evelyn Cornell, right?” says the red-haired woman on the front porch.
She seems nice enough, so Mrs Cornell invites her inside with a smile. Even in her nightclothes, she can’t help but feel a little overdressed next to her guest, who’s draped in clothes much too big for her, presumably hand me downs from her own husband. Pouring a glass of lemonade from the pitcher in the fridge, Mrs Cornell goes to hand it to the woman, who’s looking at a sheet of paper, then back at her face.
“Oh my god,” she gasps. “I think I saw you at one of my shows…”
Mrs Cornell doesn’t even feel herself dropping the glass, nor does she hear it shattering at her feet.
The glass windshield shatters on impact and the airbag deploys, the force of the collision jolting Ellie forward against the dashboard and back into the theater. “No, no, no, no, no, GODDAMMIT, NO!!!” they wail, watching their body stumble out of the car, its legs unsteady like a newborn fawn, and collapse to its knees outside the pharmaceutical store. It looks up, and someone is rushing over – some skinny guy in what looks like a Hawaiian shirt tucked into cuffed drainpipes, looking like he hasn’t slept right in years, and it’s only when he kneels down beside it does Ellie get a better look at his face.
“Ma’am, are you okay??” he says urgently, resting his hands on its shoulders. He’s… handsome, in a fucked up and dishevelled Dr House kind of way, but Ellie’s gaydar blares loudly, which is fine by them. They never want a man to look at them the way Adam Cornell does ever again.
The words leave their body’s lips in wavering, stilted tones. “Oh dear… silly me,” it replies, as if it hadn’t just driven a car into a fucking lamppost. “I really ought. To be more? Careful–”
“You just crashed your fucking car, what are you talking about?!?” he cries out in disbelief. “We’ve gotta get you to a hospital, lady!”
Blood drips on asphalt. Blood drips on concrete. The body pays it no mind. “Oh my, aren’t. You a gentleman I, just— hope my. Husband won’t be too up. Set if he sees. Me talking. To you?” it giggles, lifting a hand to the guy’s shoulder, as if it wants to touch his chest… What the fuck? Why does it sound like it’s been fucking lobotomized?
He pushes its hand back down to its side, not too roughly, but just enough to establish a boundary. “Are you kidding me? You’re literally BLEEDING,” he says as he pulls out his phone. “Screw this, I’m calling 911.”
Ellie watches in frustration as their body insists it’s fine, just a little clumsy, as if it’s reciting some pre-rehearsed script, one built into its programming to ward off any suspicion. Nice fucking job, body. “Uh, yeah, hey, there’s been a car accident outside Stepford Pharmaceuticals,” the man says into his phone. “I’m with the driver now, she’s got a pretty bad cut on her forehead, like, right by her hairline.”
In the distance Ellie just barely sees another man standing outside the store, tall and brown, dark wavy hair swept to one side over his shoulder, bronze eyeshadow glimmering in the midday sun as he stares dumbfounded at the scene before him. Must be a friend of the skinny guy. Or something more, maybe? Ellie doesn’t care to speculate any further over the nature of their relationship as the guy cries out in exasperation into his phone, “Well, how long’s it gonna take?!”
All the while, the body tries to rise to its feet. “You’re. Too kind, but I! Really should get… going,” it stammers. “It’s awfully? Late and my – husband really doesn’t like. Being kept, waiting especially? Not for. DINNER—?!”
“No, no, no, don’t try to stand up!” he urges as he holds it steady by its shoulders, looking around him anxiously. “The ambulance should be here soon, just wait with me a second.”
Then the sirens ring out from nearby.
Ellie’s heart drops into their stomach. Those are police sirens.
Their body is roughly dragged to its feet by a cop. It stays limp and unresponsive as he hauls it across asphalt, shoves it into the back of a squad car and slams the door shut.
The note… did he find the note?!
“Did he get the note?!” Ellie gasps, stumbling backwards, and Roxxi fucking Riot from Disaffectress of all people holds onto their upper arms to keep them from falling. “The guy who called the ambulance, the– the skinny guy, I had a note–”
Roxxi’s face softens. “You met him too, huh?” she smiles fondly. “Zach Taylor, the journalist?”
Ellie can’t help but choke out a laugh. This whole thing is so fucking bizarre. Who knew that the guitarist of a band they saw at an underground punk bar a whole lifetime ago, with a fake ID and an urge to blow off some steam, was practically living just a couple blocks away from them? They have to laugh to keep from breaking down in tears. They don’t even want to think about what the Men’s Association did to Roxxi Riot. “He can’t be from Stepford, right?” Ellie chuckles. “He’s too nice.”
“Yeah, he’s a Manhattan guy,” Roxxi laughs, rubbing at the back of her neck. “I kinda feel bad for leaving him at that shitty mansion, but… he’s got friends. And I think he hooked up with Arthur from the café too.”
“Good for him,” Ellie laughs. “Wait, you’re… you’re Roxxi Riot, right? From Disaffectress?”
Roxxi’s eyes sparkle, proving beyond a doubt that she’s finally back in her own body. “Yeah! That’s me,” she grins. “Weren’t you at the show at, uh…”
“Clockwork on Essex Street? Yeah! You guys were fuckin’ sick! I’d just started at NYU, I’m from Atlantic City originally, but I kinda snuck in with a fake ID.” Ellie trails off, suddenly ashamed, but mercifully Roxxi giggles again, patting them on the shoulder.
“Hey, I won’t tell if you don’t,” she says. “Listen, I’ve been pointing a bunch of the other women to the train station. You go find them, get on the next train to New York and get as far away from Stepford as you can. Make sure you get that cut patched up too, it looks pretty bad.”
This must be a fever dream come true. Being rescued from a loveless marriage by a punk musician almost sounds like some bizarre adolescent fantasy, but this is Ellie’s reality, and they’re eternally fucking grateful for it. “Thank you, Roxxi,” they whisper.
“Hey,” Roxxi smiles, pulling them into a tight hug. “Call me Rachel. Maybe I’ll see you on our next tour.”
Then, in the blink of an eye, Roxxi – no, Rachel hops into the station wagon parked outside and speeds off down the road to be the next girl’s salvation.
———
Later, the pink satin negligee and the sheer feather trim robe lie discarded on the bathroom floor. Ellie D’Amico steps out onto the landing, their hair shaved into a Chelsea cut, slips on the oversized jacket over their shoulders, and instinctively pats the pocket of their baggy jeans, sighing with relief when they hear the familiar jingle of the car keys inside. They head down the staircase, turn toward the kitchen, see Adam Cornell collapsed on the floor practically puking his guts out, heaving and sobbing as the antifreeze works its way into his system, and they thank whatever the fuck is up there that it’s not detectable in lemonade.
“I’m going out,” Ellie announces to nobody as they open the front door, turning their back on their abductor. “Don’t wait up for me.”
Through bleary eyes Adam stares back at them incredulously, almost pleading with them silently, and Ellie flips him off before they step out into the night and shut the door.
Comments
Post a Comment