Re: The Lieutenant/The Daughter
All families were complicated. That was a lesson Frances had learnt young. She knew how conditional love was. As long as you did what you were told, you could be cherished. But, dare to have your own thought? Then you didn't deserve any of it. She liked to think her own love, if and when she gave it, wouldn't be dangled on a hook like a worm. It would be whole, by itself. She'd never had a chance to try it. She was young enough, though, or, hell, naïve enough (in her way), that she still hoped she would. And damn anyone who got in her way.
Damn the dark, too. Because she was tripping into it. Arms outstretched, bare skin feeling the unslaked cold, she caromed off of someone's trunk with an, "Oof!" A dark heel skipped over the white toe of her shoe, streaking it with rubber that would earn her ire later, and Frances stumbled another half-step. This time, at least, the soldier was behind her and his hand was on her hip. The rectangle of light, the room's sole illumination, closed, thinning to a sliver, then to nothing. The door was closed. And just like that, the baggage car was a coffin again and everything was too close.
Frances turned on her shoe. Her hands went up. She wasn't trying to snare him in an embrace. Instead, her palms went to his chest as she tried to use him to steady herself. "Damnit!" A curse word. How intrepid was she? On the small stalk of her legs, she straightened. She tossed her hair over her shoulder as she did it. Then, with a breath that mingled with his due to lack of space, she spoke: "What's even in here?" Feeling all the more impertinent for the darkness, she tacked on a question. "And what's your name?"