A/N: Maureen, just like all the other RENT characters, is not mine. I wish, but no.
It all started when I was five.
That's when my mom died.
She was so young, only in her late 20's. I remember vaguely, my mother and father laughing and dancing. She loved me, and I loved her. My father was the best man 'd ever want for my dad.
Then everything changed. My mom and dad were out, at a club. They'd left me at home with a babysitter, because my older brother was playing in his band at the club. And, of course, I wasn't allowed, being only five.
I don't actually know what happened, I am relying on police and medical records. Supposedly, my mom had been drinking a lot, but my father had been drinking more. But he was the only one with a driver's license, so into the car they got, my mom, dad, and brother, Louis. My dad at the wheel. You have to understand something about my dad. When he drinks, he gets crazy. Absolutely insane. So he started yelling at my mom, not paying attention to the road. He went into the other lane with oncoming traffic. The cars couldn't see them against the reddish-black NYC night sky so laden with pollutants. A taxi crashed right into the side of the car that was away from my dad. My mom and brother were instantly killed. My dad went to the hospital, but survived with only minor injuries.
After that, my dad started drinking a lot more. To ease the pain, I guess. He became really crazy and violent and was constantly hung over, yelling at me like there was no tomorrow.
I was seven when he started hitting me. One day, out of the blue, he came up to me and just started beating the crap out of me. I remember crying, begging him to stop. It hurt so bad, I felt like I wanted to die. Then, it started every day. When he got home from work. I used to hide in the closet to try to avid beatings. But he usually found me. If he didn't, the blows were twice as hard the next day. The red sores and bruises became stuck on my upper arms, legs, and back. I was covered in them every day. But, eventually, I got used to it.
I was almost ten when he started hitting on me. I was still young, so I thought this must be normal. Some kind of rite of passage into becoming a woman. Actually, it was rape.
He would get this glint in his eye and I knew there was trouble. He'd invite me to his room, pour me some wine, and I got scared. He'd undress me, and undress himself and put me under the covers and rape me. Every night. I guess that was grief. He really really missed my mom, and had never had another relationship again. So I guess he thought, since I had her blood, that I was the closest thing to her that he could get.
I became pregnant with his child at fifteen.
I realized it when my period was late. So I went to the drug store and bought a pregnancy test. The results were positive.
I knew that I couldn't tell him, because he'd accuse me of "sleeping around", being a whore. So, I got an abortion. I figured, the child would have been retarded anyway and I would be his or her mother and sister. That thought grossed me out. So I did the only thing I could do.
About two weeks after the abortion, I ran away from home.
I remember the night like it was yesterday. I packed as many bags as I could carry and all my money. I'd started saving at eleven. I packed clothes, books, food, and money, money, money. I had over a thousand dollars. But I knew I'd need a job. This wouldn't last very long. I packed my bags and left the house at 3 pm, two and a half hours before he got home, never to return. I'd stolen food from the kitchen, and was off. The last time my dad saw me was the night before, in his bed.
I got on the subway and decided to go to the East Village. I don't know why, but I did. Perhaps I always knew I wanted to be an actress. So I went there.
When I got out of the train, it looked very, very different from the way I'd imagined it. It was dirty and dingy and not very pleasant. I saw prostitutes turning their tricks in the alleys and triple-X clubs everywhere. Not to mention drag queens, drug users and dealers, and homeless people on the streets. I'd never been exposed to this side of New York. But, at the tender age of fifteen, here I was.
I met this guy Tom at a party and mentioned that I needed a place to stay. Needless to say, I flirted up a storm. (I've always been a flirt. I just can't stick to one person.)
My flirting worked, and he told me that he owned this place and let me have an apartment. For free! He told me that I could start paying once I had a job. I was so lucky!
So now I had my own apartment, I had money (for now) and I didn't need to worry about rent, at least for another six months or so. And, best of all, I was free! I could do whatever I wanted during the day (which was go to school – I wanted t at least finish high school) and then I could go out at night. This place was alive like you wouldn't believe at night! There was all kinds of dancing and partying. My world rocked. I studied drama and voice. I was on top of the world. And I made friends with the richest, nicest girl and she would give me money for food and stuff. She was so generous. So I really didn't even need a job. But, to make Tom happy, I had to pretend like I was looking for one.
At night, to get into the clubs, I simply lied about my age. I even made a fake I.D. It worked. I got in everywhere. I was so free and I did what I pleased.
Until Tom came banging on my door again.
He said that it was ridiculous that I hadn't found a job yet. He demanded that I pay rent.
So I had to quit partying and get a job. But my party spirit never left me, even now.
I got a job as a waitress in a place called the Moondance Diner. Not a bad place. I liked it there, it paid me. I had support. I went to school in the day and worked from 4 to 12. Then I got up to go to school again at 6. I wasn't sleep deprived. I was working. And doing a damn good job of it. The customers loved me. Especially the young guys. I flirted non-stop with them and the cute waiters too. But no one minded. After all, I was beautiful. I was young. So I was allowed.
Life was good again. Working was almost like partying, but no booze. I still got to flirt. And I got paid. No loud music, but I served people. And I could pay rent. I was content.
Then, when I was eighteen, I finished high school. I decided that college was what I needed, so I applied to (and got into) NYU. The Computer-Age Philosophy teacher was a nut. He was great though, and obviously a genius. So I flirted. He never really flirted back, though. It took me a while to figure out why. But then it hit me – he was gay.
But he was really nice. Somehow, he and I became friends, so to say. Not that good friends, but still friends. Through him, when I was 20, I met Mark. The one who changed my life.
Mark is a photographer. He was sweet, charming, and cute. What I always wanted. He was a "nice Jewish boy" like my mom had wanted. I have always been afraid of commitment, though, so I never thought of him as my boyfriend until I moved in with him, about a year after we started dating. He was exactly what I wanted. I loved the way his blond hair fell, or his cute little glasses, or the way he looked at me. I loved his small, tight body, kind of scrawny, but oh-so-adorable. I loved the way he always carried around his camera like a security blanket. I loved the cute little things he said, or the way he made love to me. I loved the way he thought I was beautiful, the way he thought I was everything. I loved him.
What I loved most about him, though, became much more apparent as time went on. I loved the freedom he gave me. I loved that I could be safe, and always have someone ready to kiss me when I got home. But still, I loved how gullible he was. He never knew that I cheated on him until it was way too late. He never knew about John or Rick or even Benny. Even though he and Benny were room mates at Brown, and for a while they lived in the same apartment. He was too oblivious, always filming, but never seeing. Never quite there. Except during sex. Then he was 100% there, giving me his full attention.
But I did love him. I loved everything about him. I never wanted to hurt him. But old habits are not easily broken, so I ended up hurting him anyway. I tried. I really did. I went for weeks without cheating, but then I couldn't stand it. I had to go to a club and hook up for just one night. I loved the excitement, the passion. But I could always come home to my forgiving Mark. My sweet, oblivious Mark. My Mark.
We'd been together for almost two years when, as an anniversary present to him, I decided that I would never cheat on him again. I promised myself, I promised him. Silently.
Why? Because I loved him. I loved him with all my heart. I didn't want to hurt him. I loved him, and wanted to keep him. Forever. I was just a flirt, a user, and a cheat. But that was not my fault. Ever since my father had started raping me, I had feared commitment. I could never stay in a relationship for long. But this time was different. I loved Mark, and wanted to make him happy. I would never dream of hurting him, because I knew he'd never hurt me. He was too sweet. But as hard as I tried, I hurt him anyway.
But all that was changing. I promised never to cheat again. And I stuck to it. For almost a year. By then I was 23. Then I met Joanne.
A/N: Ooh, suspense! Don't worry, next chapter coming up in about 2 days. Did you like? Please R/R!!!! Lots more coming up, including relationship struggles, her version of RENT, and more. Plus how's she gonna tell Mark about Joanne...? Oooh, wait and see! Please review, it makes me work faster!!!!
