"Bitch." And he walked away.
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She wished her skirt were longer, thicker. She was bleeding, little rose buds vining down her leg and blooming on the pavement. What a way to love. Her spirit trembled, her marrow freezing within her. Show the world, she thought, seeing how the skirt stuck to her legs and the patches looked black in the faint night's light. She had given him blood. It had not been a gift.
Back on the street. Who could go home now? And she was thinking. In the silence, she was thinking, despite her will, which was shivering and confused. She hated reflection. It came only as a nightmare. It was hope that brought her dreams, and they were becoming fewer and far between . . .
Montparnasse had been silent, not a word said. Just a slam against the wall with his hand or tongue choking off her screaming mouth. He didn't hear her then. He didn't hear her, ever.
And she feared it would take someday. It was ironic, but she thanked her fleshless bones, she thanked the lies and the waste of her father then, for it was seldom enough that she bled even naturally. No life would ever take within her, so long as nothing changed. Not for the better, at least.
She was crying now. Tears for him? These weren't gifts either.
You haven't stolen enough! Take these too!
Such drippings of her piece of meat! She was too many bones to be much for the palate, yet he came back for more helpings, never once paying. A social smorgasbord. Was that what she had become? No food for the cook, here.
She ripped a nail while pulling herself to her feet, grappling with the wall. More blood, she thought, sticking the dirty digit in her mouth. Fancy, this.
Moaning, blubbering. She bit her lip to hold it in, succeeding only in a grimace. Force of habit, for no one was about now to tell her to shut her hole and get over it. She wrapped her arms around herself, held herself as the tears glanced from her trembling lashes. Her steps were shaky and disjointed, but she pulled herself along the street. She hummed softly: a childish, tuneless tune.
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She had not gone fifty feet before she stumbled upon the house. The hedges were high and thick, yet she tore her way through them and into the yard. Her legs were scraped and wet with fine red threads. There was a watering can by a bed of well-loved roses.
The place looked familiar, but then so did most of that great hole of a city. Her walk was more steady now towards the garden, possible relief of a sort in sight. She swallowed, her throat less dry now, and readying herself for disappointment, she grabbed the handle of the can, and she tugged.
Water sloshed within. She fell upon it then to bathe herself.
I'll wash you away, every place where you've been . . . And the pink waste-water looked blue in the moonlight. She wondered if anyone watched her graceless positions from within the house. She wondered if she cared.
And on to wash her chest, her hands, her face, and she rinsed her mouth and spat. She thought of drying herself with her skirt and chemise, but instead she let the water stay cool and dappled on her skin. It would make her feel fresh, as foolish as it seemed, until it dried on her skin and left her shivering.
She had always to shiver, did she not?
She plucked a rose and slipped it into her hair.
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Back on the street now, and the breeze cooled her. Her skin looked white in the shadows, white like lilies. Only her torn finger bled now, but the pain was dull and slightly euphoric. She threw back her shoulders, her head, and faced the moon. The light trickled and sighed in through her pores.
And from behind she felt his hot breath in her ear.
"What have you got to be happy about? I don't love you, 'Ponine." Montparnasse's voice was gentle and sincere. Concerned, even.
She did not turn to him, but began to walk away.
She smiled.
"He's never touched me, you know, 'Parnasse. I suppose that counts for something."
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And Montparnasse walked off in his own direction. Women, he thought, and shook his head.
The End