Author's Note: I saw the video kitnkabootle posted
at the dvlwears_prada community, at Live Journal,
called 'Miranda Priestly's Quest For Perfection' and
this idea kinda popped into my head, not what she was
going with it the video but you know... when inspiration hits you gotta go with it.
Home
by Barnaby
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Home.
The word meant nothing to her anymore.
The house that stood before her meant just about as much as the word.
Home.
She had last seen this particular house
thirty plus years ago. She wouldn’t say how long of course, that would mean
revealing her age.
Home.
Her father had lived and died in this
house. Her mother merely graced the house with her presence, to be frank that
was her main influence in her life, her mothers
indifference.
Home.
A house on the
outskirts of the middle of nowhere, in littlesville,
a place where two girls had been raised. By their father. She had seen what her mother had done to
her father, pushed him to the brink that led him to drink and eventually death,
and she had made herself a promise; not to be her mother.
Home.
The place haunted her. Brought back
memories of her mother coming home late at night; of her father siting alone in his study, a bottle of single malt sitting
on the desk beside him; memories of her sister sitting in their room crying
because she was pregnant and didn’t know how to tell their parents; of herself
picking their father up from the bathroom floor because he had passed out while
vomiting up his dinner.
Home.
Miranda Priestly had not viewed this
house in any light since leaving it more than three decades ago however,
circumstances now forced her to face the memories that she had long since
hidden in the farthest recesses of her mind.
“Miranda?” came
a soft voice behind her. She had not wanted to bring the girl with her on this
necessary trip. Her mother was selling the house and Miranda had not wanted to
handle the sale but was given little choice. Since this place held such tragic
memories for her it was something that she was loathe to let
her assistants handle, or anyone else for that matter.
When she had told the girl that had
accompanied her on this trip of what was happening, the girl had insisted on
accompanying her, despite her many protests.
She had never told anyone of what went on
in the house, or her childhood and she certainly did not intend to start by
telling this foolishly naïve girl who was standing behind her. She was certain
that the girl suspected that this place held bad memories for her and that was
why Miranda hadn’t told her much about her life before Runway.
Home.
She had been romantically involved with
the girl for over a year now. They had even begun sharing closet space, though
only at the townhouse; she would not be seen anywhere near that hole of an
apartment. She was considering asking the girl to move in with her, the twins
thought it was about time that they lived together, but she had yet to find the
courage.
They had even done the ‘weekend with the
parents’ thing, though they had not ventured near Miranda’s mother, only
because Miranda’s mother made it known that she and her ‘gold digging whore’
were not welcome.
Home.
The place in
“Miranda? Is everything okay?” The voice comes from behind her again.
“No! I do not see why she insisted that I
handle this. Surely Maryanne could have.” Maryanne, now that was a name she had
not spoken in a long time. Though she and her sister had been close at one time
they grew apart when Miranda moved to
“Why don’t you ever
talk about it Miranda? I mean what could have been so
bad about this place that you never talk about it?”
“You don’t know… you couldn’t know what
it was like. You yourself have called me an unfeeling bitch. Everything I am,
or do, I learnt from my mother. She was worse than I am. I have tried, for the
sake of the girls, not to be like her. She was always working, or late, most
nights that my father raised my sister and I. It
eventually drove him to the grave, he would drink constantly.”
Home.
A place she vowed she’d never tell a soul
about. A place she now found herself telling this girl about.
“Come on, surely you're not serious.” One
look at Miranda’s face told her, of course, that Miranda was telling the truth.
“Of course you are, you don’t lie.”
“Correct. There is a reason I do not talk
about my life. There are things, stories, about this house that I wont tell you because I had tried very hard to put them
behind me. I have tried to be something more to my girls than what my mother
was to me, I haven’t succeeded but nor have I failed. The one thing I regret
however is that I haven’t been able to keep a man in my life for them to have a
father… figure. They have their father, yes, but not someone there, another
parent, when I am not.
My father, for as long as I can remember,
was my sole parent. My mother was there, certainly, but she was always absent
even when she was home. My father eventually started drinking heavier and that
is as much as I am going to reveal. I can not plague your mind with stories of
my life. There have been nights when we have lain in bed and you were telling a
story from your childhood and I would envy you. I listened to you on those
nights explaining away your perfect childhood and I would then think of my own
and feel
nauseous. I did not have the perfect childhood, and yes I know what it means
to make ends meet. I have been there.
You once accused me, not too long ago, of
not knowing what it means to not know where your next meal is coming from; of
not knowing what it means to not have a penny to my name. The fact is, I do. My mother worked for every dollar she made and we
never saw one ounce of that money. When I moved to New York I wasn’t employed
straight away as an editor-in-chief, I didn’t have a penny to my name. This is
where I came from and when I’m reminded of it I feel ill.”
Home.
“You know they say that home is where the
heart is. Miranda I don’t care what it is about this house that has you so
upset. I’m sorry I pushed you. The fact of the matter is,
what happened here made you the woman you are now, the woman I love, the
strongest woman I know and that is something that can only be bred by
experience. Miranda you need to let go of this, move on. You have a stable
home, the girls are doing good, great even, and you
are a great mother, you’re there for them, more often now, sure, but you don’t
neglect them. You are a great woman and mother and that’s the bottom line!”
Home.
God this woman knew how to talk, knew just what to say, and she had to admit the girl
had a way with words.
“There is so much about that aspect of my
life that you don’t know, that I may share with you,
but in time my darling.” She stared hard at the house in front of her.
Home.
“Miranda?” The voice said softly. “I love you.”
“And I love you, Andrea”
Home, was a place in New York, where she
lived with her two daughters, a place where she shared a closet with Andrea,
where she had made love to Andrea for the first time, where she wished she
could have Andrea there to greet her all the time.
Home.
¬ Return to DWP home