Disclaimer: I don't own D.Gray-man.
"You made the bed; now you must lie in it."
Unknown
Miranda Lott has always been a nervous woman. She can't help that. It's a habit she's had ever since she was a small child. She's also very paranoid and prone to apologizing obsessively. Again, a childhood habit she has been unable to break. They're not normal childhood habits-she's far too aware of that- but then again, her childhood was not normal.
"No papa! Please don't! I'm sorry! I'm sorry"
Her earliest memory in life was the warmth of her mother's arms around her. That was also her haziest one as well. It was not long after that, that her mother had died in Munich from a nasty case of pneumonia on a cold December day. Her father had always faulted her for that.
"It's your fault! It's all your fault! She's gone and she's not coming back!"
Her father had always had a nasty mean streak in him, but it never truly showed until her mother had passed away. He loved to tell Miranda terrible things. Oh, how he loved to watch her back herself into a corner, her hands over her hears, eyes shut tight with tears coursing down her cheeks, screaming at the top of her lungs, begging him to stop and saying she was sorry.
"She in a cold grave because of you! You're the reason she has maggots eating out her brains and larva being laid in her slowly decaying eyes! Her skin-"
"Stop! Please stop! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
Miranda was four, and she was in no way responsible for her mother's death. Her father never told her that. Despite his love for malice, her father was very intellegent. His abuse focused more on her emotions and self confidence. Make no mistake; he did beat her every now and then, (it was, of course, in places one could not see in public.) but his main goal was breaking her self esteem.
He broke it like one would break glass; fast, with force, and with ease.
By the time Miranda started school, they had moved from Munich to a large town in the middle of England. By then, it was firmly ingrained in her head that she would never be able to do anything right. She tried to make friends at school, but she failed miserably due to her thick German accent.
"What are you saying? I can't understand you at all!"
"Go back to Germany!"
"Why are you so pale? Are you a ghost?"
"Ahh, look! The little German girl is crying!"
And so, Miranda's situation could only be described as hell. Abuse from her father, teasing and bullying from schoolmates, and sharp criticism from teachers, she simply had no place to go without being hurt.
Her life went on like this until her father died from typhoid when she was 14.
It was the happiest day of her life.
She'd rather hoped things would get better; they didn't. To support herself she had to get job, which turned out to be another thing she was terrible with.
"You're useless!"
"Why can't you do a single thing right?!"
"You're fired! Don't come back!"
Her nickname, 'bad-luck Miranda', had circulated through the town. No man would marry her; no man would even court her. So that's how her life was for the most part.
Then she found the Grandfather clock.
For the first time since her mother had died, Miranda felt that something had actually wanted her. That thought alone made her buy the clock, no questions asked.
It was not until a few years later when the reversing incident occurred. Then when the Exorcist came to help and told her that she was one of them, she didn't know what to think. It was a terrifying experience, but she doesn't mind because she salvaged something from it.
"Thank you Miranda."
He had said thank you to her. To her! Bad-luck Miranda had been thanked! After that, she had no trouble leaving the town to become an exorcist. On the train to meet her trainer, Miranda recalled something she had heard in passing.
"You'll have to lie in the bed you make."
Miranda disagreed with that; she never lied in the bed she made. She lied in the one her father had shoved her onto.
"A bed of thorns! A bed of thorns is the bed fools like you sleep in!"
Yes, he had said that to her once. However, if one can lie down in the bed, surely one should be able to get back out of it? It would hurt, getting out of a bed of thorns, she would bleed and it would take a long time for her to heal completely.
But even if she has to walk forward with blood oozing from scratches and scabs where the thorns got her, she would.
The next bed she lies in will be one of her own picking.
END
Note: I probably don't have to say this as I'm sure you all know abuse is a serious thing. But please remember that abuse is not always physical and if you suspect it happening to someone, please tell somebody before it's too late.