Éponine's Not-So-Abandoned Warehouse, Sunday Morning
This was far from the first time Éponine had ever slipped away from some strange place in the middle of the night. It was, however, possibly the first time she hadn't simply pretended to be asleep while she waited for the opportunity to get away (and steal something on her way out if she could), and that was the part that had her so confused as she emerged from the bathroom and curled up in her bed with a bottle of -- something, she wasn't sure what, she'd just grabbed it from her stash without looking.
One of the parts, anyway.
God knew she'd come home after nights like that with worse than a few bruises and welts -- she had the scars to attest to that -- but there was a world of difference between inviting it the way she'd done last night, and enduring it only because she knew it meant she'd be able to afford to eat for a day or two and not have to come home if she didn't want to, which made those nights a marginally better option than having Papa beat her for disobeying. She could guess what had prompted her behavior from the bite marks on her ankle; she certainly wouldn't have actively sought out anything like that otherwise. (For one, asking for something usually meant she had reasonable expectations of someone giving it to her, and she wasn't typically that optimistic.) She certainly wouldn't have trusted anyone enough to do it. Honestly, trusting anyone that way was stupid, and it only ever led to trouble.
Except it hadn't, had it? Or was she only imagining that?
Getting praised for a job well done -- she always craved that kind of attention. Being punished for doing something wrong . . . that was something she always felt she deserved, too, except when it felt more like a reward than anything else, she wasn't sure what to make of that.
She thought it seemed like a nice thing. She couldn't say for certain, though, and she definitely couldn't find the words to explain if she ever had to, which she hoped she never would. All she knew was that she simultaneously felt safer and more lost than she had in a while.
Drinking herself into a stupor after one of those nights was normal, too. Granted, before it had always been a way to forget, not to avoid being as confused as she was right now, but either way it gave her a reason not to have to think. She spent far too much time with her own thoughts as it was, and she got very tired of their company.
[OOC: Cut AND WARNED for a whole slew of issues, if only mentioned briefly: references to past parental abuse and prostitution/dubious sexual consent, as well as current alcoholism and general self-destructive tendencies. Not kidding. The girl's a mess. I apologize so much for this coming out of a cracky gremlin bite, but I can't really resist an interesting character development opportunity. Let's call the drinking part NFB, though.
Will be AFK on and off for the next few hours, but can be open if you don't mind SP.]
One of the parts, anyway.
God knew she'd come home after nights like that with worse than a few bruises and welts -- she had the scars to attest to that -- but there was a world of difference between inviting it the way she'd done last night, and enduring it only because she knew it meant she'd be able to afford to eat for a day or two and not have to come home if she didn't want to, which made those nights a marginally better option than having Papa beat her for disobeying. She could guess what had prompted her behavior from the bite marks on her ankle; she certainly wouldn't have actively sought out anything like that otherwise. (For one, asking for something usually meant she had reasonable expectations of someone giving it to her, and she wasn't typically that optimistic.) She certainly wouldn't have trusted anyone enough to do it. Honestly, trusting anyone that way was stupid, and it only ever led to trouble.
Except it hadn't, had it? Or was she only imagining that?
Getting praised for a job well done -- she always craved that kind of attention. Being punished for doing something wrong . . . that was something she always felt she deserved, too, except when it felt more like a reward than anything else, she wasn't sure what to make of that.
She thought it seemed like a nice thing. She couldn't say for certain, though, and she definitely couldn't find the words to explain if she ever had to, which she hoped she never would. All she knew was that she simultaneously felt safer and more lost than she had in a while.
Drinking herself into a stupor after one of those nights was normal, too. Granted, before it had always been a way to forget, not to avoid being as confused as she was right now, but either way it gave her a reason not to have to think. She spent far too much time with her own thoughts as it was, and she got very tired of their company.
[OOC: Cut AND WARNED for a whole slew of issues, if only mentioned briefly: references to past parental abuse and prostitution/dubious sexual consent, as well as current alcoholism and general self-destructive tendencies. Not kidding. The girl's a mess. I apologize so much for this coming out of a cracky gremlin bite, but I can't really resist an interesting character development opportunity. Let's call the drinking part NFB, though.
Will be AFK on and off for the next few hours, but can be open if you don't mind SP.]