A/N: My round 1 Rumbelle Showdown 2017 entry under the pseudonym Thefreedictionary. Prompt: Note, Romance, Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Beads of sweat trickle down her back as the clouds roll away, exposing the midday sun to the tiny village. She grits her teeth as the top of her head quickly feels like a hot iron. The distant sounds of bird calls are the only thing tempering her mounting hatred for that yellow dwarf. Belle French can tolerate heat, but not when coupled with humidity.
"Paint goes on the wall, not your arse, French!" A muffled groan comes from the owner of said arse. "Can you not do anything right?"
"Fuck off, you miserable lump of coal!" Belle shouted over her shoulders.
"Language, French." Her tormentor appears next to her, scrutinising her work. "Good job with the painting. Now go clean up and help the villagers with the school's roof." Belle crosses her arm and glares at the man. "Get on it before I make you smell my armpits," he drawls, waving a lazy hand her way. Before she could tell him to stuff a frozen banana up his arse, he disappears into his pink hut.
Cameron Gold, or wanker as Belle occasionally calls him, is the leader of the Rainforest Village Volunteer Project that her father forced her into. He hopes it'll sober her up. What's the point in being sober anyway? It just brings to light her endless list of problems. "Move it, French! Do you want me to have you in a headlock?" And Gold recently topped that list.
"3 weeks down, and 9 to go," she mutters under her breath.
They're helping the villagers set the traps today. It builds character, Gold said. Building her temper is more like it, especially when her wristbands keep getting caught in the wires.
"It'll be easier if you take them off, French."
"No."
"Don't be a stubb—"
"FUCK!"
"Language, French."
Belle looks down at her bleeding arm and memories of an accident long repressed surface once more. Her mother's lifeless eyes stare back at her, telling her it was her fault.
Her fault…always has been and always will be.
Someone calls out her name, shaking her. She looks into the person's eyes and sees her father's accusing look in them.
Her fault… always has been and always will be.
She cannot breathe and so she runs because she burnt her home.
Without any means of escaping, Belle hides away in her hut. She spits and snarls whenever Gold tries to coax her out of it, but they get tiring and repetitive very quickly. So when the man comes to her one rainy day, she accepts his offered hand. Ever since then everyone treats her like a ticking time bomb, everyone except him.
He still throws insults her way and works her to the bone, but there's a subtle difference in his countenance. His eyes don't wrinkle as much and his posture is less stiff. He looks more comfortable… as if he has taken off his armour. She wonders if he's living a pretended life as she has.
After a while, things settle back to normal. Her heart feels lighter and her steps swifter. She's a lot more open with the villagers and smiling comes easier. They give her space when asked and go as far as making one for her when her smile doesn't reach her eyes.
On her best of days, Belle can be quite a handful. She'll be doing a million things at once and talking animatedly. Gold's solution at bringing her down from her high is by appointing her as the children's storyteller. Every night, for an hour, she entertains the little ones with her fairy tales. Some days the roles are reversed. On those days, the children weave her tales of their mythical warriors, gods, and goddesses while she listens with rapt attention.
All in all, she never expects Gold's presence to have a calming effect on her. He guides her with firm but gentle hands and when her little boat enters rough seas, he'll steer her back to still waters. She sees now that they are not so different after all. She just hopes she does the same for him.
Two weeks. Two weeks before she heads back to her old life. The knowledge leaves her feeling sick to her stomach. Maybe she can destroy the boats. That'll buy her time. What excuses can she—
"Miss Belle, come paint with us, please?" a voice pipes up. Turning towards the voice, two pairs of eyes look at her expectantly. Perhaps this is the distraction that she needs. Smiling, she lets them lead her away.
They stop outside of the village's school, at a section of its wall where the kids are free to paint as they please. Tucked in a small section is the drawing of a hut with two tall figures and two little girls. Forcing down the lump in her throat she guides the children in their painting.
"This is our home," says the shorter of the two girls. "What's your home like, Miss Belle?"
Well, that's a question that has not been asked of her since her childhood days. A simple question with a million different answers, but none strikes a chord with her. "I'll let you know when I find it," she tells the smaller girl.
On the other side of the wall, Gold heaves a sigh before moving from his spot.
On her last night as a volunteer, Gold appoints himself as her silent companion. They stare at the stars while the crickets chirp to the forest's rhythm.
"You've come a long way," he breaks the silence, "I only hope it is what you need."
And the floodgates open.
She tells him of how her selfishness leads to her mother's death.
She tells him of her spiral into darkness.
She tells him of her mistakes.
She tells him of her scars. There's a story behind each white line on her wrist that she hides underneath her array of wristbands, constant reminders of her stupidity and failures. She doesn't understand why she's still breathing.
"To battle your demons and still find it in you to see the beauty in others and plant joy in their hearts, those are no failures. Those are to have succeeded."
She squeezes his hand as her heart bleeds on the forest floor. When she finally falls asleep, he carries her off to bed before slipping a yellow note in her bag.
Nothing can prepare her for the city. Everything is too loud and hectic that she spends a week after her arrival within the confines of her apartment. She watches people move about like ants from her window—always walking, always in a hurry. When it rains, the road transforms into a sea of black umbrellas, the occasional sound of siren gives life to the monotonous landscape. Her bag remains unpacked.
At her father's pleas, she braves the dusty metropolitan world. A day's worth of exposure is enough to send her spending another week under the safety of her blanket. She tries to get blindingly drunk on one of those nights, but after a few rounds of foul concoctions, the feeling of hollowness doesn't fade. Her bag remains unpacked.
She hopes going back to university will bring a semblance of normalcy into her life. But like the morning dew, hope evaporates just as quickly. University makes her feel like a cattle reared for slaughter. Students are herded into a room and fed "education". Once they're plump enough they'll get a shiny seal of approval only to have it stomped by their employers. It is not what she wants, but then again she never knows what she wants. Her bag is still unpacked, but it has moved from her bedroom to the laundry room. The yellow note waits in anticipation.
Belle French functions on impulse—she lets her heart run away with her feet. One second there's sand underneath her, and earth in the next. It is a common theme with her. Now, however, she dances to a different tune. Just like the thrill of jumping off a cliff and into the cold water, knowing her heart's desire with certainty is a scary and refreshing feeling. She doesn't want to stand on a loose ground anymore; hence, the reason why her feet have taken her to stand in front of a pink hut, knocking frantically on its door.
The sight of the bedraggled man has never brought her such joy as in that moment.
"Do you offer permanent employment?" she asks shakily. "I don't have much experience or a degree, but an old lump of coal wrote me a note saying that my past and future are tiny matters," her bottom lip trembles, "compared to what I have on the inside."
His smile is the only answer that she needs. Finally, she has found her home.