PunkPrince
Elder Member
...I wonder so often why you never write to me. I imagine you have lots of friends to spend time with. That's good. I didn't have many good friends at your age, so I like to think that perhaps you've made out better than I did in that department. I think of you often. I wonder what you're doing. What your interests are. How much you might be like me. What you look like now. I haven't seen you since your mother took you home from the hospital. I've written you a letter once a week since then. Your mother promised me she would read them to you until you could do so on your own.
But, all that aside, not much is new with either Tammie or myself. She's been writing more. Her stories are wonderful. I'd love to send you one. I'll have her photocopy the notebook pages for you the next time she heads past the library, and I'll mail it with my next letter if I have it by then.
I dyed my hair again on Tuesday, but the roots have already started coming in dark. I've debated dying it all back to brown, but I've been blonde for so long now that my natural color feels strange. Got some new lipstick too. It's a different shade of red from my usual.
Your Uncle Devin took Tammie and I to lunch last weekend. He was insistent that we also take Marbles, which was fine until he peeped out of your uncle's bag and the waiter mistook the ferret for a rat. Don't ask me how. I wish you could meet him. You'd like him. Your uncle, I mean, though I'm sure you'd like the ferret too. He asks about you. I don't have much to report back to him.
I send you positivity every night. I suppose praying is the closest word for it, though I've never been religious. I hope you pass any big tests that might be coming up. I hope you wake up feeling wonderful. I hope you never hurt a day in your life–but I suppose this is wishful thinking at best, so along with that I hope that any hurt may pass you quickly. Most of all, with all those things and more, I hope you know that you are loved by both Tammie and myself, even though you might never know us fully.
I'll write to you again next week. I'm supposed to go out tomorrow morning, so I'll drop this in the mailbox on the way.
Love always,
Marilyn
Marilyn paused as she penned the final lines of her letter. The whole thing in it's entirety was two pages front and back. For someone with little changing news to report, she could still write quite a bit. The woman bit the cap of her pen and gazed at her closing. She never knew how to sign these. In a biological sense, she was the girl's father, but any variant of "dad" was absolutely out of the question. But she already had a mom. So Marilyn, although reluctantly, simply signed her name and pressed her lips to the paper, leaving a kiss in the shade of whatever her current lipstick was beside it.
The woman pushed the chair back from the tiny table off to the side of the motel room and stood up, glancing toward the door. Tammie had left at the same time as Marilyn and still had yet to return, while Marilyn had come back and changed out of her corset and leather shorts nearly an hour ago. The pair of them always made a deal to be home before four in the morning at the latest. She looked toward the clock.
3:46 A.M.
Marilyn let out a concerned sigh and stumbled over to the dresser, rummaging through it for a pair of pants and an old t-shirt. Prior to this she had only been wearing a pair underwear–the ones she often slept in–without a shirt–exposing her still flat chest. She hardly ever wound up putting clothes on after she managed to wriggle free from her work outfit. The corset pinched her skin and sometimes made it hard for her to breathe. The leather shorts often became sticky with sweat and clung to her thighs in itchy, uncomfortable ways. The fishnet tights would fold awkwardly under her shorts, and the high heels caused her feet to ache. Once she got all of it off she always felt as though she could go her entire life without ever wearing clothes again.
The permanently unlocked door opened before she could properly dress herself. She hastily pulled on her clothes as Tammie stumbled in, a trash bag slung over her shoulder. Marilyn ran over and threw her arms around her.
"You're late!" she cried, pressing relieved kisses to the other woman's cheeks. "Where have you been? I was about to go looking for you!"
"Sorry," Tammie said, undoing the front of her black corset and kicking off her knee high boots. Her own chest was fuller–a B cup– and her hips she developing soft curves, a result of her hormone use. "I had a client who kept me long." She paused. "He gave me a fifty. We might manage some groceries this week after all!"
She bent down to rummage through her trash bag. "And look what else! I snagged these from behind Speedway on the walk back. It's a bunch of sandwiches they tossed. They're a few hours past their prime, but they're still warm and still wrapped."
She pulled one out and passed it to Marilyn. "It's chicken."
"Yeah, fake chicken," Marilyn said, tearing the paper down and wolfing down the sandwich before reaching for another.
"Either way," Tammie said through a mouthful of cheeseburger, giving her hair a toss. "When was the last time either one of us had meat, fake or not?"
Marilyn mumbled her agreement through a mouthful of food. She swallowed and tossed the crumpled wrapper toward the trash, which bounced off the can and rolled across the room.
"When did you get back?" Tammie asked.
"About an hour ago. I...I was writing to Jade again." Her face reddened underneath her smudged makeup. Part of her always felt silly doing it. She didn't even know if the girl ever even read her letters, or was even getting them to begin with. "I just...I miss her. I know there's no reason for her to start writing me back now, but..."
Tammie nuzzled Marilyn's neck affectionately. "She's young. She might be caught up in her own life. And even so, keep writing your letters. She'll know you're here if she needs you, when she does decide she's ready."
"Mm," Marilyn said, glancing up as the wind pushed the door open. She sighed and shoved it shut, though she knew it was no use. The lock had been broken since she had moved in, and all that remained to even attempt to keep the thing closed was the chain latch inside the door. She clipped the latch shut and shivered as the cold breeze hit her. She leaned against the wall and her gaze drifted to the ceiling.
Jade. The last Marilyn had seen her had been the day she had left the hospital with her mother. Marilyn had loved that kid, but knew she couldn't care for her. It wasn't like they'd been some picture perfect nuclear family. Marilyn had come out as transgender to her parents, they'd kicked her out. Having no money and no job, she'd been forced into prostitution to keep herself live. Her pansexuality had meant she was open to basically anyone. Women were rare, but she did see them on occasion. An hour of nervous fumbling with a woman she had hardly known for ten dollars and a loaf of bread had brought the girl into existence.
Marilyn would have taken her. She'd known better. The girl deserved to be raised by somebody stable and well equipped to do so, not a transgender prostitute stuck in a motel room who was constantly having her life threatened by people who were not so open to the way that she was. So she'd let the child go, letters her only form of (unanswered) correspondence.
She slipped past Tammie and into the bathroom. Shutting the door behind her, she heard a soft tapping at the door to the motel room. She stiffened. It was too early. She stuck her head out the bathroom door. Tammie was slowly pulling on a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt.
"Check the peephole before you open it," Marilyn instructed her. Tammie shrank away from the door and eyed it suspiciously. She knew as well as Marilyn that nothing good came for them in the dead of night.
The smaller woman crept toward the doorway and peeked out through the peephole. She was surprised to see the form of a child standing there, looking rather battered.
"Well?" Marilyn asked. "What is it, Mouse?"
"It's some kid," Tammie whispered back. "She looks hurt."
Marilyn hesitated. Of course, the maternal side of her undeniably wanted to pull the girl in and help her. But then there was the jaded part of her. The part of her that was used to being trapped and hurt. She sighed. "I...open the door, Mouse. Let her in. But keep your guard up." She retreated back into the bathroom, though she left the door cracked.
Tammie slowly unlatched the door and pulled it open. "Hello there," she said softly, looking curiously at the child. "Are you all right?"
But, all that aside, not much is new with either Tammie or myself. She's been writing more. Her stories are wonderful. I'd love to send you one. I'll have her photocopy the notebook pages for you the next time she heads past the library, and I'll mail it with my next letter if I have it by then.
I dyed my hair again on Tuesday, but the roots have already started coming in dark. I've debated dying it all back to brown, but I've been blonde for so long now that my natural color feels strange. Got some new lipstick too. It's a different shade of red from my usual.
Your Uncle Devin took Tammie and I to lunch last weekend. He was insistent that we also take Marbles, which was fine until he peeped out of your uncle's bag and the waiter mistook the ferret for a rat. Don't ask me how. I wish you could meet him. You'd like him. Your uncle, I mean, though I'm sure you'd like the ferret too. He asks about you. I don't have much to report back to him.
I send you positivity every night. I suppose praying is the closest word for it, though I've never been religious. I hope you pass any big tests that might be coming up. I hope you wake up feeling wonderful. I hope you never hurt a day in your life–but I suppose this is wishful thinking at best, so along with that I hope that any hurt may pass you quickly. Most of all, with all those things and more, I hope you know that you are loved by both Tammie and myself, even though you might never know us fully.
I'll write to you again next week. I'm supposed to go out tomorrow morning, so I'll drop this in the mailbox on the way.
Love always,
Marilyn
Marilyn paused as she penned the final lines of her letter. The whole thing in it's entirety was two pages front and back. For someone with little changing news to report, she could still write quite a bit. The woman bit the cap of her pen and gazed at her closing. She never knew how to sign these. In a biological sense, she was the girl's father, but any variant of "dad" was absolutely out of the question. But she already had a mom. So Marilyn, although reluctantly, simply signed her name and pressed her lips to the paper, leaving a kiss in the shade of whatever her current lipstick was beside it.
The woman pushed the chair back from the tiny table off to the side of the motel room and stood up, glancing toward the door. Tammie had left at the same time as Marilyn and still had yet to return, while Marilyn had come back and changed out of her corset and leather shorts nearly an hour ago. The pair of them always made a deal to be home before four in the morning at the latest. She looked toward the clock.
3:46 A.M.
Marilyn let out a concerned sigh and stumbled over to the dresser, rummaging through it for a pair of pants and an old t-shirt. Prior to this she had only been wearing a pair underwear–the ones she often slept in–without a shirt–exposing her still flat chest. She hardly ever wound up putting clothes on after she managed to wriggle free from her work outfit. The corset pinched her skin and sometimes made it hard for her to breathe. The leather shorts often became sticky with sweat and clung to her thighs in itchy, uncomfortable ways. The fishnet tights would fold awkwardly under her shorts, and the high heels caused her feet to ache. Once she got all of it off she always felt as though she could go her entire life without ever wearing clothes again.
The permanently unlocked door opened before she could properly dress herself. She hastily pulled on her clothes as Tammie stumbled in, a trash bag slung over her shoulder. Marilyn ran over and threw her arms around her.
"You're late!" she cried, pressing relieved kisses to the other woman's cheeks. "Where have you been? I was about to go looking for you!"
"Sorry," Tammie said, undoing the front of her black corset and kicking off her knee high boots. Her own chest was fuller–a B cup– and her hips she developing soft curves, a result of her hormone use. "I had a client who kept me long." She paused. "He gave me a fifty. We might manage some groceries this week after all!"
She bent down to rummage through her trash bag. "And look what else! I snagged these from behind Speedway on the walk back. It's a bunch of sandwiches they tossed. They're a few hours past their prime, but they're still warm and still wrapped."
She pulled one out and passed it to Marilyn. "It's chicken."
"Yeah, fake chicken," Marilyn said, tearing the paper down and wolfing down the sandwich before reaching for another.
"Either way," Tammie said through a mouthful of cheeseburger, giving her hair a toss. "When was the last time either one of us had meat, fake or not?"
Marilyn mumbled her agreement through a mouthful of food. She swallowed and tossed the crumpled wrapper toward the trash, which bounced off the can and rolled across the room.
"When did you get back?" Tammie asked.
"About an hour ago. I...I was writing to Jade again." Her face reddened underneath her smudged makeup. Part of her always felt silly doing it. She didn't even know if the girl ever even read her letters, or was even getting them to begin with. "I just...I miss her. I know there's no reason for her to start writing me back now, but..."
Tammie nuzzled Marilyn's neck affectionately. "She's young. She might be caught up in her own life. And even so, keep writing your letters. She'll know you're here if she needs you, when she does decide she's ready."
"Mm," Marilyn said, glancing up as the wind pushed the door open. She sighed and shoved it shut, though she knew it was no use. The lock had been broken since she had moved in, and all that remained to even attempt to keep the thing closed was the chain latch inside the door. She clipped the latch shut and shivered as the cold breeze hit her. She leaned against the wall and her gaze drifted to the ceiling.
Jade. The last Marilyn had seen her had been the day she had left the hospital with her mother. Marilyn had loved that kid, but knew she couldn't care for her. It wasn't like they'd been some picture perfect nuclear family. Marilyn had come out as transgender to her parents, they'd kicked her out. Having no money and no job, she'd been forced into prostitution to keep herself live. Her pansexuality had meant she was open to basically anyone. Women were rare, but she did see them on occasion. An hour of nervous fumbling with a woman she had hardly known for ten dollars and a loaf of bread had brought the girl into existence.
Marilyn would have taken her. She'd known better. The girl deserved to be raised by somebody stable and well equipped to do so, not a transgender prostitute stuck in a motel room who was constantly having her life threatened by people who were not so open to the way that she was. So she'd let the child go, letters her only form of (unanswered) correspondence.
She slipped past Tammie and into the bathroom. Shutting the door behind her, she heard a soft tapping at the door to the motel room. She stiffened. It was too early. She stuck her head out the bathroom door. Tammie was slowly pulling on a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt.
"Check the peephole before you open it," Marilyn instructed her. Tammie shrank away from the door and eyed it suspiciously. She knew as well as Marilyn that nothing good came for them in the dead of night.
The smaller woman crept toward the doorway and peeked out through the peephole. She was surprised to see the form of a child standing there, looking rather battered.
"Well?" Marilyn asked. "What is it, Mouse?"
"It's some kid," Tammie whispered back. "She looks hurt."
Marilyn hesitated. Of course, the maternal side of her undeniably wanted to pull the girl in and help her. But then there was the jaded part of her. The part of her that was used to being trapped and hurt. She sighed. "I...open the door, Mouse. Let her in. But keep your guard up." She retreated back into the bathroom, though she left the door cracked.
Tammie slowly unlatched the door and pulled it open. "Hello there," she said softly, looking curiously at the child. "Are you all right?"
