Work Text:
Clear night. The moon shines bright white through Toni’s window as she gazes at the spot where her title would sit. Should sit. It doesn’t matter much anymore, does it? The belt lies dull and forgotten in her suitcase. Luther had offered to polish it for her, hovering anxiously near her chaise until she’d snapped at him to leave her alone.
Her head hurts. Dull throb at her hairline, but the main sensation is the burn. Dear Mariah’s lips, pressed hot and scathing to Toni’s scalp as she gushed blood. Dear Mariah, holding Toni’s head up like a hunting trophy. Dear Mariah, grunting with every repeated impact as she swings her arm, over and over.
The blood had dried sticky on Toni’s skin. The tears had cut their searing path through it. All fresh, all burning, and still everything feels dull without Mariah.
Two weeks ago, Toni had felt so faint that Mariah had insisted on helping her shower, soft hands gently working out the knots in Toni’s poor, overworked back. As much as she so often feels—felt—feels—like Mariah could be her daughter, she’d looked at Mariah like a mother that day.
Toni thinks she might forgive anything at all if Mariah walked through the door now, all that beauty and devotion focused on Toni.