A Long Time Ago

[Philomel]

{{ a fast paced thread exploring Philomel's past. Warning - scenes of domestic abuse }}

A long time ago there was a little girl.

She was cute and as small as could be. Her hair was a beautiful chestnut and her fur was chestnut too.

She had no horns, for they had not come through yet. Instead she had nubs, small nubs, small poking nubs at her temples. And they marked her out as a faun about to hit puberty.

[Philomel]

Her mother was beautiful as well. Her hair was as brown like milk chocolate and flowed like a river from head to shoulders. Elegant curved horns like those of a proud mountain ram, were annointed on her head and gave her a crown for all to aspire to.

They lived together and were a pair, a pair that could defy nature and conquer all. But none could know that yet. None knew that yet. Because the girl was still young, just coming into her prime. And her and her mother were trapped in a world they could not get out of.

[Philomel]

Father came home, drunk that night.

He had been away for some time, perhaps five days that time. The little girl could not be sure. She had lost count this time.

Mother had been away working late into most nights. She worked over in the block that was near the pub, a place the girl was not allowed to go. For that reason the girl usually stayed at home by herself and was preoccupied with life. She forgot about father.

But tonight he came home.

[Philomel]

He came home with messy hair, stinking of sweat. The little girl peeked her head around a corner, hearing the door open.

Mother was still out.

He stood there, face tinged with rose, and let the door slam closed behind him. Slow ragged breaths was his forte and his eyes roved around until they spotted her. His blinked.

Then gestured in an ugly way.

[Philomel]

Quickly, she hid, ducking back behind the wall.

The room she was in was the lounge. It was a safe place full of cushions and rugs, and the girl had spent the day making it tidy as Mother liked. After all it was good to come home after work to a nice place.

The girl heard a grumbling sigh - a sigh that turned quickly to a growl.

A pause. Then ...

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

[Philomel]

"PHILOMEL!" he roared.

She knew he was not happy tonight. Sometimes when he got home from a long trip he was happy and he did not shout. Sometimes he was. And he roared like this. And it usually led to trouble.

So the girl ran and hid, ducking down behind the arm of the sofa. Her favourite sofa. It was white with small red flowers.

[Philomel]

Peonies, she thought, or possibly a red version of gypsophila. Quite pretty when one thought of them.

Young as she was she could hide pretty easily here, tucked between arm and wall. Grabbing a cushion from nearby she had just enough time before his heavy hoofsteps carried him into the room. Desperately she put the cushion over the head and hid.

It was a good hiding place here. She felt safe, especially with the cushion. For if she could not see him, maybe he would not see her.

[Philomel]

He was drunk.

But he was not stupid.

Father faun found her within a few seconds. He roared in fury, spitting as he shouted. First of all he grabbed the cushion from her hands, and second he grabbed her hair. Dragging her around from her hiding place he pulled her into the middle of the room.

Then he began to hit her with the cushion.

[Philomel]

At least it was soft. It was a nice one, a pretty one that matched the sofa. The girl liked it.

But she did not like the way it was being used to hit her head. Though it was better than a table or a chair it was not nice to be hit. Especially as he held her hair, a good large handful of a chunk in his callused hand.

Thump, thump, thump.

He hit. Again and again.

[Philomel]

Grabbing his hand she tried to pull him away from her hair.

He was pulling it wildly and shaking her around a little. She felt the hairs beginning to rip from her scalp. Would they bleed like last time, would she have to go to her tutor and explain with a little lie that she had fallen?

She hoped not. Maybe Mother would come home soon. Maybe Father would stop.

[Philomel]

She felt a good lock come from her skull. Then he stopped with the cushion, and then he dropped her.

She fell to the ground, making no noise.

Noise was bad. It gave you attention. The girl had learnt that a long time ago, around the time when she was three and she had screamed at him. Now she was eight and made no struggle or noise. It made him get bored and finish sooner.

Unless he was really drunk. Or drunk more.

[Philomel]

But lately the girl had taken to hiding the drink.

Mother liked it too, so there needed to be some in the house. But she could always ask. The girl preferred Mother a LOT more than Father. Mother worked long, yes, but Father was away far too much and he was often grumpy. Mother at least combed her hair sometimes and smiled.

Father never smiled. He never laughed. He never combed her hair.

[Philomel]

Staggering back, he left her, sprawled there in the middle of the lounge.

He swore some, using a doregetory word for her mother's profession, before turning and sort of walking diagonally away.

It was the same walk she had do him a few times, in a zig-zag pattern, always after he had pink cheeks and smelt of alcohol. Mother never did though. She just slept.

And snored. In a pattern that went - "HHHRRRR... hrrrr... HHHRRRR... hrrr."

[Philomel]

Father went to the kitchen.

Or rather he walked into the doorpost, and then awkwardly sidled around it until he collided with a chair.

The girl then took the oppurtunity, now he was away, to extend a hand to her head. Lightly she touched it, and then winced at the tenderness. Of course it was tender. He had held her by it, no matter how much she might try to ease it (by kneeling higher and not struggling).

After a while of careful prodding she found there was no wet.

She sighed. No blood today, that was good.

[Philomel]

Father roared when he could not find the alcohol.

Bursting out of the kitchen he had brighter red cheeks and eyes glowing like flickers of fire. His hair was stuck up randomly as if he had dragged a sweaty hand through it.

He stared at her.

"WHERE IS THE DRINK?"

[Philomel]

Sucking in her breath she rocked back onto her knees before grabbing the cushion again.

Deftly she shook her head, smushing her lips close together in a sign she could not talk.

No way was she going to tell him. Not telling meant more beating, but more drink meant worse beating. It was the lesser of two evils and the girl knew that he would be healthy if he drank less.

She raised the cushion back over her head. Almost offering it.

[Philomel]

This time though he grabbed the cushion harshly, then threw it to one side. He then grabbed her by the shoulder, pinching the skin with raggedly bitten nails, and dragged her back into the middle of the lounge.

Pausing first, he thought in his ugly stupor, then dragged her further towards the kitchen. Throwing her up suddenly she was forced to stand, before he kicked out with his left hoof.

Always his left hoof, his stronger hoof.

[Philomel]

It slammed against her hip, and she was shoved backwards.

Against the wall with the tapestry. It had a picture on it of a lady marrying her true love.

Her head smashed against it though, and it was hard for wood was beneath the tapestry and his kick was powerful. Hard and brutal she knew she would probably get a bruise.

[Philomel]

The girl slid down somewhat, smacking hard on the floor.

Her hip hurt, naturally, maybe it was broken a little. She prodded it, tried it, and pain seered up straight away. Bruising would be very bad, and also her head hurt where it had hit the wall.

She would look very bad later. Much more ugly than she ever wanted to look.

Because she wanted to look like mother.

[Philomel]

"Where is it?!" he roared.

The girl did not answer though. It was not time to answer. It was time to hold back tears and not cry.

Not ever cry, it was a sign of weakness and weakness made Father angrier. But so did silence, and telling him made everything worse.

There was no way to win.

[Philomel]

"WHERE?!" he yelled.

A question she would never answer.

He stood in front of her and showed her, clearly, his hand balling into a fist.

Far too normal for a drunk man. He was very good at acting sober when he was in a violent mood.

[Philomel]

A fist meant a punch. The girl knew how to punch too, though. Old man Peter had also taught her how to headbutt.

He had horns as he was a minotaur. Though he was bigger the practise was the same from goat to bull. A stronger body meant a stronger headbutt, and it was all in the back. All in the shoving forwards. All in the horns.

But the girl did not have horns yet. She barely had toughened hooves. It was not good to try to fight against Father.

[Philomel]

Maybe one day though, the girl hoped.

She dreamed. Maybe one day she would be like the lover in the tapestry behind her.

They story in it went that there was a lady, a daughter of a impoverished lord, by the name of Miranda. She had nothing to her name, but her good heart and good nature, and some lovely hair.

[Philomel]

A prince, by the name of Rupert, came along one day, and saw her brushing her hair.

Miranda also sang a song when she brushed it. It went like thus;

"Flower gleam and glow,
Let your power shine ..."

She had a voice like gold.

[Philomel]

"Make the clock reverse,
Bring back what once was mine,
Heal what has been hurt,
Change the fates design,
Save what has been lost,
Bring back what once was mine,
What once was mine."

[Philomel]

The girl began to mouth those words. They were beautiful and soft to her tongue.

She wanted to find her prince. Maybe he would see her beauty, see her hair, and come and whisk her away.

He would be a nice man, a good man, one of the nicer kind of Mother's clients. He would have a grey stallion and they would ride away to go and start a new life, something full of hope.

Much better than here.

[Philomel]

It was not that she wanted to leave Mother.

No way. Mother was important. Mother was kind-hearted and soft spoken and more beautiful than any other person the girl knew. Beauty was a good weapon. It could be used for anything, apart from making Father stop hurting them.

Hurting them emotionally and physically. He thumped the same side of her head that had hit that wall.

[Philomel]

At that moment though -

A saviour.

"STOP!" the saviour shrieked. And grabbed his pounding hand. Straight out of the air, the girl saw. It was braver than anything, anyone she had ever seen.

And could only belong to one person.

[Philomel]

The girl had not even seen Mother come in. She gasped when she saw the strong legs and the firm-looking gaze.

The perfect curves, perfect hair. Everything perfect.

"Mother!"

"Philomel," Mother said, struggling with the powerful arm that was Father's. He longed to turn and now beat Mother, but Mother was not allowing it.

"Yes, Mother?"

"Run..."

[Philomel]

Run. Running. Run as fast a you can.

It is what Miranda and Rupert did, to get away from Rupert's father's bad men. They had chased them for a night and day and a night again across the river and plain, in order to get Rupert back. His father, the king, named Miranda a witch and said she had captured Rupert's heart with evil magics.

Run.

The girl looked up to Mother, and shook her head.

[Philomel]

"No," she said, clutching at the wall.

She grabbed the tapestry to pull herself up. But her leg was very sore. She collapsed.

So maybe running was not a good thing. Or standing up to Father. It was not even possible to-day.

"No," she said again, slightly defeated.

[Philomel]

Mother and Father were clearly wrestling.

The girl did not see this very much. Usually Mother just made him happy with a kiss and took him to bed and all was well. It would calm him down.

Bed after all was where Mother was best beautiful. But now, this night, he had caught her wanting to hit the girl, and that was not allowed in Mother's mind.

[Philomel]

Father was bad, definitely. Mother did not like it so it was bad. And Mother was always right.

Or the girl could have said that, answered that actually. Of course Father was bad. Other Fathers did not hit their daughters, not as far as other girls said. They were all human or elves, granted, and none were fauns, but race culture could not come into this. What was good and bad was beyond all realms of culture normality. It was what was accepted, what was proper.

What was moral.

[Philomel]

The girl knew about morals a lot. She had been taught about them by her tutor.

Everything from love to manners to dress came under it, how one behaved to traitors and strangers and how one responded to a challenge of a fight. Unless the person was bad, then they should be treated with respect. Badness should be dealt with equal to what they deserved. Wrong-doing would be met with wrong-doing.

Wrong and right was clear in the girl's head. A Mother should love her daughter, should brush her hair. A Father should give her hugs.

He should never ever beat her.

[Philomel]

Mother was the best of kind. She wrestled with Father like she would a bear.

The girl watched in awe, mouth open. Emotions were okay to show now ... she thought. Nothing like this had ever ... what?

They struggled for quite some time, faun against faun, brawn against strength. His hand held her wrist, her hand his fist. She tried to lock a hoof around his high-ankle, but he stepped out of the way and tried to kick her back.

She just dodged, wheeled them around, hissing.

"You will not touch my daughter."

[Philomel]

Mother was the best of kind. She wrestled with Father like she would a bear.

The girl watched in awe, mouth open. Emotions were okay to show now ... she thought. Nothing like this had ever ... what?

They struggled for quite some time, faun against faun, brawn against strength. His hand held her wrist, her hand his fist. She tried to lock a hoof around his high-ankle, but he stepped out of the way and tried to kick her back.

She just dodged, wheeled them around, hissing.

"You will not touch my daughter."

[Philomel]

"She's my fucking daughter too, bitch," he roared.

"She is an angel, you are a demon," Mother spat back in his face. "Demons cannot be born from angels."

If I am an angel, then I must be Mother's daughter, the girl concluded. For she is the best of those.

[Philomel]

For a while more they danced their ugly dance.

The girl found time to drag herself away. She could not limp for she could not even stand on her bad leg. Instead she pulled her sorry body out from where the parents fought, back into the main area of the lounge. Then there was the corridor, and from down there the door that Mother had left open.

Should she go out?

[Philomel]

Suddenly though, there was quiet.

The girl turned. She blinked in surprise to see that Father had fallen over. He was on the floor, his cheeks still flaring red but his eyes closed. It seemed he had fallen asleep, right then and there.

Mother left him immediately and came over. The girl was confused as to what had happened, but Mother said nothing and just scooped her up in her arms.

[Philomel]

"Mother ..." the girl said as the strong arms wrapped around her injured body. "What just..."

"Shush," Mother commanded, heading for the front door. "Nothing is wrong. I am going to take you to aunt Emerald's, okay?"

The girl looked over Mother's shoulder as she was carried away. Father lay there, still as anything apart from his chest, showing that he still breathed. It was like - like unconciousness. Like a man who had drunken too much that he had to sleep. But Father had not had that much. Otherwise he wouldn't have been able to beat the girl.

What - what was going on?

[Philomel]

But Mother carried her outside before the girl could see any more. She began to talk, saying that the girl would stay with aunt Emerald for the night, maybe a few days.

Aunt Emerald was nice. The girl liked her. She worked with Mother and was a close friend, and also lived around the corner so the girl saw her often. The girl opened her mouth to ask again what had happened to Father.

But -

"No, later, child, later."

[Philomel]

And that was it. She was not allowed to ask any more questions.

She was given to Aunt Emerald for the night, and healed with Aunt Emerald's magic. Full of questions, full of no answers. Full of hurt and confusion. What had happened? Why was Father like this? Was it just the drink or was it ... Why?

Why life? Why death? Why hurt and pain?

[Rayleigh]

Name of Thread: A Long Time Ago
Judgement Type: No Judgement
Participants: Philomel

Congratulations! Philomel receives:
2500 EXP
80 GP

These scores include the 3x Althanas Day special EXP awards.