M'aidez

Monica returns to Brunnhold to visit her family.

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Brunnhold's college town, located inside the university grounds.

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Monica Delacore
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Joined: Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:28 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: mind is willing, soul remains
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Mon Dec 24, 2018 7:39 pm

Idranis Residence | Dentis 25, 2718
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Monica had always hated the apartment tucked away in the Stacks, the humble residence her mother and father shared. The layout was permanently mapped into her mind; she could walk up the stairs into the apartment building and find her way into any room with her eyes closed. She knew every nook and cranny contained within the painted walls, the walls she and her mother had painted over countless times to cover every scratch and mark the professor made before he could even notice he'd done it. Not that he would've accepted responsibility for the damage, he fully believed he and his cane steered clear of the walls and the furniture and found it more believable that a young Monica had done it.

The twenty steps up to the front door made hardly a sound as she ascended, her steps light and ears very aware of the noise she made nonetheless.

It was a brief lapse in confidence that brought her to hesitate at the door, steeling herself before knocking firmly on the cold surface. Her field was dampened as much as possible, pulled close to her form and devoid of any negativity if she could help it. The blonde was a neutral, blank-slate when the door was opened in front of her, revealing an older red-headed woman.

"Monica," the woman greeted plainly, "welcome."

She could feel her mother's tension beneath her blank expression and hollow words. It had always been a permanent fixture in the older woman's demeanor.

"Please, come in. I'm making dinner."

A nod was the Seventen's only response, watching as her mother left the door to retreat inside, and following after her with a bit of caution. It had been... gods, six years since she'd returned to her parents' home, and she wasn't looking forward to her father's welcome. Light eyes flicked to each and every part of the rooms they passed until they came to the living room, slightly warmer from the fireplace in the wall, but it didn't stop Monica's hair from standing up on her arms when she caught sight of her father.

Not only him, but a child sitting on his knee, with a full head of red hair much like her own when she neglected to keep up the blonde. Monica's mouth opened to speak, but whether she had actually planned on saying something or not, she was stopped when her father spoke first.

"Monica, welcome home," greeted the professor, looking up to his eldest daughter from the chair he so comfortably rested in, "it's been too long. You've not met your sister yet, have you?"

The blonde managed to get a sound out, but it was more of a stutter, much to her father's disapproval.

"Have you?"

"I haven't," answered the woman softly, fingers freezing at her sides.

The professor took a breath, staring at his oldest for a moment longer before patting the child's back.

"Well don't be rude, Monica. Introduce yourselves."

"I didn't mean to--"

"Introduce yourselves; come dear, tell your sister your name."

The girl pushed herself off of their father's knee, approaching the officer with caution, little hands holding tightly onto the hem of her dress.

"Hello," started the girl, "I'm Heather."

Short sentences and quiet words were a staple of the women in the household, Monica finding her own whispered tone in her sister's voice. She slowly let herself lean down, both her own and her sister's faces devoid of expression or emotion as they greeted one another.

"I'm Monica. How old are you, Heather?"

"She's five," their father answered from the chair, his voice startling the child into the slightest of flinches, dark blue eyes darting to the floor and little arms crossing over her chest. The man either didn't notice or didn't care, his own blue gaze lifting over his daughters to glance into the hall, "Alana, is dinner ready yet? We don't want to make our little Seventen wait, now would we?"

Little Seventen. A chill crept down her spine, the woman standing up straight to address the man again, "don't worry about me, father."

"I'm not worrying. I'm starved. Come, let me see you," the professor shifted on his seat, coming to sit on the edge to get a better look at his oldest daughter. The blonde stepped across the room without question, stopping in front of her father and turning when he gestured for her to do so.

"Why're you in uniform? Those greens do nothing for your figure, Monica, are you trying to look like your mother? Good Lady."

Her light gaze fell to the side, avoiding eye contact and swallowing the lump in her throat.

"I didn't bring much else; the uniform is easy to keep clean and not worry about. I'm sorry, father."

A displeased grunt escaped the man's throat, rough hand motioning towards the hall.

"Go change. All your old clothes are in Heather's room--your old room."

Monica didn't hesitate, passing by the sister she hadn't even known about and exiting the room silently. She tread carefully into her old room--Heather's now, she supposed--and felt herself decompress as soon as the door was shut behind her.

Suddenly she found herself shaking from head to toe, every breath a struggle as she leaned against the door for a minute, attempting uselessly to calm herself down. Why had she agreed to visit? She hadn't traveled back to Brunnhold at any point after she had graduated and joined the Seventen; completing her training in Numbrey and leaving this place in the dust immediately after.

Why hadn't her mother mentioned Heather? She was five clocking years old now, and though Alana's letters were infrequent, not one had mentioned the birth of her sister. Gods, she wouldn't have come if she'd known. She didn't want to see her sister. She didn't want to see her flinch at their father's every word. She didn't want to know that she was so visibly abused.

She shouldn't have come.

It didn't take long for her to change. She found her old clothes in the same spot that she'd left them; tucked into the bottom drawers of the wardrobe while she assumed Heather's clothes filled the top. Besides her old Brunnhold uniform, her casual attire was folded neatly; all the clothing she had worn on her days off of school and after-hours. Living with a professor in the Stacks had ensured she never had to live on campus after her first few years, a fact that she had hated when she realized she was getting sent back home closer to graduation.

Nothing quite appealed to her, but she knew what her father liked, and this was why a simple sundress was pulled from the bottom drawer. It was too cold outside for such an outfit, but then, she wasn't going outside and her father wouldn't give a damn about her condition if she was. If he wanted her in a sundress, she would be stuck in a sundress.

Reluctantly the blonde removed her uniform, pulling the jacket from her shoulders without issue but found herself more hesitantly pulling the shirt underneath up and over her head. In her old room she felt exposed; pushing her trousers down smooth legs and off with her shoes. A shiver ran over her form, the woman catching sight of herself in the mirror and having to keep herself from gagging.

Her light gaze darted quickly away from her reflection, moving instead to the cream-colored sundress. Soft, cold fingers reached out and grabbed the fabric, turning it the proper direction before pulling the dress over her head. Though she hadn't worn it since she was a student, it still fit her form with ease, leaving her shoulders and part of her back exposed, not to mention the slight transparency of the fabric it had been crafted with.

A quiet knock on the door made the blonde jump, eyes darting to the noise and bile rising for a moment in her throat before hearing a little voice.

"Can I come in?" her sister requested, bringing Monica to step over and open the door.

Heather stepped into the room with haste, shutting the door behind her and making sure to do so gently, so as to not make a noise. The child, much like her older sister, seemed to fall apart as soon as the door was shut. She rushed towards the blonde, arms wrapping around Monica's waist in a tight, almost frightened embrace.

"H--uh, Heather, are you alright?"

Clearly she was not, but this wasn't exactly Monica's forte, dealing with someone's emotions. Awkwardly, she put her arms around the child, movements unsure and uncomfortable.

"Sister, he--he's so mean, he--"

"Shh!" hissed the Seventen, "he'll hear you."

The child went silent at once, drawing in her sobs so that she wordlessly shook against the older woman. Monica swallowed, giving the girl a stiff pat on the back before pushing gently away.

"Don't cry, Heather. He knows if you cry."

Monica had to pull the child's arms off of her, suddenly finding the touch to be too much, and her gaze hardened as she looked down upon the redheaded girl.

"You're going to make him mad at us both, girl, so you'd better wipe those tears off your face and look presentable."

It was all she said before opening the door again, exiting the room in favor of finding her way to the dining room, eyes perhaps a bit hazy but expression steeled.

She wasn't here to save anyone. Not her mother, not her sister.

Monica didn't care to save anybody but herself--and saving herself from her father meant muting herself and ignoring the continued abuse of her family that her mother so willingly allowed. She had always allowed it through Monica's childhood and clearly hadn't changed a thing for Heather.

Tears spilled in the apartment might as well have been dropped into the waves; invisible.

She was the first to arrive in the dining room, seating herself to the left of her father's chair, the man having always sat at the head of the table, and was followed soon after by Heather--still wiping at her eyes--and then Alana. Their mother set food platters across the table; an elegant feast that Monica was sure they were only having because of her long-awaited visit. Meals during her child and teenage years had been little more than whatever scraps she could grab off the floor--if her parents happened to drop them, of course.

It had given her such a lean and slender form. She should be grateful, her father had always said, she should be happy to be so fit without ever having to exercise.

The old professor entered the room with a heavy field, closed off from his family as he looked over them. Alana, who had sat across from Monica, was fixing a plate for the youngest child, while Monica sat still in her seat and awaited their father's instruction. What were they doing, getting their food before he had even sat down? Were they playing with her? Trying everything they could to enrage him during her visit? If Heather didn't stop with the occasional teardrop running down those rosy cheeks, did she know that the sadness would be beaten out of her until there were no tears left to cry?

She could feel the air around her growing heavier and heavier as their father approached, brushing a hand over Monica's shoulders as if in approval as he went past, sitting down with a huff. Alana was quick to offer him a plate full of food, having scrambled to collect it as he came to his seat, and the professor took it with an unsettled glance. It was clear to Monica when the man noticed Heather's dreary demeanor; no visible indications clear but she knew that little shift. In some men it was a twitching eyelid, in others a raised vein, she had always found these indicators quickly and made herself ever-aware of the disposition of the men around her.

"Heather, dear, why are you crying?" questioned Terrence, though his words came as more of an exasperated sigh, as if he was tired of the girl's sadness already.

"S-sorry, father, I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I'm just--I'm so happy to see sister."

The Seventen couldn't help but narrow her gaze at the child, glare lingering for only a moment before she looked to their father expectantly.

"Yes, Monica, eat. Go ahead," approved the man, beginning to eat from his own plate, "that dress looks way better, dear. I can't stand those uniforms of yours--walking into my house as if you hold the power of the law. Well I'll tell you, no law is above mine, not here. Not in my house."

"Yes father," agreed the blonde, finally grabbing food for her plate, careful to keep her portions small. The smell of roasted meats wafted through the dining room, and for the second time that night, she had to keep herself from gagging. She toyed only for a moment with the vegetables on her plate before bringing the fork to her mouth.

"So, Monica, how has life been?" her mother's question was about as hollow as anything else that came from the woman's mouth, but refusing to answer would bring more trouble than bringing up this fact.

"It's been fine, thank you," she began quietly, swallowing a mouthful of greens, "I was promoted to Constable Inspector this year."

"Wonderful."

The room was relatively silent for a bit as they ate, the professor occasionally looking up to observe his family while the other three kept their gazes fixed on their plates.

"Why are you eating like that?" the sudden question from Terrence forced Monica to glance up, "you're stuffing yourself with vegetables and leaving the meats to get cold."

Setting her fork down softly, Monica blinked, considering her next words carefully, "I don't eat meat, father, I'm sorry. You're right, I got too much food for me, I didn't mean to be wasteful."

"You don't intend on eating the roast that your mother slaved over all day? And why is that, Monica? Are you Seventen always so green because you waste good food and fatten yourselves on clocking greens?"

No, she didn't want this, this wasn't how she wanted the conversation to be going.

"No, father, I'm sorry--"

"By the gods, stop apologizing. Here," the man reached forward on the table, grabbing a chunk of roasted hingle between his old, calloused fingers. The professor wasted no time, pressing the meat against Monica's rosy, pursed lips, until she pushed another gag down and opened her mouth. Immediately it was pushed into her mouth, the taste of cooking oils and sweat-coated fingers on her tongue, said fingers pushing further into her mouth and down her throat until the chunk of hingle was swallowed whole.

Though her light eyes were red and expression vacant, she was quiet through the ordeal, and quiet as Terrence pulled his hand from her mouth and wiped the saliva from his fingers. As if nothing had happened at all, the old man grabbed his fork, returning to his meal.

"Any men in your life?"

Monica wanted to throw up--she was about to throw up, she was going to throw up right now--

"Monica? I asked you a question."

Suddenly she couldn't bury the gagging any longer; she could feel the cold air against her exposed back and shoulders, the raised red and white scars that spanned the back of her form felt as if they were going to expand and split her at each interval, her tongue wanted to cut itself from her mouth and drench itself in salt water just to rid itself of the taste of oil and sweat and intrusion. She heard a chair scrape against the wooden floor; her father pushing himself away from the table and pulling himself to stand with the support of his wooden cane. That wasn't what she wanted, this wasn't what she wanted--

The same old hand that had pushed into her mouth now grabbed at her blonde hair, taking it all into his hand in the form of a ponytail and tugging hard as he started to walk out of the dining room.

At first it was impossible to quiet herself, a pained, somehow still surprised yelp escaping the Seventen as she allowed herself to be tugged; picking herself up from her chair and following after her angered father.

Never loosening his grip on the woman's hair, Terrence brought her through the hall and into the living room. Finally he tossed her down to the floor, Monica falling hard onto the wooden surface as she heard her mother putting dishes into the sink in the kitchen. She made little effort to move, knowing her father's objective would then be to kick her back down, and did her best to keep her field from wobbling and falling into a state of total distress.

"Get the table," he commanded from above, leaving Monica to scramble across the floor to pull at the small table kept in front of their father's chair. It was typically used as just a surface to set his mugs and informal meals upon, but tonight he pushed his daughter onto it; the air knocked from her lungs at the sudden impact against her chest and stomach, knees already aching as her long legs rested on the cold floor.

"You didn't answer my question, Monica. Are there any men in your life?"

His question made her close her eyes; cheek pressed against the surface of the table, willing her mind to vacate her head.

"No father, just fellow officers. I haven--tagh!"

Wood slammed down against her soft skin, jolting her body forward in some instinctual need to escape, which earned her another lash from the cane.

Monica grit her teeth and was certain she would break them under the force, if she hadn't grown so used to keeping herself quiet growing up. She could feel two stretches of skin tingling and burning from where she had been lashed, the cream-colored sundress doing little to protect the marred and scarred skin on her back.

"You answer me when I speak to you, Monica," the man said from above, and she could hear a bedroom door close in the background, "I am your elder and your father. Understand?"

A frantic nod from the blonde on the table wasn't enough.

"I said do you understand me?"

"Yes, father, I understand," she whispered, "I'm sorry, father."

A hand pulled on the blonde locks again, pulling Monica backwards to stand--though shaking and slightly wobbly--back up. She was turned around, and all of a sudden she was pulled close to her father, enveloped in his arms in an embrace.

Perhaps in her younger days she would've cried about now. These days her eyes remained vacant and expression blank just the same, putting her arms around her father, wanting to flinch away but standing still as his rough old hands brushed against the new lashes on her back and the countless old. She wondered if Heather was brought into a warm embrace after each punishment, or if that was reserved only for her.

Heather didn't understand, not the way that she did. Heather didn't look at older men and find herself wondering if they would pull her close as their father did, not like Monica.

Heather would never be like her. Perhaps that was a good thing.

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