01 ↝ When Doves Cry
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
{ 949 Beulah Street. Good morning! }
[There are a few things horrifically wrong when she wakes up. For one, the thread count of the comforter rubbing against what little bare skin she claimed was low. So very low. Under 500.
Secondly, and this bothered her more, there was a random man laying sound asleep. In fact, he’s so out of it the quiet sound of breathing was the only thing assuring Cosette that he indeed alive. This was not as comforting as one might think, and looking around at the foreign room her nerves were sadly left frazzled to say the least. She needed to… just, sneak. Get away from her ‘husband’ (though it wasn’t clicking in her head that this stranger was her betrothed). Previous experience had her familiar with competently slinking away; the bedsprings barely giving a groan as she slid from the covers.
There was more wrong with this picture. Her glasses were missing (realized after a fervent search through the nightstand) and what she was wearing was positively garish. A modest girl, Cosette was. Modesty was not a moo moo. Bizarre... She made a worried sound in her throat, lips thinning in to a determined line as she walked toward the bedroom door.
Out in the hallway there were a few modest looking doors closed to her. Fortunately the first one she opened was merely a bathroom and nothing horribly shocking. Flipping on the light switch she peered around and caught a glimmer of something in the mirror out of the corner of her eyes.
She turned.
She came face to face with a sight that she had not seen since she was younger. Her hair, which she considered a masterpiece if she did say so herself - was tightly rolled in to curlers. She hadn’t known all of that hair could still get in to curlers. For a moment she merely gaped at her reflection, taking it all in.
And then she screamed like a woman possessed.
If there’s a tree outside filled with pretty birdies they have taken flight. Coyotes are howling. The bottles of milk waiting on her doorstep unbeknownst to her have shattered, sizzled, and that was that. Clutching at the sink to keep herself steady, she lamented - sadly at the same ear-throbbing pitch]
Mon dieu; I am hideous!
[Cosette needed to find help and find it immediately. The young woman, a bit unconcerned with keeping quiet now, rushed down to the main floor of the house she’d woken up in. The old rotary style phone sitting innocently enough caught her attention and she’s punching in numbers without knowledge of whom she will find.]
{ Hey. Hey. Pick up your phone. }
H-Hello? I … well I apologize for calling whomever you are but I need help. Immediately. [a little firmer] At once.
I am unsure about where I am but this has to be some perverse mistake!
[Why no, she’s so tunnel vision that she hasn’t noticed all of the pictures of her with that guy and two kids because she may begin hyperventilating if she does. As it were, the phone is meeting an unpleasant morning with her vice-like grip.]
Please help me. Is this a joke? Please let it be some foolish joke.
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
{ 949 Beulah Street. Good morning! }
[There are a few things horrifically wrong when she wakes up. For one, the thread count of the comforter rubbing against what little bare skin she claimed was low. So very low. Under 500.
Secondly, and this bothered her more, there was a random man laying sound asleep. In fact, he’s so out of it the quiet sound of breathing was the only thing assuring Cosette that he indeed alive. This was not as comforting as one might think, and looking around at the foreign room her nerves were sadly left frazzled to say the least. She needed to… just, sneak. Get away from her ‘husband’ (though it wasn’t clicking in her head that this stranger was her betrothed). Previous experience had her familiar with competently slinking away; the bedsprings barely giving a groan as she slid from the covers.
There was more wrong with this picture. Her glasses were missing (realized after a fervent search through the nightstand) and what she was wearing was positively garish. A modest girl, Cosette was. Modesty was not a moo moo. Bizarre... She made a worried sound in her throat, lips thinning in to a determined line as she walked toward the bedroom door.
Out in the hallway there were a few modest looking doors closed to her. Fortunately the first one she opened was merely a bathroom and nothing horribly shocking. Flipping on the light switch she peered around and caught a glimmer of something in the mirror out of the corner of her eyes.
She turned.
She came face to face with a sight that she had not seen since she was younger. Her hair, which she considered a masterpiece if she did say so herself - was tightly rolled in to curlers. She hadn’t known all of that hair could still get in to curlers. For a moment she merely gaped at her reflection, taking it all in.
And then she screamed like a woman possessed.
If there’s a tree outside filled with pretty birdies they have taken flight. Coyotes are howling. The bottles of milk waiting on her doorstep unbeknownst to her have shattered, sizzled, and that was that. Clutching at the sink to keep herself steady, she lamented - sadly at the same ear-throbbing pitch]
Mon dieu; I am hideous!
[Cosette needed to find help and find it immediately. The young woman, a bit unconcerned with keeping quiet now, rushed down to the main floor of the house she’d woken up in. The old rotary style phone sitting innocently enough caught her attention and she’s punching in numbers without knowledge of whom she will find.]
{ Hey. Hey. Pick up your phone. }
H-Hello? I … well I apologize for calling whomever you are but I need help. Immediately. [a little firmer] At once.
I am unsure about where I am but this has to be some perverse mistake!
[Why no, she’s so tunnel vision that she hasn’t noticed all of the pictures of her with that guy and two kids because she may begin hyperventilating if she does. As it were, the phone is meeting an unpleasant morning with her vice-like grip.]
Please help me. Is this a joke? Please let it be some foolish joke.