A/N: Maybe one-shot inspired by the Latin phrase 'Abyssus abyssum invocat'. Thanks to DruidKitty for beta-ing! Enjoy!
The skies were dark by the time Annabelle Gold walked home from the library. A slight chill had descended on the small town of Storybrooke, and a light drizzle fell, but she had not wanted to call her husband for a ride after their argument, so she'd chosen to walk. Calling him would mean alerting him to her plans, and she most certainly did not want that to happen.
She would make a clean break. She would leave town, leave most of her belongings, and even abandon her beloved library, if it meant freeing herself of his suffocating hold. She'd spent too many years fretting and suffering from their heated arguments and his cruel belittling. He called her weak, ugly, and a waste of his time. Even now, when she thought of his manipulate words and casual disregard of her and others, tears streamed down her cheeks. Well she would show him. By the time he returned home from collecting rent, she'd be long gone.
Their house was warm when Annabelle unlocked the front door and stepped inside. She had always wondered how a man so controlling could hoard antiques but he was a magpie, and the objects positioned delicately on their downstairs furniture were testimony to the fact. Usually she admired them, but this night, she ignored them in favor of kicking off her heels and jogging upstairs.
He would be home soon, and if he caught her packing, she didn't know what he'd do, so she sure as hell was not going to chance it.
The second she banged open their bedroom door, she set about searching for a suitcase. After finding one in their closet, the next few minutes were spent tossing any available clothing from her dresser's drawers into it. Their normally pristine bedroom became littered with socks, jeans, and underwear; even their bed was a victim of her over-zealous packing.
"Come on...come on," she muttered, wiping her eyes, and glancing at their bedside clock. It has half past seven. He would be home in thirty minutes at best. If he stuck to his schedule tonight, he would be at Granny's Bed & Breakfast right about now. Then he'd collect from Archie Hopper and a few of his other unfortunate tenants before returning to his shop and driving home.
Annabelle forwent folding her clothes into organized piles in favor of saving time. Finished, she scrambled downstairs—nearly falling down the steps—and flung open her library's double doors, snatching her favorite books from their shelves. It was a challenge to select less than ten, but she silently promised herself that, once she was resettled in a city far away from Storybrooke, Maine and Nicholas Gold, she would try to buy a new collection.
When she'd hastily grabbed five books, she took one final, heartbroken look at her collection. It had taken several years to acquire all of the first edition books lining the shelves. A piece of her heart broke when she closed the double doors for the last time.
Somehow she ran upstairs without dropping a single book or falling flat on her face. When she was back in their bedroom, she carefully stuffed the books in a corner of the suitcase and zipped it shut.
There was an incredibly loud moment of silence in which she glanced about the room. Not much had changed, and yet everything had. The once neat bedroom looked like it had had a bad run-in with a burglar, except it was her things that were stolen and not his.
Closing her eyes, Annabelle covered her face with her hand. Misery sang through her blood. She wondered why things didn't turn out differently. Why—when she knew Nicholas Gold's horrid character from the beginning—she had married him? Why had she stuck around so long when he'd abused her for years?
He did not "permit" her to see her friends, her father, or do work outside of the town's public library; anyway, no one wanted to hang around Mrs. Gold, the wife of the town's notorious bastard. He scared them all away, and few these days dared to make eye-contact with her. It was like he enjoyed smothering her by dragging her from her social life and subduing her spirit.
It didn't matter now. Their marriage was over. And no amount of threatening or blackmailing could get her to change her mind. If he went after her father, that was not her problem anymore; Moe French had dug his own grave with the financial debt he'd built up, and he needed to dig himself out instead of continuing to rely on her.
Her suitcase thumped on every step as she walked down to the first floor. She grabbed her purse, coat, and keys from the couch she'd tossed them on, and then slipped on her flats (it would not do well to drive a long distance in heels). However, just as she was buttoning up her coat, she heard a jangle of keys and the turning of the front door's lock.
Her heart stopped.
It was 7:45. She'd checked only a second ago! And if he was here, that meant he'd come straight home after Granny's, and he never failed to collect all of his tenants' rent. What was even more starling was the fact that the keys jingled louder than normal; it was as if he was frantic to get inside, and her thoughts were proven correct when he rushed into the house, his dark eyes flashing to her face.
"Belle."
He said it like a prayer, like she was the most beloved thing in his life. Like he was a parched man drinking water after spending days in a desert.
He made towards her.
Annabelle flinched, skittering backwards from his approach. Only moments ago, her heart had ceased its beating, but now, it hammered away inside her chest. Not only was she startled at the whirlwind of emotion displayed on his face; she was also wary of him. Something was...off, and he certainly had never called her 'Belle' before. He was one for formality and always called her by her Christian name.
Immediately, he halted, and his eyes were fierce with some emotion she could not place. Regret? Despair? "Belle," he said again, and the devotion in that one word made a shiver run down her spine. "Sweetheart—"
She shrunk away, frightened now. He never called her endearments. "You—you're home early," she said, voice high. She was terrified he'd notice her luggage half-hidden by her lithe form and the ends of her coat. "D—did you get everyone?"
Nicholas took a tentative step forward, and she saw that his hair was unkempt. She'd never seen him this flustered before. "I came home after stopping by Granny's... There is a new visitor in town staying there," he said quietly, his eyes roving over her from head to toe.
Embarrassed, Annabelle clutched the handle of her suitcase tighter. He spotted it then, and his eyes widened in what she could only describe as horror. She braced herself, expecting his same anger from earlier, but was astonished when he asked, voice hoarse: "Are you going somewhere?"
"I... Yes, I'm leaving town."
He froze and grew as taut as a bowstring. "Town?"
She realized this was her chance to explain, to end things between them before he launched into fit and made a grab for her. "I'm done, Nicholas," she rushed, hating that she sounded so timid. "We—we're done. I can't...I can't do this anymore."
Her husband's lower lip trembled, and his eyes shined with unshed tears. She saw his cane shake in his trembling hand. And when she expected rage from him, she received apologies instead. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Belle. For everything," he breathed vehemently. A tear fell down his cheek. "I don't deserve you, and I—I never have. But please, please do not leave town. I'll pay for a room at Granny's—anything."
Confusion swept through Annabelle. Nicholas Gold was a proud, snide man. He never gave in, never admitted his faults, and certainly never apologized. Yet here he was, standing in front of her, on the brink of crying for God's sake.
What the hell had happened to him?
"What's happened to you?" she wondered aloud.
The switch in topics did not deter him. In fact, he responded like she'd thrown him a life vest. "I am such a fool, Belle. I should have never treated you the way I have. It's taken me some time to come to that realization, but darling, please believe me."
"You hurt me."
He grew still at her words. Pain blossomed in his eyes, or perhaps that was her wishful thinking. After a tense moment, he lifted his left hand and brushed his fingers along her cheek. She tried not to recoil from his touch. "I know, sweetheart. I know I hurt you, but I promise I will never hurt you again," he murmured, pushing his fingers into her hair so that he could guide her head to his shoulder.
She was sobbing, she realized. She wanted to believe him...she truly did. But he'd hurt her one too many times and she was a broken, shattered mess. Alone. Frightened. Angry. Emotionally scarred. The list went on and on.
A warm hand rubbed soothingly up and down her back. Between her gasping sobs and choked breathing, she heard him whisper loving words into her hair. His breath tickled her ear.
Why was he doing this? What did he have to gain from this? Everything always had a price, especially when she dealt with him.
And then a thought struck her. He's playing me, manipulating me like he's done several times before. Her temper soared, and suddenly, she found herself shoving him away and standing toe-to-toe with him. She poked him hard in the chest. "Is this a game to you?" she hissed, and he gaped at her, his face full of dismay. "You think you can placate me now and treat me like shit later? Call me all of those horrid names? Tell me I'm ugly and useless? No, I can't handle it again. Not anymore. Our marriage is done, and I'm leaving—going somewhere far away so you can never hurt me again."
"Belle—"
"Don't call me that!" she snarled. Having enough of their conversation, she grabbed her suitcase and made for the front door.
Blocking her, Nicholas reached out and gently grasped her arm. There was a panicked look in his eye. "Annabelle, please. Let me drive you to Granny's and get you a room. Don't take your car... You're emotionally unstable right now."
It was the worst thing he could have said.
Ripping her arm from his tender hold, Belle stormed out of the house. She dragged her suitcase haphazardly behind her so that it banged down the front porch. Her car sat alongside his Cadillac in the driveway. "Annabelle, please," he beseeched her, sounding desperate. That certainly was a first. He limped into the driveway as she hauled her luggage into the back and slammed the trunk closed. "We can work this out—"
"We can't," she said. The man had never taken her opinions into account. He'd never let her make her own decisions, and this one was one she didn't want to change. She had thought long and hard over it in the library and this was the result.
"I did not mean what I said this morning," he pleaded, and she knew he referred to his name-calling when he'd dropped her off at the library. "You are not worthless, Annabelle. I am."
Annabelle could not meet his intense stare. When he'd called her worthless in the confines of his car, it had been the final straw. And now, when she tried to crawl away with what remained of her dignity, he wouldn't let her make a clean break. He had to taint her moment of triumph, of freedom with sweet, deceiving words.
"You did," she said, voice cracking. "You did mean it, and you enjoyed watching me cry. I left my ring at the library." With that, she got into the driver's seat and twisted the key in the ignition, purposefully ignoring his devastated expression.
As she went to shut the door, he stopped her. "Annabelle, I can't let you do this."
"You can and you will," she snapped through her tears. Using all of her strength, she slammed the door closed, and he had to let go least his fingers get caught between the door and the frame. She backed out of the driveway in record time, not bothering to take one last glance at the house that had been her home for many years or the man who had been the bane of her existence those said years.
Annabelle exhaled. She pulled onto Main Street and passed by Granny's Diner, the library (she felt a slight twinge when she drove by), and, of course, Nicholas' pawn shop. As she passed it, she gazed in the rearview mirror, and was shocked to see Nicholas tailing her on the road. He was a little ways behind, and didn't appear threatening, but still. Would he continue to follow her once she left town? She pressed on the gas, exited Main Street, and was rewarded with disserted roads surrounded by Storybrooke's forest.
There were no lights this far out of town, so it was very dark. The rain wasn't helping either. And to her luck, Nicholas had fallen behind a few turns ago and was struggling to stay close behind her because of the weather. She took advantage of his sudden delay and increased her speed. The sooner she was out of this town, the better.
The road eventually diverged onto two paths, both leading out of town; she picked left because Nicholas was right-handed and would be more inclined to go right, granted he didn't spot her lights through the thick foliage and follow.
Trees whipped by as she drove, and she knew she was going well over the speed limit. If Graham saw her now, he would ticket her.
The rain fell in thick sheets and she cranked the windshield wipers up to maximum speed. Lightning crackled in the cloudy skies. After a tense minute, Annabelle came around a bend, and a bright green sign stood halfway down the road, its white words glowing in her headlights: Leaving Storybrooke. She glanced in her rearview mirror for one second, and that changed everything.
Just as she looked up and watched Nicholas follow her around the bend, a wolf darted across the street. She was twenty feet from the sign when she saw it and instantly swerved to avoid a collision. The tires squealed in protest, unable to gain traction from the wet ground, and she lost control.
Annabelle wasn't sure what happened next. She felt a jerking motion as the car left the road, and experienced a sudden weightlessness. She peered through the windshield, saw her lights illuminating an enormous tree trunk, and felt the air leave her lungs. There was a loud bang and a booming crack. Glass shattered all around her, water sprinkled her face, and she became aware of a fierce pain in her head and chest.
She screamed.
When she tried to move, shift—anything—it was too painful. She was pinned or something...and blood soaked the front of her blouse. Oh God.
Her head pounded to her heart's frantic beating.
"Belle! Belle!"
Nicholas' fearful face blurred her vision, and she frowned, wondering how he was there. His eyes were wild as he took in her state. "It—it's going to be all right, sweetheart. Paramedics are coming," he said shakily, like he was convincing himself instead of her. He leaned in, and she realized his hands were covering her blood-soaked shirt, apply pressure. He looked...terrified? Was he shaking? She blinked several times and saw that he was soaked... He'd ruined his Armani suit coming after her...
"Don't move, sweetheart. Don't move. I'm here... Gods, Belle..."
Her eyes slipped closed. Dimly, she heard him tell her to keep them open. But she was so tired... Her pain had been replaced with a numbing sensation.
Her world went dark and she knew no more.