Second Novel: Tarnished Innocence: Chapter 3: Hospital

8 May

Brenda Chiatovich: - I created the concept of The Homewrecker series. A girl who has lived such a privileged life she does not even realize she is privileged. Now she must adjust to a world she does not understand and she has to face herself in the process.

Brenda Chiatovich:

I created the concept of The Homewrecker series. A girl who has lived such a privileged life she does not even realize she is privileged. Now she must adjust to a world she does not understand and she has to face herself in the process.

Tiffany Chiatovich Melendez: - Hello. I am Brenda's daughter. When my grand pop and my mom were deciding on a name for LC's arch nemesis they chose one of my nicknames, Peaches.  - In the second novel I appear again, this time as Sara, another of my nicknames.  - Sara is a fun character based loosely on my personality. Please, it is NOT biographical in any way. This is, after all, a work of fiction.

Tiffany Chiatovich Melendez:

Hello. I am Brenda’s daughter. When my grand pop and my mom were deciding on a name for LC’s arch nemesis they chose one of my nicknames, Peaches.

In the second novel I appear again, this time as Sara, another of my nicknames.

Sara is a fun character based loosely on my personality. Please, it is NOT biographical in any way. This is, after all, a work of fiction.

 

 

LC lay in the hospital bed feeling miserable. Her experiences the past few days left her physically exhausted. She had never put forth so much effort for so long with so little food or rest. She was mentally tired. She had never before met a problem that did not have a predefined answer. School work always had one answer, or at worst, one best answer. Social problems, for a girl of her upbringing, always had the solution, “A lady always acts like a lady.” She had never in her life met, let alone dealt with, a no win situation.

She was emotionally drained. She had never before dealt with situations where she had to make snap judgements, based not on right or wrong, not on an answer someone could give her, but based solely on her own character and identity: Who she really was. Nor had she ever dealt with a situation where the answer did not depend on “What a Lady would do” or “What is right or wrong” but instead the answer relied solely on “How do I survive?” Or worse, “Who am I?” She suddenly had to face a fact about herself. Perhaps about the human condition itself. When it came to survival what was right or wrong, what was ladylike or not, had no meaning for her. She had to face the fact that when it came to survival she would do whatever it took to stay alive another day.

For a woman who had been raised in a protected environment her entire life this was a hard fact about herself to face.

But it was true and she no longer knew how to feel about herself. In truth, who she really was had never come into question or been an issue before in her life. In the past every major issue had been resolved by how you present yourself. You are a Lady. You act like one.

How does a Lady act?

Now it was other questions she had to answer. Should she feel proud of herself that she had found whatever resources she needed to survive, or ashamed of herself that she realized she could, and would, resort to any means necessary when danger threatened?

No. It wasn’t that simple either. When faced with three women she did not know pitted against each other in a jail cell she had chosen without any knowledge of what would be the winning choice. She had never been taught a protocol for what a Lady would do in jail. Ladies did not go to jail.

She had to choose based on who she was.

So who was she?

For the minute LC put that question aside. Right now her body was beaten, banged, sore, pricked, and gouged from her escape from the cabin last night. Escaping, of all things, from a murderer named Peaches. How on earth does one feel endangered from a five foot six inch skinny girl barely seventeen years old named, of all things, Peaches? Peaches Pardot. Yet she had been. So much so that she had managed to propel herself in a mad roll through the woods to escape while tied hand and foot. Her wrists and ankles still had ugly bruised rope burns.

A doctor, about thirty years old, curly brown hair and clever brown eyes, entered the room. He looked at her and smiled. She found herself smiling back, somewhat embarrassed to be seen by a good looking man in such disreputable condition. Any man. Doctor or not.

He paused and looked at his charts. “I guess I’m not your doctor,” he said to his clipboard. “So you must be the woman I have heard so much about.”

It seemed as though everyone had heard about her, but at least she wasn’t a fugitive wanted for murder any more. She was a victim in a hospital. Or was she?

I guess.” She replied.

Probably just as well,” he nodded. “I am sure I would be no match for your charms.”

I don’t feel charming.”

You will. I heard your aunt talking in the hallway. She was saying the first step in recovery for any woman is a beauty treatment. I’m sure you will be your most fetching self in an hour.” His smile was seductive and infectious. LC felt herself respond in kind.

If you wish to start a full-time profession I have a friend who could benefit from the services of an able homewrecker.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes betrayed a seriousness whose humor was sardonic, not playful.

Her mind went over what Violet had said. Violet, who had been tossed in jail for beating up a woman she claimed to have been defending. Violet, a boxer by trade. “I’m a professional. I don’t fight unless there is a purse on the table. If I don’t get paid I don’t fight.” Then her mind flashed forward to Tulkhorn, the highest priced, most exclusive lawyer in the state. “I get paid well for what I do. I do what I am paid to for. What I am not paid for I do not do.” For a quick second she wondered what he might know she did not, then she put the thought away.

I’ll let you know if I do. But if I were to, I would have to have professional standards, and charge a professional wage. I have no idea what a professional homewrecker would charge.” She was trying to be playful, but she knew a part of her, a new part that was just a little scary, was sizing up the situation for survival potential.

He was serious. The brown of his eyes evaluating. His mouth was still smiling, as though the smile itself had been forgotten, left on his mouth like a hat on a rack left in a restaurant after the patron has left the building. “When I hired a private detective he charged me one hundred dollars an hour plus expenses.”

LC whistled.

Ah. Here is your aunt,” he said as Emerald pushed through the door. He brushed past her as he went out the door and to the next patient without further comment.

 

 

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