You would think that someone as psychotic and far gone as him would be a terrible father.
You would think that, and other monsters probably were. But when a monster has a heart that craves nothing but love, it's hard to be a monster through and through. That would be the case for Trevor Philips. About 18 years ago, Trevor was married. Her name was Victorique. Victorique Demir. She was his childhood best friend. They'd known each other since they were small. However, she was the complete opposite of him - Shy, content, sweet, rich - well, her family was rich. She didn't care about all that. She cared about Trevor, though. She was rich in love.
By the time she was 18 or 19, she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. She had an invisible switch. She could be just as - if not worse - than Trevor during a rampage which seemed to grow in frequency rather quickly. But it was okay; they were both angry and emotional and fucked up and they loved each other. She left everything behind and followed him like a puppy. No matter what, they did everything together. They were terrible people, together. He didn't propose until he was 27, she was 25. She said yes. She fainted. She said yes. She said /yes/. Trevor wouldn't wait; they were married within days. And she had the most beautiful dress. She wore it proudly yet timidly as they acquired their marriage license. Neither of them would have had it any other way.
Within the year, she broke the news. She was pregnant. You'd think that would put a damper on things, on their lifestyle and their wild relationship. No, Trevor was ecstatic, and so was Victorique. He hoped for a son. She hoped for twin daughters. But they didn't really care, they were having a /child/. A little flower growing from a seed. A piece of both of them, a whole new life. It was a new feeling and Trevor liked it. He loved it. He loved laying around when they had nothing to do and talking to the growing bulge in her belly. If it was a boy, they would name it after him. Trevor. If it was a girl, they weren't sure... but Victorique wanted to name it after her beloved grandmother. Florence.
Everything was fine, except that Victorique became weaker and more lethargic as the date came closer. At the time, they lived in North Yankton. It was the mid-90's. When her water broke, they were visiting Trevor's close friend and partner, Michael Townley. He had two little kids of his own, so his wife helped calm Victorique when she panicked. It was snowy and cold but it could have been worse, for a Spring day. They drove like animals to the hospital, Victorique breathing dramatically and Trevor laughing like a drunk idiot. Thankfully he wasn't drunk, not that day.
They ran into problems. She was dilating slowly. The baby wasn't moving. Both of their heart rates were low. Victorique looked like a zombie, she felt sick. She couldn't breathe on her own. She was in labor for 24 hours. Doctors were doing all they could for her. Trevor refused to leave her side. He knocked out several doctors and nurses with punches square in the nose. They let it go. Victorique couldn't yell at him, she couldn't talk anymore. His hand squeezed her much smaller one. More hours... 5 more hours. They said it wasn't safe to perform a cesarean section. It was up to her.
It got worse for her, but the baby was finally on its way out. Her pushes were too weak. She tried so hard. Trevor was truly terrified for the first time in his life. They helped as much as they could to get the child born...
At 4:27 PM on March 1st, 1996, Victorique Demir died. At 4:31 PM, Florence Minnie Philips was born.
Trevor's heart filled and broke at the same time. They had to restrain him. It took four security guards to do so. Michael stepped in and took him away. His wife was dead... And his baby was just born. They had to force it out of her... Who knew what they did? They left with her while he raged and screamed in the arms of four giant men. He didn't really want to know... Who knew if the baby even made it, if it was healthy? After all that?
Almost two hours later, a nurse delivered a blue blanket to the broken and grieving Philips, sitting beside Michael and his wife. "It's not a boy," she informed them, "We're out of pink blankets." It was a girl. And her name was Florence. "She's so small. Tracey wasn't that small... neither was Jimmy," Amanda Townley remarked. "She's like a... miniature baby. A mini," Michael followed. And that was that... Florence Minnie was her name. Florence Minnie Philips.
It's hard to care for a newborn. It's extremely hard. It's even harder to care for a newborn alone, while grieving, while being in a dangerous line of work. Trevor almost never slept. He had this little... monster to take care of. She could lay in his two cupped hands. He wasn't a gentle man, but he learned to be. He loved that little bundle of drool, puke and shit so much. He poured all his positive emotion into her. He did everything he could for her. He had a terrible childhood, verbally abusive mother, physically abusive father. Both the bottom of the barrel of shit. He wouldn't be that man. He wouldn't be that parent. He didn't know how they did it... every time he looked into those teary, large blue eyes... just like her mother's.
He fucked up. He fucked up so bad. Him, Michael, Brad, they had it all planned out. Florence was almost 7. She was growing steadily. She was adorable and smart and witty. She had a few health problems but he adored her. That's why he had to do this. It was the money. He needed it to support the both of them. But they fucked up. /He/ fucked up. Michael was shot... he died. Trevor's best friend died. Brad was caught. Trevor got away... he had to... he had to run, he had to get to Florence, he had to protect her.
He had the money... Most of it. They fled. Moved to Liberty City. Got settled into a little apartment, got Florence back into school. She didn't understand, not entirely. He thought she didn't, anyway. She clung to him like he was her lifeline. She loved him as much as he loved her. They couldn't stay there forever, and they wouldn't... Just a while... Maybe they would move out to Los Santos after a few years. He figured they were safe for a few years. It must have all been hard on Florence, and he was so sorry for that. He was angrier, grittier, more violent. Frequently drunk, even moreso on drugs. Continuing his dirty work. He was starting to lose his hair, it seemed.
They were in Liberty City for three years when Trevor realized that, for her own safety, he had to leave Florence behind.