Hello my dears!
I'm back in business and I promise that I'm not going to abandon this story. I've had this one brewing for a very long time, and I got the very inspiration I needed after a revelation about my own childhood and my relationship with my mother.
This is Mimi's story from her childhood up until she meets Roger. It might be a little controversial, and it might be a bit difficult for some people to read but it's important for me to get this out. It's my baby.
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. Never have, never will. I own this story and a few of the characters.
My feet are freezing. I can't feel my finger or my toes and I'm sure that if anyone touched the tip of my nose it would just break off – become nothing but a little piece of ice on the floor. My eyes silently trace the roses on the walls. They seem to go on forever. I've been in this place a million times before and I've never finished all of them before being let out.
I'm in my bathroom, and I can't move. My feet and rooted firmly to the ground, even though I can just barely feel them I know they're there. They always are. I always do what I'm told, from simple tasks like bringing in the washing to tasks like this – standing in the middle of the bathroom rigid as a pole and quiet as a mouse in nothing but my underwear. It's freezing and I need to use the toilet but I won't because I know that if she hears me – and I know she will because she hears everything – then I'll be in even more trouble. Maybe she'll lock me in the basement again and tell Papi that I tried to run away. Then he'd be mad, too and I couldn't take that. I never wanted to disappoint my Papi.
"Miranda!" I hear her voice shriek my name and though my eyes light up with fear and anticipation I don't dare to move another muscle until she tells me I can. "Miranda, get out here! Hurry up, you little bitch! Get out here now!"
Like lightning, I'm out of the bathroom and standing before my mother, my hands by my sides and my chin to my chest. I can't look at her until she gives me permission, can't speak until she tells me to, can't move a muscle. "What took you so long? Hurry up and get dressed, your father's nearly home," she spits, throwing my clothes at my face. I catch them and race off into my bedroom. I do everything as fast as possible – who knows what might happen if I take too much time.
As soon as I've pulled my tank top over my head, the door opens. As usual, my mother has the timing just right. She knows exactly how long everything should take – that's why I know she'll figure out if I've done anything secretive during one of the many tasks she sets me. She knows everything.
"Where are my girls and my little prince?" my father asks as he kicks off his shoes in the doorway. My sisters race over to him, throwing their arms around him. My mother, with baby Vega on hip, is swept up into a kiss and I hang back, just waiting my turn. My mother heads back into the kitchen to finish preparing the dinner I started, and my sisters run off to do whatever it was that they did – it was surely fun, because I wasn't allowed to be involved in it. But I don't mind anyway, because my father turns to me with a fond smile and wraps me up in a loving hug. God, I want to say there forever...
"Hola Papi," I say softly, cuddled into him.
"How's my Mimi-chica?" he asks as he makes his way over to his chair. As always, I sit at his feet. I'm fifteen years old but I sit cross-legged like a young child in a classroom. I savour every moment with my father. He is my secret protector – he doesn't know what he saves me from. That's what I tell myself anyway. He can't possibly know what he saves me from, otherwise he would have taken me and we would've already flown far away from this place.
"I kicked ass in dancing today," I tell him with a smile. That's how I always answer him when he asks how I am – I tell him something I've done rather than how I feel. I don't want him to know how I feel – don't want him to know all about the constant feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. Don't want him to know the fear and the anger surrounding my aura and taking hold of me, making me want to do things that I know I'll regret.
"Of course you did," he beams, cupping my cheek affectionately. I close my hand over his, shutting my eyes with a blissful smile. Our moment is interrupted, though, and I jump at the sound of my mother's voice.
"Mimi-chica?"
I look up at her with a forced smile. I hate it when she calls me that. It's fake and it's my father's term for me, not hers. I don't want her to take it – not like she's taken everything else from me. "Yes?" I ask, a bad feeling in my stomach.
"Could you please go over and help Ricky with his shopping? He's sprained his ankle and he just needs an extra hand."
My stomach drops, my heart stops. Not another one. I don't want to go. I look at her with such hatred I fear she might burst into flames.
"I have homework to do," I lie, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
"Mija, help him out. It won't take long and you can stay up later than your curfew to finish your homework," my father chimes in. He's always wanting to make a good impression on the people in the neighbourhood. I can't bring myself to tell him that Ricky doesn't have a sprained ankle. Ricky doesn't need any help at all. He probably doesn't even have any shopping to put away. He just wants me – and my mother hands me over every single time. Any man who wants me, gets me. It's everything a girl like me deserves. A girl who stole youth and beauty from her mother – a girl who stole any sort of male attention from her mother and brought it onto herself.
This is the last night I'll have with my family. The last night I'll see my father. I'm leaving. I'll die here if I don't.