Rosine Love | Rosier (vermillion_rose) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-09-27 18:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | rosier |
Who: Rosier (vermillion_rose), Spots, Peter & Meredith Simmons [NPCs]; narrative, part two of who-knows-how-many.
Where: Home. Safe?
When: September.
Warnings: Nondescript death.
Everyday, one of them halts and looks at the child and thinks it is time to hand her over to social services. But then, each and both notice how happy she looks, how she rejoices in the small things and comforts of their home. Sometimes, she stares off into the distance, eyes caught in nothing, mind seemingly adrift. It is in those moments that Meredith digs her nails into the doorjamb, fighting every fiber of her being that tells her to go and comfort the little girl. Peter and her own common sense advise her not to get too attached; eventually - one day - they will give her up. Marjorie is not their child. (Meredith swallows her tears, like she does every month, battling her sorrow and her husband's much-too-numb "for fuck sake's Peter say something" indifference.)
Instead, Meredith watches little Marjorie reach out to the puppy. Spots has no troubling notions holding him back from devotion to the little redhead princess who is the center of his world, his playmate night and day and inbetweens. ("Shouldn't she be attending school?" "But what would we say? We can't lie.")
"We can't keep him, Mere." Peter looked across the kitchen at his wife, but she avoided his gaze. "What if the landlord drops by, what then?"
"We could say he belongs to a relative..." she began feebly.
"You know that won't work, love." He crossed the distance between them, leaning back against the counter to slip an arm around Meredith's shoulders.
"She needs him, Pete."
"We could lose the house. We can't afford it now."
As the couple held on tightly to each other, as if the answer would appear magically if they just stayed immobile for a while longer, they did not see the small shadow outside the kitchen door, nor did they hear the pitter-patter of naked feet as they retraced their little steps.
The next morning, Spots was dead.