FIC : sign language in shades of red
[Title:] sign language in shades of red
[Setting:] AU. Modern day.
[Character(s):] Mireille Duroc, Jean Louis Duroc.
[Summary:] Her provocations are never intentional. Neither are the blows they earn her.
[Warning(s):] Mentions of domestic violence.
The door is safely shut. Carefully locked. Although she can’t hear him, from the master suite on the other side, she is intimately familiar with his routine. Her own as well. While he undresses, she claims the bathroom for sanctuary; washes her face, removing the mask of the day. Underneath, the pain lingers - she’s neither bruised nor blue yet, the signs are never so obvious, but her cheek smarts with a definite edge to the imprint he’s left on her, skin reddened once she wipes off the rouge. The colour breaking through the thin layers blushes in an all too similar colour.
She is well aware that he never means to hit her. Recalls how he rarely hits her more than once and always with a flat hand. Oh, she is no fool. Despite her profession, she nurtures no habit of wrapping the given circumstances in poetics, cotton and lace. Spousal abuse comes in various shapes, tied infrangibly to the individuals involved and is, at the root, ethically indefensible. Without exceptions. Except, perhaps in her own case.
All considerations aside, she has ceased keeping count, hasn’t she? It is not an everyday occurrence. A monthly mishap, rather, as if they both accumulate their respective, quiet frustrations while the days pass them by, until the waves inevitably break. He loses control and she makes him do so. Allows him the cause and herself the effect.
Like he, she doesn’t mean to. Her provocations are never intentional and the blows they earn her are unintentional too. Of course, neither of them is willing to compromise, to change for the sake of something so essentially random. As he prefers to hold the reigns in clenched fists, she cannot simply refrain from questioning the direction in which he is steering them and the country in extension. They have reflected one another from the very beginning, long before Father died. Yet, reflections are not merely a display of similarities, but also opposing images. Left being right and right wrong.
The lipstick leaves trails of crimson on the facecloth. Her wrists still bear faint traces of Opium, as it is usual on days when she wears any shade of red - an ironic remark in this context. Then, creams to cool her skin, numbing it effectively. Erasing the pain from within, if not removing it entirely. The ritual brushing of her hair will buy her the quarter of an hour extra. Once she returns from her self-imposed exile, he will sleep with her, ensure that she climaxes. In the days to follow, he will reserve his valuable time for her alone and hardly leave her side at all.
Another month will run its course, perhaps two and the circle be complete when the next slap strikes. Beautiful in its sheer regularity. Being an analyst by nature and education both, this is an aspect which she can, at least, appreciate. For its form, not its content.
No. The hitting will most likely not come to an end with the accident of tonight, she knows. Men who resort to violence do not stop out of love, because the violence in itself holds an existentially twisted expression of affection, isn’t that so? Affection in abundance. And if the abuse doesn’t stop… Well, love shall simply have to bear it. The pain fades, eventually, until she finds herself able to easily push it in between the lines of their overall relation. Underlying messages are not to be ignored, certainly, but surface reading has its undeniable merits.
Thus, she finishes her toilette. Switches off the lights before unlocking and opening the door, letting the darkness fall over her mind.
It is indeed a dark part of her, the one which takes pride in not walking away. As Baudelaire predicted a century ago, she turns back to the path of filth gladly. Jean Louis has not forced upon her this need she has for him, after all - it was and continues to be a conscious choice she has made. Betraying that resolve would be the ultimate show of weakness. More so than living through a blushing sting; a five-minute humiliation.
Surely, resignation is not such a high price to pay.