Recovery (3/3)interrobamAugust 17 2012, 18:01:58 UTC
And of course, of course the goddamned priest she had fucked back when he wasn't technically a rapist, back when she didn't know better and thought everything might work out if the kid was her blood this time, came out from the door behind her. Of course he didn't just walk into the street, just ignore her, but instead stood there staring like a deer in her highbeams.
“Hey.” She muttered. She remembered the first time they met: the instant hatred they had shared. Her an unmarried mother, the epitome of the manipulative harpy he saw in every woman on the street, a tricky minx with features that were decidedly not Caucasian. Him a stogy rich man, with a gaze so close to that of the predator she could never convict (like the “lying harpy” she had worn a shirt that showed her stomach, she hadn't fought hard enough, she didn't need to hire a lawyer to know the verdict), a stickler for propriety and nuclear families.
Yet there was the dignity, a sort of composure they shared. There was the stiff, unyielding refusal to admit to the crimes they had in common. Slowly they had come to gain each other's respect: slowly she had begun to pretend he wasn't like the monsters of her past, slowly he had forgiven her for crimes she had yet to commit against his manhood. If they hadn't gotten accidentally drunk together, if she hadn't brought him to the halfway house, the room where her former roommate had hung herself from the rafters, they could have had something substantial. Probably. Possibly. Frollo smoothed his shirt, he still looked out of place in civilian clothing.
“Hello.”
“I heard your boy visited you.” Frollo shrugged.
“The hack he's seeing told him it was important to 'confront' me.”
“Poor baby.” She wasn't referring to Quasimodo. Frollo was gratefully aware of this. “For what it's worth, I can't even get a supervised visit with my daughter.” Frollo shot a long, steady look at her cigarette. She wondered if he was trying to remember the taste.
“For what it's worth, I think you would be a wonderful mother.” Gothel smiled slow and dreamy. How did he always know the perfect thing to say?
“Hey.” She muttered. She remembered the first time they met: the instant hatred they had shared. Her an unmarried mother, the epitome of the manipulative harpy he saw in every woman on the street, a tricky minx with features that were decidedly not Caucasian. Him a stogy rich man, with a gaze so close to that of the predator she could never convict (like the “lying harpy” she had worn a shirt that showed her stomach, she hadn't fought hard enough, she didn't need to hire a lawyer to know the verdict), a stickler for propriety and nuclear families.
Yet there was the dignity, a sort of composure they shared. There was the stiff, unyielding refusal to admit to the crimes they had in common. Slowly they had come to gain each other's respect: slowly she had begun to pretend he wasn't like the monsters of her past, slowly he had forgiven her for crimes she had yet to commit against his manhood. If they hadn't gotten accidentally drunk together, if she hadn't brought him to the halfway house, the room where her former roommate had hung herself from the rafters, they could have had something substantial. Probably. Possibly. Frollo smoothed his shirt, he still looked out of place in civilian clothing.
“Hello.”
“I heard your boy visited you.” Frollo shrugged.
“The hack he's seeing told him it was important to 'confront' me.”
“Poor baby.” She wasn't referring to Quasimodo. Frollo was gratefully aware of this. “For what it's worth, I can't even get a supervised visit with my daughter.” Frollo shot a long, steady look at her cigarette. She wondered if he was trying to remember the taste.
“For what it's worth, I think you would be a wonderful mother.” Gothel smiled slow and dreamy. How did he always know the perfect thing to say?
“I do my best.”
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Thank you so much! Your writing is amazing!
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