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Monica goes blonde. TW for abuse.

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

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Monica Delacore
Posts: 48
Joined: Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:28 pm
Topics: 8
Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: mind is willing, soul remains
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
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Sun Mar 03, 2019 10:29 pm

DENTIS 6, 2709
IDRANIS RESIDENCE EVENING
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"It's not right, mom, it's not right!"

Her shout was hushed even so, Alana's hand rushing to cover Monica's defiant little mouth, her mother's expression growing ever-more frustrated with her daughter's antics by the minute.

"You've fried your poor hair beyond repair already, Monica," whispered the older woman, "do you have any idea what your father is going to think?"

The question quieted the girl, pale blue gaze flicking away from her red-headed mother and glancing into the mirror. It wasn't untrue; she hadn't done the best of jobs with her hair, typically curly red locks now nothing but gently-waved, frail blonde strands. She was certain that if she reached up and pulled, it would all fall right out.

"Why have you done this?" quietly inquired Alana, her own gaze looking now into the mirror to meet her daughter's, "why have you done this to us?"

"I haven't done anything to us, I'm just - I'm blonde now, I didn't do anything to us, mom."

"You're just blonde now? Monica, you can't just - you - why? Why?"

Monica swallowed the lump in her throat, eyes falling to stare at the counter, "I wan-I wanted to be pretty, mom, I just want--"

"Shh, stop," said Alana quickly, "stop, your father's home."

She had heard the front door open and close herself.

"You're going to go out there and show him. I'm not taking the blame for your chroveshit, Monica, I take enough of my own."

It was swiftly that her mother exited the bathroom, leaving Monica to stand restlessly, nervously, clearing her throat in an attempt to ground herself. Through the thin walls she could hear the uncaring greetings her parents gave; her mother throwing all irritation from her voice now that she spoke to her dear husband. Her father, meanwhile, sounded angered enough already - a bad day at the school, she knew, she had heard in her own classes that Professor Idranis had already had two meltdowns by lunch hour.

She didn't want to go out there.

"Monica!" her father's voice boomed loud through the small apartment, reaching through the bathroom with ease and settling uneasily into her bones.

"It's not polite not to greet your father, Monica."

He didn't even have to yell to be heard, not in such an otherwise silent place, and he didn't have to ask twice for Monica to hastily leave the bathroom behind and pad quietly through the hall. She entered the living room, head turning hesitantly to look into the kitchen and towards the front door. Her father stood expectantly, and though he didn't burst into flames at the sight of his daughter, his eyes did narrow, inspecting the change from the distance before beckoning her to come forward with his free hand.

"My, look what you've done," said the professor as his daughter approached, hand reaching out to grasp a lock of blonde hair; fingers smoothing against the fried strands.

"I'm sorry, father, sir," uttered the girl, eyes down, "I was stupid."

"Stupid? No, Monica, it's beautiful."

Blue eyes darted upwards, widened.

Beautiful. Beautiful? He thought it was beautiful?

She could almost hear her mother gag.

"No, it was a good move. Anaxi women are so plain, so red - you're like a good Gioran now, aren't you. You almost look like that pretty thing in school - what's her name? Miss D'Arthe?"

Monica swallowed, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks, "Charity?"

"Charity D'Arthe, right. She must be part Gioran, at least, she's got the nice eyes - too bad yours are blue, Monica. The blonde helps."

His fingers dropped what little he held of her hair, wordlessly finishing the conversation and stepping past his daughter, cane clicking against the wooden floor as he walked into the living room. Meanwhile Monica's eyes strayed back into the kitchen, catching her mother's eye, the frustrated, jealous glare she'd grown accustomed to in recent years.

"Has Monica told you about the Valentin boy, Terrence?"

Monica's heart dropped. It was as if time stood still and sped up all at once, her heart refusing to beat yet pounding in her chest all the same.

"What?" it was loud, louder than before, and Monica wanted to scream at her mother, wanted to run into the kitchen and knock her down, pound her fists into her face - "a boy, Monica?"

"No, father, there's no boy - I don't even know him, sir, I promise."

"Come in here now, Monica!"

She wanted to slap the smile from her mother's mouth.

"Now!"

It was no good to keep him waiting, she knew, and the young blonde silently did as requested of her, slipping into the living room to see her father hadn't even sat down yet. That was no good either. At least when he sat down he was more relaxed, at ease - her mother had caught him before he'd even done that, the absolute bitch, and she did it knowing full well that the professor's anger would turn on her as soon as he was satisfied with Monica's punishment.

"Father, there is no boy, I promise, sir -"

"Shut your head," snapped Terrence, "of course there's a boy, why else would you suddenly care about your clocking hair? Who is it? She said Valentin?"

Shaking her head, Monica found it difficult to keep still, "no, sir, not - there isn't any -" a slap across her pale face was enough to shut her up, the professor's cane falling to the floor, unneeded, useless, disguising. The girl raised a hand to her cheek, tears welling in blue eyes as they refused to meet her father's. A calloused hand grabbed her chin, pulling her head upwards to force her gaze; force her attention.

"Stop crying," demanded the galdor, "have you learned nothing? You stupid girl, gods, stupid girl. It was my mistake to think of you as a pretty little Gioran like Charity instead of a stupid, towheaded schoolgirl, so I apologize for my dire mistake, but Sweet Lady, what are you becoming?"

His disgust was tangible in the spit on her face.

"If this is what you want - a boy, changing yourself for him - then go right ahead, Monica, but don't come crawling back to me when you're hooked on King's Crop and expecting that boy's moony spawn! Is that what you want? Do you want to give your life up, Monica? Do you want to disappoint me? Do you want to hurt me?"

"Father please, p-please fa-fath -"

"I am NOT DONE SPEAKING AND YOU WILL ADDRESS ME AS SIR, MONICA, what in clocking hell has gotten into you, you foolish girl! I am your father and you will not defy me, do you understand?"

Monica's eyes struggled to keep clear; struggled to keep tears from falling down her cheeks, struggled to keep composure in the face of her angry, screaming father, struggled inwardly at the painful grip he had on her slender arms, pressing hard into her skin as if she were a lifeline. She struggled to nod, struggled to stop the shaking in her skin, struggled to keep her eyes focused on the professor's; so full of rage, so full of disappointment, so full of hatred.

A moment later and she was thrown to the ground, slender body hitting the wooden floor with a loud thump, the girl biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from shouting at the sudden impact.
,
"I -" a cough escaped her lungs, before she continued on from her place lying on the floor, "I'm sorry, sir, I'm so - I'm so sorry, I didn't - I'm not - there isn't a boy, sir, I promise, I just - I just wanted to be pretty like - like - like Cha-ch-Charity, fa-s-sir, sir, I'm - I'm sorry, I j - I just wanted to be like Charity," her hands, beginning to bruise lightly from taking the impact of her fall, raised to cover her face in embarrassment and shame.

"I just wanted to be like Charity," repeated Monica, her words twisted with pain, light on the outside but so, so heavy within, "but I - I can't, I'm not... I'm not."

Her father stood above her, back straight without the use of his needless black cane. He observed her with a narrowed green gaze, considering her words, considering his response.

"Fine," he snapped, "then you'll be Charity."

Leaning down only slightly, Terrence offered out a hand, and Monica peered through her fingers at the gesture before reaching out to accept his help. He pulled her from the floor with an unforgiving grasp, directly into a tight embrace - Monica could feel her mother's eyes burning through the back of her head - and his daughter slipped pale arms around him in return.

"Now," began the professor, quieter now as he hugged his daughter, "let's go fix those eyes, shall we?"

Monica sniffed, a small laugh of what sounded like joy escaping her.

"Thank you."

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