Author's Note: I've changed the rating to M for this chapter. It features a rape at the end. You have been warned. Don't read if you're going to be offended.

I guess I probably should have mentioned in that last chapter that the italicized portions are flashbacks. This is a fractured timeline fic. The flashbacks may or may not go in chronological order, so you're just going to have to do your best with them. Anything that's not italicized is part of the present plot and will move in chronological order. If you're confused, feel free to leave a signed review and I'll gladly explain.

Thanks for all your support on that last chapter. In case anybody's interested, I'm adding a link to the coverart for this fic in my profile.

Daydreamer731

Home

"Sometimes I think you were more homeless than I was," says Mimi when it is morning again. Mark is out filming, and they are curled up on the old green couch, watching the snowy sun rise through dusty windows.

"What?" Roger laughs, surprised. At what she has said and at his own reaction. He brushes the back of one hand over her cheek, brushing stray locks of hair off her face.

"When you went to Santa Fe. You left because you felt like there was nobody here for you." She takes hold of his hand, staring intently as she laces her fingers with his.

"Yeah. So?" Roger thinks that as an artist he should understand what she is trying to say, but his mind insists on seeing only the mundane lately, and he enjoys watching her attempt to explain her crazy ideas like this anyway.

"So I left because I felt like I was making things worse. But I knew that everyone here still cared. I knew that I had something to come back to. That's what a home is. That something."

Mimi walked slowly up to the window of the old, deserted house and blew a little puff of steam onto the window. It stayed there for a moment, a perfect little circle of white, before fading. She stared at her reflection in the now-clear pane of glass. Her makeup had run, leaving dark circles under her eyes, and the bruise was bright violet against the pallor of her skin.

I look like a junkie, she thought, shuddering at the image.

She went to the back of the abandoned house and sat down, resting her chin on her knees. She had left school after first period, not even bothering to go back to class after Anderson's threat. She couldn't concentrate on anything but her father's words as she had left the house. He was already angry. If Anderson called…it would be so much worse than ever before. She shuddered in the cold. She shuddered at the memories, the nights when he had come, in the dark, to haunt her. She shuddered thinking of all the nights she had left the house, had come to this place, this overgrown, abandoned lot, because it was the only place she had. The only place where people would leave her alone. Where he didn't know to look. Not yet.

Mimi was tempted to just stay at the abandoned house, to break a window and finally find out what was inside, to make a place for herself there and never go home again. But that would mean not going back to school. And not going back to school meant no chance at a scholarship and no chance at college. And no chance of escape. Ever.

It was starting to get dark out. The whole day must have gone by, slipping into the sickness of dread. Mimi got to her feet and slowly dusted off the back of her skirt. Her knee was swollen and darkly bruised, her tights caked in drying blood. The temperature was dropping again, but she had been outside in the cold so long her skin felt numb to it.

She walked the way home as slowly as she could, almost in a daze, praying that he wouldn't be home, that he somehow would have vanished, that he finally would have had too much to drink, so much that his heart had given out. It was the same wish, every day, every night, every morning. And it never came true.

"What's wrong?" asks Roger, trying to keep the note of panic out of his voice. Mimi shakes her head, but he can already see that something is going on behind her dark eyes. For the past few moments she has fallen so silent and still he can hear the blood pounding in his own ears. He isn't used to this. With her, it's a constant blur of motion. He can't ever tell her how much it will always scare him now to see her still and silent.

"I was just thinking." She raises an eyebrow, gives him a little half-smile. The kind that tells him not to ask. In a year, he has already learned not to respect it.

"What about?"

"Home," says Mimi, and Roger gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sees the pill bottle leering at him from the nightstand in the other room.

The door opened slowly, agonizingly. Mimi stepped in without looking into the small, dingy family room, and closed the door behind her as quietly as possible. There was a dim light on, but that didn't mean anything. She kept her eyes on the floor and attempted to walk straight through to the false safety of her bedroom.

"Slow down," said a voice out of the haze. A female voice. Her mother.

Mimi jumped. Her mother was lying on the couch, looking pale and disheveled, her stomach looking even larger than it had the night before. She was sick all the time now, and he wasn't helping. If anything, the pregnancy was making things worse.

Mimi shuddered again, thinking of the new baby, the new life being brought into this household.

"I can't…I gotta get to my room before—"

"He's not here." Her mother motioned to the spot on the couch beside her.

Mimi paused for a moment, torn. A part of her wanted to go, to be mothered for a few moments, but then she had never had much of that. Her mother inevitably ended up getting angry, and getting almost violent, like he did. They had married young, not even out of high school. It had started with a pregnancy and ended up in misery. Mimi sighed and shook her head. It didn't matter how much she wanted it, the simple familial affection she craved would never come from here. As long as she could remember, she had not been so much as hugged or tucked into bed.

"Where'd he go?"

Her mother shrugged.

"Out. Some cabrone called and upset him."

Mimi felt her heart speed up. Anderson. Anderson had called, her father had gone out drinking. He would be back any minute, and the alcohol would only add to his fury.

"I have to go," she whispered, and turned back toward her room.

"Wait! Chica, stay with me."

It was that voice again, the one she couldn't stand. That whining, needy voice that had no right coming out of any parent's mouth. Mimi hated her for it, and yet she couldn't blame her mother. Her mother had run away from home as a girl, and had found that she couldn't make it on the streets. She had met a boy several years older than her when she bought drugs from him on the street corner. Before she knew what had happened, she was pregnant with his baby. He had said he was willing to clean up his act for her, to get a real job, a real home, a real place to raise a child. But that hadn't lasted long. He'd spent exactly three years working on and off as a cashier before quitting and turning to alcohol in his frustration. He was a violent drunk, and he was drunk all the time now. With the new baby on the way, things had gone from bad to worse.

Mimi sighed and turned back to her mother.

"What, Mami? Do you need some more of the medicine for your back?"

Mrs. Marquez had always been sickly, partly from bad genes and partly from an even worse lifestyle. Though she was only twenty-eight, her second pregnancy was taking a lot out of her. She had a million aches and pains and a million expensive prescriptions from an even more expensive doctor that none of them could afford.

Mrs. Marquez shook her head.

"No…just…stay with me, chica."

Mimi shuddered despite herself. Her entire family was falling apart before her eyes. Her father became more and more caught up in the downward spiral of alcoholism and failing health, her mother was pregnant with a baby she could neither bear nor afford.

"Honey, I'm home!" calls Mark, pulling shut the sliding door with the heel of his shoe. He has his camera in one hand, and a large casserole of something in the other.

"Fuck you," says Roger absently. It has become his programmed response to Mark's entire arsenal of greetings. Maureen loves to mimic it whenever possible.

"I brought sustenance," says Mark, ignoring Roger's comment.

"Dork," says Mimi, though her reaction is decidedly warmer than Roger's. "I'm going to bed. Join me?"

"In a little," says Roger, kissing her cheek. Are you okay? he wants to scream, be honest with me for half a second. But he just sits and watches her go into the bedroom. "What the hell is that?" he snaps at Mark, the moment she is out of earshot. Taking things out on his best friend has become another of Roger's programmed responses.

"Rice and beans. All organic. Joanne made it." Mark starts banging things around in the kitchen, searching through the closets though they both know there's nothing there. Roger gets the distinct impression that he's trying to avoid talking.

"Why didn't you tell me she was getting out today?" Roger asks, not even bothering to ask how Mark happened to obtain a casserole of rice and beans from Joanne.

Mark fidgets with the plate he's washing, not answering. Suddenly Roger is furious.

"Fuck, Mark, I thought—I thought—" He clamps his mouth shut again, unwilling to let himself choke in front of Mark. He doesn't know when it's become unacceptable to show emotion in front of his best friend.

"I didn't know!" Mark protests, his voice rising.

"Damn it, Mark, you had to know! What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing!" says Mark, then seems to reconsider. He sighs, then comes over and sits next to Roger. "She called me at work today and told me to come pick her up."

Roger looks at him hard and he fidgets with a stray thread on the edge of his sweater.

"Was she discharged?" Roger asks, trying again to be calm.

Mark shrugs. "I didn't ask. I assume so." But he doesn't sound all that certain.

"Did she tell you what the doctors said?" Mark gets up and walks over to the window, crossing his arms over his chest. Roger swallows something sour-tasting at the back of his throat. "Did she?" Roger presses.

Mark shakes his head. "Roger—"

"What?" he snaps.

"No. No, she didn't, and no, I didn't ask. I do recall that you told me once that I shouldn't press you to tell me that kind of thing. I'm just giving her the same respect. If you want to know, ask her."

"I did," Roger sighs.

Mark gives him an odd look. One that suggests he sees the paranoia Roger has become so afraid to admit to.

"Then why are you asking me?" Mark goes back into the kitchen, and begins serving himself a plate from the steaming casserole dish.

"Because…I don't know. I'm going to bed."

"All right," says Mark, nodding to himself. "Good night."

"Don't do that," mutters Roger.

"What?" asks Mark, looking confused.

"Talk in rhyme. That's my job."

"Oh," says Mark, still looking lost. "Sleep well."

"Fuck off," mumbles Roger, then walks into the bedroom.

Mimi's asleep, the blankets pulled all the way up over her head. The air is so cold it burns in Roger's lungs. he gently pulls back the covers and crawls under. Mimi shifts a bit in her sleep, and Roger wraps his arms around her.

"You're cold," she whispers, only half awake.

"We have no heat, remember?" says Roger, knowing she isn't really following.

"Sometimes I think I won't mind that part," she continues, shifting so her back is to him.

"What?" asks Roger, unnerved.

"Not having to be cold anymore."

The sudden sound of the door opening broke the silence that had fallen. He threw it open with a bang, the door flying inward and crashing into the wall, leaving a distinct dent in the garish faded orange wallpaper there.

Every muscle in Mimi's body clenched, her mind reeling. It would do her no good to run now. He would find her, break down the door to her room if it was necessary. Running would only make him angrier. So she stood, rooted to the spot, feeling utterly helpless.

It was always these times that she hated her mother the most. Her mother was the one person who might, just might, have enough influence on him to make him stop. To make him leave Mimi alone. She had changed him completely once, after all, and he still seemed very much in love with her at times. And yet Mrs. Marquez never tried. Never protested. Never comforted her daughter when it was over. She just sat there, watching, from her little game-side-seat on the couch like a horrified fan at an unimaginably vulgar sporting event.

"Mimi!" he roared. "Puta! Spreading lies about your papi at school. Too selfish to care about your family. No, no, only think of yourself."

He was staggering drunk, barely able to stand up, his eyes ablaze with alcohol induced mindlessness mixed with the craze of rage. He stumbled into the family room toward Mimi, knocking things over as he moved.

"I told you you would pay."

Mimi shook her head, fighting off tears once more. She hated herself for crying, and yet she could never help it.

"I tried. It's not my fault…I told him…Anderson…told him it was accidents…he-he wouldn't listen to me!"

He stumbled closer, his big, meaty hands clamping onto her thin shoulders. Mimi had to force herself not to pull away. He was a big man, years of drinking ruining his boyish good looks in rolls of flab, rotten teeth, and chronic bad breath. The stench of sour alcohol descended across her face as he loomed over her, and she had to force down bile.

"I told you you would pay," he growled again. "You won't be leaving this house again. No more school. I can't trust you away from here."

It was a death sentence. Mimi forced herself to nod meekly, hoping that when he was sober again he would forget. But it wasn't likely. While he did forget things, such a threatening vow was almost certain to stay with him. Somehow he always managed to remember the bad and forget the good.

He clamped one claw-like hand around her wrist again, the same one as that morning, and dragged her toward the bedroom. It was dark inside and he didn't bother with the lights. Shadow-shapes swam before Mimi's eyes out of the looming darkness, the visual incarnation of the thoughts haunting her mind. She knew what this meant. What it always meant. In some ways, she would have preferred an all-out beating. Right now, even the prospect of death seemed merciful.

She forced herself into the dark, cold, numb place she had created for herself as he tore at her clothes, forced her down onto the bed, smothered her with his enormous weight and stench. Her head spun with nausea as he moved up and down, much too roughly, bruising, tearing. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, forcing herself not to scream. He would be rougher if she screamed. She had learned this lesson quickly. It was far from the first time. She held herself stiff as a board beneath him, not allowing him anything easily. If he wanted her, he would have to take her against her will.

At last, when she thought she could take no more, he pulled away and left, just as quickly, slamming the bedroom door and yelling something Mimi couldn't make out. He hadn't even bothered to pick up his clothes. It was not a secret what he did to his daughter every night.

There was blood on the sheets when at last she managed to turn on the light, and fell back against the pillows, sobbing silently.

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