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thejusticelounge2012-08-18 08:23 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2012-08-18 08:23 pm
Entry tags:
caro
It started when she was a young girl, just starting kindergarten. Her parents knew a lady who ran a daycare and arranged for Selene to go there after school. Every day at one o’clock, Selene would walk the three blocks to her sitter’s house to play with the other children and wait for one of her parents to pick her up at six. It was there that she found Miss Kitty.
Miss Kitty was a small white stuffed cat with black spots, the perfect size for cuddling. Selene carried her everywhere she went and cried every time she had to leave Miss Kitty at the sitter’s. Selene asked, one day, if she could keep Miss Kitty, since she was her best friend, but the sitter just laughed and told Selene that Miss Kitty had to stay, because once Selene was grown, she would be the best friend of other boys and girls.
Selene didn’t like that.
So, one day, when all the other kids were playing in the yard, she took Miss Kitty over to the curb by the gutter. When she was sure no one was looking, she hid Miss Kitty safely in her little bag and started to cry.
“Miss M! Miss M!!”
The sitter ran over to her. “What happened, Selene? Did you get hurt? What happened?”
“Miss M— Miss Kitty— she fell down the drain! I tripped and she fell and I can’t get her back!” She collapsed into Miss M’s arms in hysterics, not to be consoled by anything.
But that night, in the darkness of her bedroom, she pulled Miss Kitty out of her bag and cuddled her close, whispering promises that she’d never let her get lost down a gutter or get hurt by some terrible child.
When she was eight, her father had an accident that kept him off work for a long time. She never knew exactly what had happened, only that his accident meant that they didn’t have as much money anymore. Her mother would try to pack Selene something for lunch every day, but by the end of the month, all their food was being saved for dinners. Selene learned how to get by a whole day without lunch, but, of course, some days were worse than others.
Rich Angie-Mae—rich because her parents owned two cars that both worked—always bought lunch at school on pizza days, but never finished it all. She’d eat everything but the crusts and throw them away into the trash. Selene would watch her, clutching Miss Kitty tightly, as she delicately nibbled all the cheese off the edge, and tossed them into the garbage. Once, Selene asked her for the crusts, since she was done, and she was so hungry. But Angie-Mae just laughed, the gaping hole where her top left tooth should be angering Selene more than anything else, and threw away the crusts right in front of her.
“Get them out of there if you’re so hungry. Trash-digger!”
Selene just glared as Angie-Mae and her friends laughed, silently swearing revenge.
For the next week, Selene was seated next to Angie-Mae, and every day she would take a few cents from her and her friends. Finally, on the next pizza day, Selene bought two slices for herself, eating every last crumb. She watched Angie-Mae whine about not having enough money for pizza, and smiled. Angie-Mae never even guessed it was her.
By the time she was fourteen, Selene Caro could steal anything from anyone she wanted. She always had money for new clothes and new nail polish and new makeup. Her mother almost asked her where she kept getting the money, worried about what her daughter might be doing to earn this new income, but Selene looked healthy and they had food, so she let it go. Her father, on the other hand, sat her down one night to have it out with her, speaking in slow English to choose his words carefully.
“Cara, I don’t want you doing anything hurting yourself.”
“Yes, papà.”
“I know you want to help your family, but we will get by. Your body is your—”
“Papà! I’m not doing anything. I just find the money! Gotham people are careless.”
“Selene! Se stai mentendo a me— I’ll trust you. But remember, cara, no matter who tempts you, there is not enough money in the world worth making yourself impure.”
“Sì, papà. I’ll remember.”
At sixteen, her father was working again, long hours, but lots of pay. He was gone before she woke for school and didn’t return until long after she was home, but Selene didn’t mind. She got to spend more time with her mother, and that was well worth it.
“Maman, what do you think of… impurity?”
“‘Impurity’? Where would you hear that?”
“Papà says I shouldn’t make myself impure. He’s been saying it a lot lately.”
“Quel salaud! There is nothing ‘impure’ about you or anything you choose to do! Impurity was designed by men to keep women in their control. You listen to me, Sélène! You can do whatever you like with whoever you like, so long as you’re safe about it. Comprends?”
“Oui, maman. Je comprend.”
She stopped listening to her father from then on, with his constant talks of “protecting her purity” and of her “gift to her husband”. Selene didn’t want a husband. Boys were fun, sure, but not that fun. She had boyfriends and sometimes she had sex with them, but she only confided in her mother.
At eighteen, immediately after graduation, she left for Gotham proper, aiming to become a model. Gotham was bright and gorgeous, all glamour and lights and people. On her first paying gig, she met Stan Miller, lead photographer and all-around sleaze.
“Who’s Suhleen Car-o?”
“Selene Caro.”
“The hell’s that? Spanish?”
“Italian.”
“Y’don’t look it.”
“I’m half. Half-Italian, half-French.”
“Yeah, well this is all-American, so if ya wanna work, ya gotta have a better name. Somethin’ plain, easy to say.”
“I’ll work on that. Do I have a job?”
“Fiery. I like it. I think I know just the thing for you.”
She saved the photos from her first shoot—a perfect 50s housewife that turned into a dominatrix—and sent a copy of the magazine to her mother, with strict instructions to never allow her father to see it.
The magazine listed her as “Selina Kyle.”
Miss Kitty was a small white stuffed cat with black spots, the perfect size for cuddling. Selene carried her everywhere she went and cried every time she had to leave Miss Kitty at the sitter’s. Selene asked, one day, if she could keep Miss Kitty, since she was her best friend, but the sitter just laughed and told Selene that Miss Kitty had to stay, because once Selene was grown, she would be the best friend of other boys and girls.
Selene didn’t like that.
So, one day, when all the other kids were playing in the yard, she took Miss Kitty over to the curb by the gutter. When she was sure no one was looking, she hid Miss Kitty safely in her little bag and started to cry.
“Miss M! Miss M!!”
The sitter ran over to her. “What happened, Selene? Did you get hurt? What happened?”
“Miss M— Miss Kitty— she fell down the drain! I tripped and she fell and I can’t get her back!” She collapsed into Miss M’s arms in hysterics, not to be consoled by anything.
But that night, in the darkness of her bedroom, she pulled Miss Kitty out of her bag and cuddled her close, whispering promises that she’d never let her get lost down a gutter or get hurt by some terrible child.
When she was eight, her father had an accident that kept him off work for a long time. She never knew exactly what had happened, only that his accident meant that they didn’t have as much money anymore. Her mother would try to pack Selene something for lunch every day, but by the end of the month, all their food was being saved for dinners. Selene learned how to get by a whole day without lunch, but, of course, some days were worse than others.
Rich Angie-Mae—rich because her parents owned two cars that both worked—always bought lunch at school on pizza days, but never finished it all. She’d eat everything but the crusts and throw them away into the trash. Selene would watch her, clutching Miss Kitty tightly, as she delicately nibbled all the cheese off the edge, and tossed them into the garbage. Once, Selene asked her for the crusts, since she was done, and she was so hungry. But Angie-Mae just laughed, the gaping hole where her top left tooth should be angering Selene more than anything else, and threw away the crusts right in front of her.
“Get them out of there if you’re so hungry. Trash-digger!”
Selene just glared as Angie-Mae and her friends laughed, silently swearing revenge.
For the next week, Selene was seated next to Angie-Mae, and every day she would take a few cents from her and her friends. Finally, on the next pizza day, Selene bought two slices for herself, eating every last crumb. She watched Angie-Mae whine about not having enough money for pizza, and smiled. Angie-Mae never even guessed it was her.
By the time she was fourteen, Selene Caro could steal anything from anyone she wanted. She always had money for new clothes and new nail polish and new makeup. Her mother almost asked her where she kept getting the money, worried about what her daughter might be doing to earn this new income, but Selene looked healthy and they had food, so she let it go. Her father, on the other hand, sat her down one night to have it out with her, speaking in slow English to choose his words carefully.
“Cara, I don’t want you doing anything hurting yourself.”
“Yes, papà.”
“I know you want to help your family, but we will get by. Your body is your—”
“Papà! I’m not doing anything. I just find the money! Gotham people are careless.”
“Selene! Se stai mentendo a me— I’ll trust you. But remember, cara, no matter who tempts you, there is not enough money in the world worth making yourself impure.”
“Sì, papà. I’ll remember.”
At sixteen, her father was working again, long hours, but lots of pay. He was gone before she woke for school and didn’t return until long after she was home, but Selene didn’t mind. She got to spend more time with her mother, and that was well worth it.
“Maman, what do you think of… impurity?”
“‘Impurity’? Where would you hear that?”
“Papà says I shouldn’t make myself impure. He’s been saying it a lot lately.”
“Quel salaud! There is nothing ‘impure’ about you or anything you choose to do! Impurity was designed by men to keep women in their control. You listen to me, Sélène! You can do whatever you like with whoever you like, so long as you’re safe about it. Comprends?”
“Oui, maman. Je comprend.”
She stopped listening to her father from then on, with his constant talks of “protecting her purity” and of her “gift to her husband”. Selene didn’t want a husband. Boys were fun, sure, but not that fun. She had boyfriends and sometimes she had sex with them, but she only confided in her mother.
At eighteen, immediately after graduation, she left for Gotham proper, aiming to become a model. Gotham was bright and gorgeous, all glamour and lights and people. On her first paying gig, she met Stan Miller, lead photographer and all-around sleaze.
“Who’s Suhleen Car-o?”
“Selene Caro.”
“The hell’s that? Spanish?”
“Italian.”
“Y’don’t look it.”
“I’m half. Half-Italian, half-French.”
“Yeah, well this is all-American, so if ya wanna work, ya gotta have a better name. Somethin’ plain, easy to say.”
“I’ll work on that. Do I have a job?”
“Fiery. I like it. I think I know just the thing for you.”
She saved the photos from her first shoot—a perfect 50s housewife that turned into a dominatrix—and sent a copy of the magazine to her mother, with strict instructions to never allow her father to see it.
The magazine listed her as “Selina Kyle.”