Not far from the hospital
Jul 11, 2009 16:26:18 GMT -5
Post by Miranda on Jul 11, 2009 16:26:18 GMT -5
Miranda had taken to volunteering at a Catholic-run hospital at evenings, named - like her favorite cathedral, to which she regularly went to pray - for the Virgin Mary, tending to the sick and unconsciously focusing on young women her age, to the point of being nearly feverish herself in her enthusiasm for it. Outwardly, she was as calm and as graceful, as devoted and as foggy-seeming as ever, but she bit her lip more often, furrowed her golden brow, felt upset at something or other. And she had noticed a tendency to feel faint and dizzy whenever she rose to speak to one of the admiring priests, which at first had alarmed her; she thought perhaps she was coming down with one of the illnesses she helped to treat.
But then she found this trait the same in her encounters with Valmont, in her dealings with men on the streets and at the supermarket. At a distance, it was fine; if she was sitting, looking up at them, on the other side of a stall or a bed, she could smile, nod, carry on conversation. Once she stood and faced them, though, she found herself taking tiny steps back unconsciously, turning her body sharply to the side, even dashing around objects in the room to put something between them.
Miranda had been around men and women all of her life and nothing like this had ever happened before. Once she realized this, she found that trying to deliberately avoid the physical reaction only made it that much worse. Forcing herself to stand face to face with a man, even the most harmless, the ones she was fondest of, soon brought her to nausea. To keep from vomiting or fainting she had to turn away.
She was even more greatly affected when a bareheaded girl who could not have been any older than thirteen came into the hospital with bite marks, very human ones, and bruises on her throat, blood on the tops of her thighs, her clothing so torn she was hardly wearing it. She had wanted to take care of this girl desperately, almost frantically, but in close contact with her - she was in hysterics - had swooned into the arms of one of the male attendants, and then had shoved herself off of him in a panic.
No, this didn't work, this didn't work.
Miranda was pondering this distressing subject the night she left for Valmont's estate and heard a woman scream somewhere down the street.
Despite all her other great issues, Miranda had not learned a fear of dark, empty streets, and had run down it, her dress flapping, breathlessly trying to seek out the woman who had screamed. She saw the silhouettes then, the mugger with his hand clasped around her mouth, the woman's sobs silenced.
She wasn't even thinking when she threw herself at him and tried to pull him off. After he ran down the street, Miranda offered to take the woman - whom she assumed was a prostitute who would not press charges, not bothering, knowing she would not be taken seriously - to the hospital.
She accepted. But she was not a prostitute, as it turned out; she had indeed run off somewhat rebelliously from a chaperone and gotten lost, but she was rich and she was innocent enough to earn sympathy from Victorian jurors, and she wanted the man behind bars. Before her regretful, tearful parents came to pick her up from the hospital, she asked Miranda if she could be counted on as a witness.
And Miranda accepted too.
But then she found this trait the same in her encounters with Valmont, in her dealings with men on the streets and at the supermarket. At a distance, it was fine; if she was sitting, looking up at them, on the other side of a stall or a bed, she could smile, nod, carry on conversation. Once she stood and faced them, though, she found herself taking tiny steps back unconsciously, turning her body sharply to the side, even dashing around objects in the room to put something between them.
Miranda had been around men and women all of her life and nothing like this had ever happened before. Once she realized this, she found that trying to deliberately avoid the physical reaction only made it that much worse. Forcing herself to stand face to face with a man, even the most harmless, the ones she was fondest of, soon brought her to nausea. To keep from vomiting or fainting she had to turn away.
She was even more greatly affected when a bareheaded girl who could not have been any older than thirteen came into the hospital with bite marks, very human ones, and bruises on her throat, blood on the tops of her thighs, her clothing so torn she was hardly wearing it. She had wanted to take care of this girl desperately, almost frantically, but in close contact with her - she was in hysterics - had swooned into the arms of one of the male attendants, and then had shoved herself off of him in a panic.
No, this didn't work, this didn't work.
Miranda was pondering this distressing subject the night she left for Valmont's estate and heard a woman scream somewhere down the street.
Despite all her other great issues, Miranda had not learned a fear of dark, empty streets, and had run down it, her dress flapping, breathlessly trying to seek out the woman who had screamed. She saw the silhouettes then, the mugger with his hand clasped around her mouth, the woman's sobs silenced.
She wasn't even thinking when she threw herself at him and tried to pull him off. After he ran down the street, Miranda offered to take the woman - whom she assumed was a prostitute who would not press charges, not bothering, knowing she would not be taken seriously - to the hospital.
She accepted. But she was not a prostitute, as it turned out; she had indeed run off somewhat rebelliously from a chaperone and gotten lost, but she was rich and she was innocent enough to earn sympathy from Victorian jurors, and she wanted the man behind bars. Before her regretful, tearful parents came to pick her up from the hospital, she asked Miranda if she could be counted on as a witness.
And Miranda accepted too.