FIC : still images
[Title:] Still Images
[Setting:] AU. Modern day.
[Character(s):] Mireille
[Summary:] Surely she shall be the first to acknowledge the change in characterisation.
[Author's Notes:] Inspired by the prompt, "but don't leave me alone", functioning as the link between first and second half of this log. Warning for mention of domestic abuse.
She locks the door to the living room. The main one on the ground floor, next to the grand dining room that they reserve for entertaining official parties - usually Jean Louis’ colleagues. In all other instances, they make certain to meet the public in locations that are unrelated to all significant aspects of their private lives. Together… Then, she calls for a cab, realising only once she has hung up that the ride as well as the check-in at Mercure will display her current appearance to a vast collection of outsiders. The driver, the hotel staff from the management in the foyer, the piccolo summoned to the maid who will wish to clean her room in the morning. Despite an implicit demand for discretion, it will find its way to the tabloids, won’t it? If nothing else, then the mere fact that she has been accommodated in a hotel in her own city of residence.
A second later, she makes another call, in order to cancel before they have the time to engage a chauffeur. Her free hand still clutching the handle of the large suitcase. His.
***
The guest bathroom features a relatively humble shower; leaving no invitation to stay for any extended amount of time. Luxurious necessities, perhaps, but bare nevertheless. She bathes behind another locked door, the scalding hot water painting her skin a consistent shade of scarlet. It isn’t difficult to imagine that the watercolour tinge of black and blue, by now underlining her cheekbone, shan’t be visible at all, when she has finished applying her make-up. Masks are not deceitful in and by themselves, however. They are of surface value, certainly, but surface is substance too - if by a secondary definition.
Rouge Pur Couture becomes the natural choice of lipstick, amongst the limited selection she deemed essential while packing. Belle de Rose in stark contrast to the foundation of paleness which she has recovered, chemically. Pure red stitching, to mend little tears in frail fabric. Surely she shall be the first to acknowledge the change in characterisation.
He hit her, after all.
***
Remaining seated on the vintage divan that is truly too narrow to be comfortable, her posture rigid as a result, she observes how the night fades. Hands folded in her lap.
Across from her, the suitcase looks outwardly untouched, but the contents have been replaced in bits and pieces, because she had no desire to crawl back into beige. The auto mechanic will return her car from service in just a few hours, isn’t that so? As such, her options are utterly unrestricted, yet she feels no substantial desire to flee. It hurts, naturally. His act and her reaction both. Father would have wanted her to leave; as he wanted her to leave be before he died, but the present belongs to her alone. Jean Louis has crossed a border she was all but ignorant about - a mistake on both their behalves, but in reality she crossed it first.
It requires an undeniable degree of loyalty, of course. To follow. And a greater scale of the same, to stay.