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Kimmy Meets a Princess!
Sep. 3rd, 2015 01:03 pmKimmy Schmidt: The Shame of Durnsville.
The Reverend had always spoken of the Devil twisting things, twisting words, but wasn’t he the one that changed his story whenever it suited him? How was it that a man who kept four unwilling women captives for fifteen years was less shameful than her? Than Ed Hardy?
But it’s not the shame that Kimmy cares about. It never has been. The moment they were freed from the bunker and became Mole Women for the rest of their lives (a fact that no amount of plastic surgery or cycling her feelings away can ever fix), a cloud of shame would follow them. Shame that Cyndee and Donna Maria would use for their own survival, pity their prize for their suffering, but shame nonetheless.
There was no shaking it and no point trying anymore. What Kimmy really cares about is Cyndee. It’s always been about Cyndee, a closeness that could only be found in fifteen years of bonding in the darkness of a bunker.
(And not the weird sex stuff that everyone’s thinking, okay?)
Now Cyndee blames her for seven more years of misery that she had to suffer but, at the time, for all Kimmy knew she was saving her life. She would have stepped out into the hellfire first if she’d had the opportunity. She would have risked everything for a glimpse of freedom, however fleeting.
She just couldn’t risk someone else, someone who had been her best friend, no matter how awful the circumstances that forced them together – and now will keep them apart, if the Reverend gets his way.
Why should he? It just doesn’t seem fair at all. Fifteen years of controlling their lives is more than enough, should be more enough to doom him to a life in prison like the one he’d kept them in (except with more TV and better food, probably.) Kimmy’s not about to give up on capturing him. She might not have an apocalyptic cult she can lure him into with baby bunnies or candy, but she has the truth: and that’s a heck of a lot more than he ever did.
Titus is right. She can’t just give up for the exact same reason she couldn’t on her very first day in New York City. She’s going to save the day… if only she can figure out a way.
Or which way to go. It’s only a few hours since she’s stepped into the courthouse from the streets of Durnsville, but she’s positive even in the new light this wasn’t how it looked. There’s no outline of where the river used to be, no weird protestors standing around screaming about the apocalypse (as if she hasn’t heard enough of that to last a lifetime.) It smells different, too. Better.
And no one’s calling her name like they have been all day, comparing her to Paul McCartney or the Wendy’s girl.
“What in the ham sandwich is going on?”
The Reverend had always spoken of the Devil twisting things, twisting words, but wasn’t he the one that changed his story whenever it suited him? How was it that a man who kept four unwilling women captives for fifteen years was less shameful than her? Than Ed Hardy?
But it’s not the shame that Kimmy cares about. It never has been. The moment they were freed from the bunker and became Mole Women for the rest of their lives (a fact that no amount of plastic surgery or cycling her feelings away can ever fix), a cloud of shame would follow them. Shame that Cyndee and Donna Maria would use for their own survival, pity their prize for their suffering, but shame nonetheless.
There was no shaking it and no point trying anymore. What Kimmy really cares about is Cyndee. It’s always been about Cyndee, a closeness that could only be found in fifteen years of bonding in the darkness of a bunker.
(And not the weird sex stuff that everyone’s thinking, okay?)
Now Cyndee blames her for seven more years of misery that she had to suffer but, at the time, for all Kimmy knew she was saving her life. She would have stepped out into the hellfire first if she’d had the opportunity. She would have risked everything for a glimpse of freedom, however fleeting.
She just couldn’t risk someone else, someone who had been her best friend, no matter how awful the circumstances that forced them together – and now will keep them apart, if the Reverend gets his way.
Why should he? It just doesn’t seem fair at all. Fifteen years of controlling their lives is more than enough, should be more enough to doom him to a life in prison like the one he’d kept them in (except with more TV and better food, probably.) Kimmy’s not about to give up on capturing him. She might not have an apocalyptic cult she can lure him into with baby bunnies or candy, but she has the truth: and that’s a heck of a lot more than he ever did.
Titus is right. She can’t just give up for the exact same reason she couldn’t on her very first day in New York City. She’s going to save the day… if only she can figure out a way.
Or which way to go. It’s only a few hours since she’s stepped into the courthouse from the streets of Durnsville, but she’s positive even in the new light this wasn’t how it looked. There’s no outline of where the river used to be, no weird protestors standing around screaming about the apocalypse (as if she hasn’t heard enough of that to last a lifetime.) It smells different, too. Better.
And no one’s calling her name like they have been all day, comparing her to Paul McCartney or the Wendy’s girl.
“What in the ham sandwich is going on?”
