Table of Contents [Report This]
DISCLAIMER: Miss Parker and all things Pretender related belong to Mitchell/Van Sickle Productions, NBC, and some other folks. By writing this story, I have rather blatantly infringed upon their copyright; however, I don't really care.
Angel
Aimee
"Really, Angel," Mr. Parker said. "I don't see why you're so upset about my engagement to Bridgette. Your mother's been dead a long time, and God knows I deserve some happiness in my life."
"But--"
"I know the two of you haven't always gotten along, but you just need time to get used to the idea. You got used to Lyle, didn't you?" He patted her shoulder absentmindedly. "We'll be one big happy family."
Miss Parker didn't bother to argue. She knew that tone of voice: dismissive and decisive. In his mind, the matter was closed; he'd already shelved it and moved on to the next problem. "Right," she said.
"That's my angel." He sat at his desk and began to work, clearly done with the conversation.
She stood there for a few moments more, struggling with herself, trying to squelch the objections rising in her throat. I'm not your angel, she wanted to say. Not anymore. I haven't been since I went away to college. Why did I come back? Once I got the hell out of here, I should have stayed away.
She wanted to yell, to scream, to hit something -- to take out her gun and shoot him, or maybe herself -- to force him to acknowledge her as a human being, not some anonymous cog in a larger machine, unnoticed except when it didn't do what it was supposed to.
Her throat hurt from the pressure of unspoken words.
Not your angel. But I can't tell you that, can I. Because we don't talk about that. We've never talked about that. You never said a word about it; you just came to my room and did it, and I let it happen in silence. I was only ten years old, after all, scared and lonely. My mother had just died, and the only time my father paid any attention to me was when he was fucking me in the dark.
During the day, you ignored it. Did you think that if you didn't talk about it, it wouldn't have happened? I never had the luxury of ignoring it. It did happen.
And I don't have the words. I never did.
Now you want to get married again, to play the benevolent paterfamilias, to be "one big happy family." What a crock of shit; what an unbe-fucking-lievably obscene lie. And the worst part is...the worst part is...
I want to believe it. Your angel loves you, daddy.
I wanted to kill Bridgette when I heard you call that bottle-blond bitch "angel." (And did you find the words to speak of it after all? She's not so blond anymore; she looks more like me everyday. Is this her way of wooing you?) Am I fucked-up or what? Jealous. I can't believe I was jealous.
I can't believe you don't love me anymore.
You have a son; you'll soon have a wife. Will you still want your daughter-whore around then?
She could feel those words filling her mouth, wanting to be spoken, but she was still stronger than they were. They never emerged. She merely repeated, "Right."
He completely missed the dark sarcasm. She wondered if he heard her at all.
THE END
Aimee
"Really, Angel," Mr. Parker said. "I don't see why you're so upset about my engagement to Bridgette. Your mother's been dead a long time, and God knows I deserve some happiness in my life."
"But--"
"I know the two of you haven't always gotten along, but you just need time to get used to the idea. You got used to Lyle, didn't you?" He patted her shoulder absentmindedly. "We'll be one big happy family."
Miss Parker didn't bother to argue. She knew that tone of voice: dismissive and decisive. In his mind, the matter was closed; he'd already shelved it and moved on to the next problem. "Right," she said.
"That's my angel." He sat at his desk and began to work, clearly done with the conversation.
She stood there for a few moments more, struggling with herself, trying to squelch the objections rising in her throat. I'm not your angel, she wanted to say. Not anymore. I haven't been since I went away to college. Why did I come back? Once I got the hell out of here, I should have stayed away.
She wanted to yell, to scream, to hit something -- to take out her gun and shoot him, or maybe herself -- to force him to acknowledge her as a human being, not some anonymous cog in a larger machine, unnoticed except when it didn't do what it was supposed to.
Her throat hurt from the pressure of unspoken words.
Not your angel. But I can't tell you that, can I. Because we don't talk about that. We've never talked about that. You never said a word about it; you just came to my room and did it, and I let it happen in silence. I was only ten years old, after all, scared and lonely. My mother had just died, and the only time my father paid any attention to me was when he was fucking me in the dark.
During the day, you ignored it. Did you think that if you didn't talk about it, it wouldn't have happened? I never had the luxury of ignoring it. It did happen.
And I don't have the words. I never did.
Now you want to get married again, to play the benevolent paterfamilias, to be "one big happy family." What a crock of shit; what an unbe-fucking-lievably obscene lie. And the worst part is...the worst part is...
I want to believe it. Your angel loves you, daddy.
I wanted to kill Bridgette when I heard you call that bottle-blond bitch "angel." (And did you find the words to speak of it after all? She's not so blond anymore; she looks more like me everyday. Is this her way of wooing you?) Am I fucked-up or what? Jealous. I can't believe I was jealous.
I can't believe you don't love me anymore.
You have a son; you'll soon have a wife. Will you still want your daughter-whore around then?
She could feel those words filling her mouth, wanting to be spoken, but she was still stronger than they were. They never emerged. She merely repeated, "Right."
He completely missed the dark sarcasm. She wondered if he heard her at all.
THE END
