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31_days2013-05-01 10:08 am
halleyscomet.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2013-05-01 10:08 am
[May 1] [Avengers Cinematic Universe] - Maria was Always Rebellious
Title: Maria was Always Rebellious
Day/Theme: 1. ignoring all the voices from my wall
Series: Marvel / Avengers Cinematic Universe
Character/Pairing: Maria Hill, mention of Captain America.
Rating: PG-13 TW: Verbally / Mentally abusive parent.
“MARIA!”
It was father. He was angry again. Fortunately he tended to yell when he was storming to her room. This gave Maria time to gather together the Captain America cards and hide them. She’d gotten quite good at hiding the things Father didn’t think a girl should have.
The door slammed open as her father screamed “MARIA!”
She looked up, grasping one of the dolls she pretended to play with when Father was around.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he bellowed, waving a piece of paper in the air.
Maria Hill didn’t answer.
“ANSWER ME you Mother killing little brat!” he screamed.
“I’d have to read it to know what it is.”
“You’d have to-” Father reeled back in disgust. “Don’t get smart with me,” he said, slapping her. “I’ll tell you what this is. It’s a note from your teacher. You were fighting again and I’m supposed to come down to hear another lecture about how you keep getting in fights with the boys. What do I have to do to get you to act the way you’re supposed to? I need you to be respectful, polite, to act like a little girl, not a boy who needs a good beating. People TALK about me when you act this way, they think BAD of me because you don’t have a mother to teach you how to act, but that's not MY fault is it?”
Maria didn’t answer. Her Mother had died the day she was born. This was something that seemed to always be in the forefront of Father’s mind.
“You!” he shouted, “Are going to stop being a brat. You are going to be a model daughter, because having a goddamn tomboy is reflecting badly on me at work, church and in the community. It stops NOW.” He slapped her again and stormed out. He slammed the door so hard behind him that the walls shook and a breeze made the corners of the posters flutter.
Father was always a fan of being forceful, not subtle. The posters were part of his campaign to make his little girl, the one he didn’t want, act like a girl, sweet, submissive, polite. Maria looked at the posters. The ballerinas looked like they were dancing. The mermaids almost swam as their paper world fluttered. All around her a universe of pastel princesses and cute animals fluttered and danced, calling out for her attention and loyalty.
Maria held up her hand and extended her middle finger, showing it to all the posters. She lifted the other hand and repeated the gesture, slowly turning around to flip off all the pretty, proper things she was supposed to like. When she heard Father slam the front door as he left, she sat down and pulled aside a loose floorboard. This particular hiding place had a shoebox of plastic soldiers and some tattered paperbacks. The oldest of the soldiers had been clumsily painted with Captain America’s Red, White and Blue, complete with a button glued to his hand as his shield. Flipping through the paperbacks, she decided against re-reading any of the Ian Fleming and instead picked up “War Against the Mafia” by Don Pendleton. It was her first time with this one and she was really enjoying it.
The posters had stopped fluttering, their mute appeals silenced by the fictional Mack Bolan’s crusade for vengeance.
Day/Theme: 1. ignoring all the voices from my wall
Series: Marvel / Avengers Cinematic Universe
Character/Pairing: Maria Hill, mention of Captain America.
Rating: PG-13 TW: Verbally / Mentally abusive parent.
“MARIA!”
It was father. He was angry again. Fortunately he tended to yell when he was storming to her room. This gave Maria time to gather together the Captain America cards and hide them. She’d gotten quite good at hiding the things Father didn’t think a girl should have.
The door slammed open as her father screamed “MARIA!”
She looked up, grasping one of the dolls she pretended to play with when Father was around.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he bellowed, waving a piece of paper in the air.
Maria Hill didn’t answer.
“ANSWER ME you Mother killing little brat!” he screamed.
“I’d have to read it to know what it is.”
“You’d have to-” Father reeled back in disgust. “Don’t get smart with me,” he said, slapping her. “I’ll tell you what this is. It’s a note from your teacher. You were fighting again and I’m supposed to come down to hear another lecture about how you keep getting in fights with the boys. What do I have to do to get you to act the way you’re supposed to? I need you to be respectful, polite, to act like a little girl, not a boy who needs a good beating. People TALK about me when you act this way, they think BAD of me because you don’t have a mother to teach you how to act, but that's not MY fault is it?”
Maria didn’t answer. Her Mother had died the day she was born. This was something that seemed to always be in the forefront of Father’s mind.
“You!” he shouted, “Are going to stop being a brat. You are going to be a model daughter, because having a goddamn tomboy is reflecting badly on me at work, church and in the community. It stops NOW.” He slapped her again and stormed out. He slammed the door so hard behind him that the walls shook and a breeze made the corners of the posters flutter.
Father was always a fan of being forceful, not subtle. The posters were part of his campaign to make his little girl, the one he didn’t want, act like a girl, sweet, submissive, polite. Maria looked at the posters. The ballerinas looked like they were dancing. The mermaids almost swam as their paper world fluttered. All around her a universe of pastel princesses and cute animals fluttered and danced, calling out for her attention and loyalty.
Maria held up her hand and extended her middle finger, showing it to all the posters. She lifted the other hand and repeated the gesture, slowly turning around to flip off all the pretty, proper things she was supposed to like. When she heard Father slam the front door as he left, she sat down and pulled aside a loose floorboard. This particular hiding place had a shoebox of plastic soldiers and some tattered paperbacks. The oldest of the soldiers had been clumsily painted with Captain America’s Red, White and Blue, complete with a button glued to his hand as his shield. Flipping through the paperbacks, she decided against re-reading any of the Ian Fleming and instead picked up “War Against the Mafia” by Don Pendleton. It was her first time with this one and she was really enjoying it.
The posters had stopped fluttering, their mute appeals silenced by the fictional Mack Bolan’s crusade for vengeance.