Character Sketch - Cutter

13. "Cutter." Yes, that is the only word I had in my notes.

James Windborne was left on Martin Windbourne's doorstep as a mere babe, squalling as every child should, ignored as no child should be. The thatched handbasket, handwoven, was lined with cotton balls and newspapers. That as-of-yet unnamed child continued to fuss, and as Martin picked up the flimsy basket, and then picked up the child, placing it in the crook of his blacksmith's right arm, he smiled. Tickled at the thought of raising a child, Martin decided to adopt the boy. Did it matter that his barren wife would likely raise a fuss at this child, this black child so obviously not theirs? Wouldn't the child probably enjoy a better life with the nuns, or really, with not a blacksmith? Maybe it didn't matter. After all, they chose Martin's house. How many of the black families even interacted with the other side of town? Martin was the closest thing to an intermediary.

As if that all wasn't enough, James was a girl.

Growing up in segregated Georgia, separated from the people that understood her, forced to interact with the people that would not have her, she grew up very alone. To combat this, Martin put her to work at the anvil. A mere girl of eight, working alongside much burlier, older men. This was her childhood, at first helping to shoe horses, bringing equipment to and fro. Later, She learned to shape the iron and steel to her will, laboriously, slowly, surely. Say what you will about James, she never lacked for patience. How could she, working in a smithy?

Sometimes, as she read the stories of princesses, with their long, flowing, golden hair, and she uncurled her kinked, short, raven hair, James dreamt of being saved by her prince. Then, she would turn the page, see his white face smiling blandly into the distance, and cry.

As times grew tight, and there was less and less need for functional horse shoeing, and the hired hands started falling away, James lost her small group. Not really friends, not really family, but they were all she had. It took a while, but eventually it came down to Martin and James, while Stella taught middle school. Stella brought home the majority of the money, which only weighed heavier on Martin. Martin never abused James, but Martin also hurt, and it came out in everything that he did. James picked up on it, and adopted the stress.

No matter how much you try to repress something, it'll manifest in some way. For James, her only role models a stressed out father and a mother that didn't like her, she turned to pain to feel in control. Simple cuts, but over time, exposing more than just flesh. They were a way for James to reveal herself to the world, even if no one saw it. She felt like she could control this.

Martin died of a heart attack at his anvil, just as he would have wanted. Two days later, James packed up his favorite hammer, her clothes and what little money he'd bequeathed her, and left for the hopefully more progressive North. The farewell was less than overwhelming:

James: Well.
Stella: Well.
James: Goodbye.
Stella: Safe travel.

Not even a handshake. Those were the last words she spoke to her mother figure.

The cutting didn't stop, but James did start to notice how other people had scars and she didn't. Despite her constant slicing, her thighs were still smooth. It hurt desperately, but never left a physical scar.

When she stepped off the train in New York, she'd gone but a few blocks when someone had flung themselves from a building and cratered a few feet next to her. James walked over to the obviously dead body, and touched it. The man coughed and sputtered, then screamed from deep down. James jumped back, and almost immediately, the wailing ceased.

She found a job in a butchery. Not so hard when the man saw her over-developed right arm, saw her precision and striking skill. Of course, she had to stay in the back where no one could see her, and unbeknownst to her, she was paid less than minimum wage, but he also kept a room upstairs in which she stayed for forty percent of her weekly wage. The best deal she was probably going to find.

So she'd continued to live her life, keeping to herself, wondering what if, occasionally holding the slabs too long, and feeling them squirm in her fingers.

Thirty years passed like that, until the government found this elderly woman, still working in the butcher's shop, working her finely honed skills, having outlived the previous owner.

James has the disproportionate right arm of a smith. She has gained some weight over the years, but remains a muscular, powerful woman. Her face is coarse, from years of work in the heat. It is not that James can't be happy, but she chooses not to be happy, because there has been so little of it in her life. The woman says little, but tends to make her words count when she does speak. In addition, having little experience with interacting with other people, she tends to be quite blunt, lacking tact.