Chapter One
So I've decided to begin yet another Rumbelle fanfic, I know it's terrible of me considering people are still waiting on Glittering Gold updates but this chapter would not leave me alone. Be warned this fic is dark, very dark. It borders on disturbed but I promise it will get lighter. If you do not like the mentions of suicide, rape and spousal abuse, if you have problems with abandonment and trouble psychosis' this is not the fic for you and I suggest you go back to scrolling FF right now. Again, you have been warned.
Thunder rolled overhead, just as Isabelle French finished the final preparations for her exit. She sat quietly inside the wooden cabin, cross-legged inside the circle of flickering candles that gave the otherwise bare room a softened appearance. The cabin was buried deep inside the forests that surrounded the quiet town of Storybrooke. It was not a place often ventured to during winter, in fact the only people who used it were hikers in summer and teenage sweethearts after too much prom night punch. It was a squat, log cabin, about fifteen metres long and five metres wide. It was a rather desolate building, bare except for a dusty fireplace, a table, a few scattered chairs and an emergency telephone/first-aid cabinet. It was the perfect spot to get away, which also made it the perfect place for a suicide. Isabelle gently placed the final candle on the floor beside its brethren and swallowed thickly. There was a circle of 20 pure white candles immediately encompassing her, one for each year she'd spent on this earth. Each was small and identical to its neighbour, just like 'The Voice' had commanded and the floor had been cleared of furniture to give her enough space to play out the deed. Isabelle's immediate vicinity had even been swept, showing the sturdy floorboards beneath the thick layer of dust the cabin had accumulated through the lonely autumn months. Everything was ready. Beside her right knee was a single sheet of paper she'd torn from her diary earlier that day. It was covered in a neat, flowing script that was only marred by the occasional splashes that marked the places her tears had fallen as she wrote. It was addressed to her Papa, the only person who would care enough to read it. Placing the used match back inside its box Isabelle threw the whole thing into a darkened corner of the room and picked up the gun that rested on the old floorboards in front of her. She turned it over in her hands, testing its weight. She opened it and placed a single bullet inside the barrel, cocking the now deadly weapon and lifting it slowly to place the cold muzzle against her temple. She paused, smiling slightly when a roll of thunder rumbled loudly above her. It shook the whole cabin and Isabelle sighed happily as she placed a little pressure on the trigger. It would be weeks until she was found. Her other note, the one she'd left on her desk back home, said she was leaving town for an interview. Her Papa wouldn't become suspicious until she didn't phone or write. The sheriff's office wouldn't be called until at least another couple of days. No one would miss her. She squeezed her eyes shut and prepared to fire.
Your father would miss you. A voice whispered quietly from the back of her mind and Isabelle's fingers froze. That was not 'The Voice'. This one was soft, feathery and full of light. It was warm and it was kind, begging her to put the gun down. She shook her head to clear it, steadying her hand and pressing the muzzle deeper into her skin. This was what she needed to do, to end it all, to put all the voices away. It was easy enough. Not much in putting a bullet through your brain.
Do it Isabelle, pull the trigger. This was 'The Voice'. This was the one that had come to her late in the night, whispering endlessly throughout the night until she begged it to leave. Its seductive, velvety tone wrapped itself around her like a smothering fog and Isabelle's fingers once again tightened around the trigger. 'The Voice' cackled and egged her on fiendishly.
Isabelle, don't!
Do it Isabelle, stop being so weak.
Live Isabelle, live.
Die, it's so much easier.
Isabelle gasped as the voices waged war inside her head. She felt as though they were tugging her this way and that, pounding through her head until liquid heat began to trickle freely down her cheeks. She hadn't even realised she'd begun to cry until she felt the burning trails pooling into her lap, one salty drop at a time. Her heart was pounding in her ears, beating painful against her ribs as she started to sob, her breath coming short and making her whole body quake as she struggled to keep the gun levelled at her head. The strain on her arm was showing, the muzzle shaking against her skin. She needed to do this! She had to! She didn't deserve to live!
Yes you do Isabelle. She froze. The warm voice was soothing, a balm on her soul. Did she really? Slowly she pulled the gun a spare centimetre from her temple and opened her eyes. Through the blur of tears she could see that the room was just as it had been, darker than before since the storm had gathered quickly, but still silent and still covered in dust except for the ring of white candles she had encircled herself within. She drew a trembling breath as lightning flashed, illuminating the scene around her as the rain finally struck the roof. No, pelted. The thunder of it almost drowned her roaring heart-beat.
"I have to do this…" She whispered weakly, her voice barely heard over the sound of the rain, but the little voice begged her.
No Isabelle, no you don't, you don't have to do this at all.
"But the Voice…" She murmured, the gun slowly falling to her lap as she gazed down at the ugly, black weapon in her hands.
It would be quick Isabelle. It's easier than falling asleep. The dark voice was back and Isabelle felt her resolve weakening again. She watched as though from far away as her hand rose, the wicked black object pointing itself once more into the side of her head. She struggled to bring it to her temple and swallowed over the lump in her throat.
"I have to do this." She shouted brokenly, her tears falling unheedingly down her face as she forced her fingers to tightened around the trigger for the last time.
"No you don't." Isabelle gasped and whirled on her knees to face the man standing in the doorway behind her, his amber eyes fixed on the weapon straining against her temple.
OoOoOoO
Robert Gold's day was beginning to make the Judeo-Christian apocalypse look like fucking cake-walk. In less than 24 hours the perfectly constructed life he'd built himself had come tumbling down around his ears, and it was all her bloody fault. In fact, a lot of his life's problems could be traced back to bitch. That morning Maine's child services had contacted him. During a brief phone call, no more than 2 minutes long, the stateswoman on the other end had informed him that, due to the untimely death of his ex-wife Milah Gold nee Barker, he was now the sole guardian of a three year old son he hadn't even known existed. Oh yes, in terms of originality the woman really knew how to throw a mean curve-ball. After staring at the wall of his kitchen for what felt like a decade Robert's first reaction had been to deny Baden's existence altogether. For all he knew the boy was the offspring of any one of the many affairs Milah had partaken in during their 10 years of marriage. On the other hand, just as he went to inform the woman exactly where to place the wee bastard, a long forgotten part of his conscious whispered to him about his old desire to have a child and stopped him from immediately rejecting the proposition on the other end of the phone. It had after all been something he'd discussed avidly with Milah early on in their marriage, his want for children, but she'd been far too interested in the idea of travelling the world to think of settling down and raising a family. It was this exact difference in lifestyle that caused some of their most spectacular arguments and over the years had bittered down to long periods of frigid silence and, eventually, numerous affairs with other men to avoid spending time in one another's company. When he looked back on the whole thing he often wondered what it had been that brought them together. Milah Barker had been a young and spectacularly selfish woman whose sole purpose in life had apparently been making his own perfectly miserable. For ten years they had stuck together, possibly just so each could spite the other, and for ten years they had been the subject of gossip throughout Storybrooke. Obviously their connection hadn't been their similar ideals or life-time goals he remanisqued ruefully. They had separated not long after their tenth anniversary, when she decided to run off with a visiting naval officer and left him to his own devices. Robert had not regretted her decision. He had long since stopped loving her, if ever the feeling existed at all, and even before that had given up making her happy. The happiest day of both their lives had probably been the day she'd climbed into that Jones lad's ute and sailed away into the sunset. He'd even embraced the possibility of divorce notice, only to find she'd proverbially walked off the face of the planet. Putting her out of his mind Robert had spent the next four years building himself a reputation in the small town of Storybrooke, Maine. It was one that didn't involve children, and one that certainly didn't involve Milah. Four years passed quite unremarkably, he grew a business from scratch and became rather successful. His law degree had seen him rise to become one of the most prominent members of the community. Yet only that very morning he found the serenity he'd built himself was about as solid as a castle of sand. All the careful plans he'd created, all the deals he'd made, all now had to be placed on the back burner. After hanging up the phone that morning, he's driven almost immediately for Boston. As it turned out, Milah had been closer to home than he'd thought. He'd arrived in Boston and, after an embarrassing phone call, driven to the foster care centre where a rather severe looking blonde woman had handed him a sleeping baby boy and a signed letter of temporary guardianship. As he'd juggled the lad and his lease of custody jolly old Ratched kindly informed him that the rest of the paperwork, Baden's birth and medical records, would be sent later in the week and child services would check up on their progress every couple of weeks until the probationary period was through. Robert had scowled at that. Despite his leg aching like a bitch as he struggled to keep the toddler in his arms aloft and the moment he'd held Baden in his arms he had known he'd never let the little boy go again. The very thought of giving him up into the system felt infinitely worse than a sledge hammer to the solar plexus and as she walked away on her stupid little heels, leaving him alone with the boy for the first time, Robert felt the first stirrings of overwhelming protectiveness rise within him as he stared down into the lad's peacefully sleeping face. Unwilling to disturb his rest Robert had sat down in one of the hard plastic seats in the centre and waited for the boy to wake, knowing that his less than smooth step would surely send the boy into a fit of misery. As he waited he had studied the child in his arms, trying to find himself in the being slumbering on his chest. A small pale face, circled by an abundance of brown curls didn't really help confirm the boy's parentage but there was an innocent grace to the toddler's sleep that made Robert smile. After about an hour later the boy had awoken, staring around dazedly before peering up into Robert's face in confusion.
"Hello Bae." Robert said softly, falling hard and fast as he gazed into the deep brown depths of his son's stare.
"Let's go home." He said softly and without another word stood. Tucking the child's head into his neck and limping out of the centre had given Robert a rush of pride greater than any deal or case he'd ever won. Exhausted no doubt the lad didn't say a word as they left Boston, nor did he make any other sound as his father drove off into unfamiliar countryside. To Robert the drive back to Storybrooke was deafeningly quiet. Despite his previous want for children, he was oddly unfamiliar as to what he was expected to do. Shouldn't toddlers be louder? Should he say something? What was he going to do during the working hours? Question after question pummelled him as the car steadily ate miles between them and Storybrooke and he grimaced as the sky overhead darkened. The moment the great rolls of sound echoed across the sky Robert heard Baden's breath catch in his little throat. He had about half a moment's warning before an ear-splitting wail rent the air apart and nearly did the same to his eardrums. He nearly wrapped himself around a tree beside the road the sound had startled him so badly and braking hard looked around his seat to see his son's terrified face. Instantly out of his depth Robert panicked. As the lad's shrieks escalated Robert ran a hand through his hair in frustration, a gesture he only allowed himself to do in private. It meant he was entirely at a loss at what to do, and it was not a feeling that Robert Gold enjoyed. Looking at his watch he saw he had 45 minutes until they arrived home and quickly began to drive. After only 5 minutes of Baden's screams he knew neither of them would last that long. The Welcome to Storybrooke sign flashed past his window and he sighed with relief when the road to his summer cabin appeared out of the growing gloom.
"Just a little longer Bae." He soothed desperately as the infant cried incessantly from behind him. He pulled up outside the log cabin just as the sky opened up and the heavens released themselves upon the earth. Robert's forehead slammed forward and connected with the steering wheel as he groaned in frustration. Of course this would happen. He searched the glove box for the keys to the hut, fighting to control his rapidly thinning temper over the combine roars of his son and the torrential rain beating down on his car. Then his sight fell on something through the rain that made him pause. There was light coming from inside the cabin, meaning someone else was having as bad a day as himself. He looked around but couldn't spot another vehicle, which meant whoever it was had walked out here, during winter, and gotten trapped when the weather turned south. He grimaced at the thought of sharing the cabin with another human being but Baden's harrowing sobs made him push the instinctive irritability aside. He turned around the seat to try and sooth the lad in the car-seat.
"Just hold on Bae." He said and Bae's cries quietened enough for him to hiccup weakly as his father smiled and reached out, rubbing the brown curls on the top of his head. His wide brown eyes stared unblinkingly at Robert and he sighed. The lad was obviously wary of him, and for good reason. Children were like horses; they could sense the rottenness in people and responded to it in kind. Robert was well aware of the state of his soul and didn't blame the lad in the least for his hesitance. Without another word he opened the door and stepped out into the pouring rain, the torrent immediately soaking him through to the bone as he raced between the car and the cabin's veranda. He shook himself off as best he could and opened the door without knocking. Whoever it was could deal with it. It was his bloody cabin after all. The sight that greeted him however was the last thing he'd expected to find.
It almost seemed like some kind of bizarre satanic ritual, with the slight, black-clothed figure in the centre of the room surrounded by a glowing barrier of white candles and the soft whisper of her voice echoing faintly throughout the room. It was a woman he realised after a moment. He almost checked for an animal sacrifice but stopped when he registered the gun in the woman's hand. Her back was to the door, so she didn't see him, and despite his none-to-quiet entrance she hadn't seemed to have heard him either. Her whispers suddenly rose to a fever-point, the gun moving erratically from her lap to her temple. He swore beneath his breath.
"I have to do this." She shouted to the empty room, her voice breaking and her fingers tightening around the trigger.
"No you don't." He said without thinking and she gasped, spinning to face him. If the sight before him wasn't scaring him so damn much Robert would have taken the time to appreciate just how stunning the woman in front of him was. She was young, perhaps 20 or so, and possibly the most beautiful creature he'd ever encountered. Even through the dimness he could see that her frightfully pale face was framed by an unruly mess of russet waves and the red-rimmed eyes that now widened as they stared up at him were an unearthly shade of aquamarine. The angles of her face were fine, perhaps her jaw a little to the strong side, but those eyes were the most enchanting things he'd ever seen in his life. His mind cleared however as her wavering voice knocked his daydream for a six.
"Don't come any closer." She said and pressed the muzzle of her gun back to her temple, the black barrel digging slightly into the soft flesh and making him wince internally. He held out his free hand, the one not hold his cane, and spoke gently as he tried to remedy an obvious fucked up situation.
"Alright, I'm staying here. What's your name?" He asked, keeping his voice level. He relaxed his shoulders and even managed to smile at her threat. It was a trick he'd learned during his lawyer years, staring down the barrel of an accused with nothing more than a hunch and a thimble full of circumstantial evidence. The girl eyed him just as suspiciously as any murderer.
"Is-Isabelle." She said after a long moment of careful consideration and he smiled at her from across the room.
"Isabelle, what a lovely name." Robert murmured and she sneered at him, her extraordinary eyes flashing dangerously. He came to the rapid conclusion that girl was definitely more than a little unhinged, not that the obvious attempt at suicide hadn't already pointed that out, but he also sense a strange sort of tragedy to her. Then again, perhaps it was just his perverted 50 year old hormones talking; it wouldn't be the first time they'd screwed him over. His thoughts were hastily snapped back to the present by the sound of her voice.
"Isabelle one of the most common names in the world… there's nothing special about Isabelle." She snarled, her delicate mouth twisting with self-loathing. Fighting to control his shock Robert chuckled instead.
"Could have been worse dearie." He said lightly and she frowned, her gun falling away as she cocked her head to stared at him in confusion. He went with it, conscious of Baden in the car and of course the fact that this girl was a half-second away from ruining her life… if not at the very least ending it. He rolled his eyes and smirked at her.
"You could have been called Olga or Earnestine or Robinette." He challenged and she snorted, shaking her head as a weak laugh escaped her. He grinned, spreading his hands wide.
"See, plenty of worse names than Isabelle." She frowned but nodded. He actually began to relax, placing both his hands on the top of his cane.
"Please, please put the gun down Isabelle. You don't really want to do this." He entreated and knew instantly it was the worst thing he could have said. Suddenly the gun was pressed against her head with renewed vigour and her eyes were streaking with tears as she screamed up at him from the floor.
"What do you know about it? You don't know me! Do not presume to understand me simply because you found me a trigger pull from blowing my brains out!" She screamed and the macabre scene flared dramatically as another flash of lightning tore across the sky. She looked demented, and more than a little frightening. Her auburn hair crackled with energy and her usual eyes burned with a feverish intensity despite the tears trailing down her alabaster cheeks. If he ever got her out of here, he'd personally make sure she made it to Dr Hopper. From behind him Robert heard Baden begin to scream again, his lungs almost bursting with the effort. It made him wince, his stomach clenching painfully as the heart-wrenching sounds floated through the air and echoed throughout the cabin. He glanced behind him desperately.
"Bae!" He called comfortingly but the wee lad simply screamed on in obvious terror. Robert was torn between running for the car and staying. He ran a hand through his hair and looked behind himself to the car.
"It's alright Bae!" He continued, and looked back to see Isabelle staring at him in horror. Her eyes were flashing between him and the door behind him as though terrified of both.
"You have a baby out there?" She demanded incredulously and he nodded. She swallowed, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she began to once again move the gun away from her head. Robert watched breathlessly.
"No! I won't do it." She muttered and Robert, worried for her sanity but thankful that something was sinking through her mania, latched onto it like a dying man.
"Dearie, that's my son Baden. He's only three years old and he's terrified of storms. I stopped to bring him in here, just until the storm passed." He said urgently and she nodded, if a little vaguely. Her eyes had filmed over, as though she were staring into the distance and listening to someone speaking. Finally she spoke, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
"You're not here because anyone sent you?" She asked, staring up at him in wide eyed desperation. Reluctantly he shook his head, not knowing if this information would set her of again or give her peace.
"No." He said and she fell silent. For a long moment she was quiet, the cradled gun resting in her lap and her head bent in silent contemplation.
"Please Isabelle, put down the gun." Robert begged and, to his utter relief, she did. With a dull clink she placed it on the floor beside her, staring at it blankly as he limped over and stooped hurriedly to take it away. He eyed her warily as he bent down but she didn't move a muscle. She didn't even raise her head as he snapped it open and removed the single bullet inside. It was only when he limped back to the door and hurled the damned thing as far as he could, watching with satisfaction as it disappeared into the pounding rain that her shoulders slumped dejectedly. Robert turned to look back into the depths of the cabin and saw Isabelle curled up on her side, her shoulders quaking as she pounded the floor hysterically with her fist. The sounds she was making set his teeth on edge. Deciding to fix one problem before tackling another Robert cross the driveway and opened the back door of his car, unbuckling Baden as quickly as he could and wrenching the travel blanket from beneath the front passenger seat. With his son cradled safely in the crook of his arm Robert hurried as fast as his leg would allow back inside the isolated hut. The moment he closed the door, the air became still and his little boy's whimpers began to die. With the thunder outside and his face buried into his father's shoulder, the lad's tears began to dry up. He drew back unsteadily to gaze around and his chubby fingers clung like flesh-coloured limpets to Robert's jacket sleeve. He glanced up into the older man's face then sunk back into his previous position. His wholehearted trust in the man who held him made Robert Gold's long dead heart clench tight with emotion and he moved a soaking piece of brown hair out of the away of his son's enormous brown eyes. Sleepily the lad hiccupped and pressed his face into his father's hand. Carefully, after awkwardly placing the travel rug on the dusty wooden floor, Robert lowered Baden to the ground. After grumbling quietly for a few moments the lad settled on the blanket and turned to watch silently as Robert moved to where Isabelle was still crying inside her circle of candles. Her mewling sobs and pitiful lamentations made his teeth grind as they echoed throughout the lodge and an unexpected keen drew a startled cry from the boy behind them. Robert pulled a face at the lad and, despite the situation, smiled at the boy's innocent chortle. Isabelle keened again and the chortled broke off into a look of alarm. Robert jumped violently and reached out to clasp her slim shoulder cautiously. An instant later he rocked back and landed painfully on his arse as her fist came flying through the air and connected with his left eye. A second later he was sitting up and grasping her shoulders tightly in his hands, shaking her harshly and making her neck jolt worryingly. The blow hadn't hurt too badly, alright the girl packed a decent wallop, but honestly it pissed him more that she'd just attacked the person who was only trying to help her.
"What the fuck was that?" He demanded furiously and she recoiled in his grip. She was muttering something and he leaned closer to hear it. Through the ragged sobs he caught it and instantly wished he had more self-control.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. Please don't hurt me anymore." Isabelle muttered, her body tightening as she curled away from him defensively. Horrified he immediately loosened his death grip and sank back on his hunches. Isabelle's tear stained face peered up at him through the tangled mess of her russet hair then, to his astonishment, she launched herself at him. He flinched and fell back as her arms wrapped around his waist, burying her face into his chest and clinging to him as though her very life depended on it. In a way he supposed it did. Ever at fault with tears he hesitantly rubbed his palm over the top of her back, between her shoulder blades, just as he remembered his mother doing when he was a wee lad.
"It's alright." He said awkwardly and she drew a ragged breath. He continued to rub her back stiffly until she quietened, drawing away from him slowly and bringing her arms back to rest in her lap. She appeared both stunned and horrified at herself. There was even a brief flicker of fear in her face, before it was carefully concealed behind her china-doll mask.
"What the hell was that all about then?" He demanded, deciding to ignore it. After all, he wore one himself. She shrugged. He scowled and stood with a groan, limping back to where Bae sat staring at them curiously and hoisting the tiny lad up onto his hip. Isabelle sniffed loudly and cocked her head when Robert gazed down at her once more.
"He's a beautiful boy." She said softly and he nodded.
"I'm afraid he probably takes after his mother in that regard, and thank Christ for it too." He said, shuffling Bae around clumsily in his and only succeeding in inducing a small whimper from the boy. He immediately stopped. Isabelle however shook her head.
"No. It's in his eyes… you have the same eyes." She said firmly. Robert snorted thinking about the difference in colour. Isabelle smiled thinly.
"You the same shaped eyes… kind eyes." She said and stood up slowly. Robert gaped at her, before snorting derisively. Kind eyes indeed. Isabelle was now standing before them and Bae stared at her solemnly as she stared at him with equal frankness, her finger tapping idly upon her chin. Then she wrapped her arms around her torso and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Dressed in a lacy black dress that covered her arms to the wrists, he noticed that she was only a few inches shorter than himself. This was a pleasant surprise, as he was not the tallest man in Storybrooke by any stretch of the imagination and it had been something his wife had taken great pleasure in pointing out during their numerous shouting matches. Isabelle, he was glad to see, could still speak comfortably up at him; which did wonders for his ego. Wrenching himself away from the painful memories of his wife he took in the simple garment which, despite its quality, seemed ill-suited to the woman before him. Black, he decided, was not her colour at all. It flared out from her hips and fell to just above her kneecaps, with high neckline and a rather large bow trailing down behind her. Her feet, he now noticed, were bare and that was infinitely more her. The nails were painted a rather alarming shade of electric blue. He smirked and she shuffled awkwardly under his gaze. Robert coughed apologetically as he realised he was staring at her again. Turning his attention back to Bae, he smoothed the boy's forehead with his fingers and frowned at the dampness that came away. If it was one thing he did know about kids, it was that they got sick easily and often. Not today, he vowed silently.
"Right, well we might as well light a fire. I'm soaked and I don't want Bae to catch a chill." He said briskly and she nodded. Jumping to attention she scurried into a darkened corner of the room, returning after a moment with a box of matches clutched in her hand.
"I'll do it." She said softly and moved to the fireplace, where a stack of old newspapers and a few pieces of dried kindling stood beside the empty grate. She crouched down before it and after a few moments a dull crackling could be heard. In under a minute she had the kindling ablaze and she stood, brushing her hands off with quiet satisfaction. As she went to walk past him to the door he caught her arm. She froze in his grip and went sickeningly limp. He immediately let go.
"Just concerned dearie." He said quietly and she sneered weakly from beneath her eyebrows.
"It's not like I can kill myself with a doorknob." She muttered defensively and flung the smooth door open.
"I don't know dearie, you seem smart enough to think creatively." He muttered under his breath as a cold gust of wind swept inside and made him shiver. Baden squawked in protest and Robert patted the lad on the back comfortingly. To his pleasure he immediately stopped and snuggled into his father's chest again. Isabelle re-emerged a few moments later with two large logs tucked under each of her arms.
"Just in case we're out here for a little longer than anticipated." She said as she placed one on the glowing fire and the other beside the grate with the other fire stock. Then she moved back and blew out the circle of candles, bending to blow each one and place them on the table. Robert moved the blanket and brought it to rest before the hearth. It felt as though he were sinking into a deliciously hot bath and awkwardly sat down, stretching out his injured leg inelegantly as his son began to doze; his head resting on Robert's lap and his little body curled between the older man's legs and the fire. He looked over as Isabelle sat down beside him, bending her knees up and folding her arms on her kneecaps as she stared into the dancing flames. In the flickering light the bones of her face stuck out and he noticed the shadows underneath her eyes. One eye seemed particularly dark, a faint smattering of bruising around the crown of the socket, and he knew instantly that it wasn't from lack of sleep. Fury roiled sickeningly in his gut but he kept quiet, knowing it wasn't his place to mention it and furthermore reminding himself that he, Robert Antonius Gold, did not care. There was a long silence. Finally she spoke, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she looked over at him questioningly.
"Why did you stop me?" She asked and he quirked an eyebrow.
"Why shouldn't I have stopped you?" He asked and she shrugged. Her tone became almost musical as she rested her chin against the tops of her folded arms.
"It's not as if anyone would care if I died, the only person who'd miss me is my father." She said quietly and Robert severely doubted it was true. How could someone not miss her?
"How old are you?" He demanded roughly and she sighed.
"I'm 20." She said and thrust her chin towards the collection of white candles on the dusty table behind them.
"Didn't you count?" He stared at her in shock then felt his lips purse in thought. Outside the rain continued to pound against the windows, the dimness of the room alleviating every time lightning flashed. Each time her pretty face was thrown into sharp relief and he could only assume his was too. Oddly enough, she didn't draw away when she recognised him. She would have to have been living under a rock not recognise him after all.
"Mr Gold right?" She said and he nodded slowly. Her tone was impossible to read, he had no idea if she was pleased with this development. The stillness of her face unnerved him.
"I never would have thought you'd be the one to…" She broke off and shook her head wearily. Well, that made two of them. Holding out his hand he smirked as she tentatively stretched out her own.
"Isabelle…?" He trailed off and she coughed awkwardly.
"French, Isabelle French." She introduced as she shook his hand firmly before returning her gaze to the fire.
"Why did you have to do it?" He asked and her eyes snapped to his. In the firelight they seemed to shine an odd yellowy-green. She swallowed and bit her lip.
"Do what?" She asked and he chuckled.
"As I walked in, you said you had to do it… why?" he asked and smirked at her furious glare.
"You offering counselling sessions?" She retorted and he held up his hands innocently.
"Fine, I'll say no more but my only question is this, why did you take so long to do it? If you really wanted to die dearie, you would have pulled that trigger long before I walked through that door." He said simply and she gasped in outrage. He didn't need to look to know her face was scrunched in anger; the tensing of her entire body beside him spoke volumes.
"How dare you-!" She hissed furiously but stopped mid-sentence when Bea shifted drowsily in Robert's lap, moaning quietly. She swallowed whatever protest she'd been about to make and the pair held their breaths anxiously until he resettled once more into sleep. Then the two adults lapsed once more into silence and this time it was one that brimmed with enough tension for a knife to cut. Robert could feel her anger as though it gave out its own heat, like the fire in front of them.
"You know what would help right about now?" Robert said after a tense and rather dangerous silence. Isabelle sneered up at him from beneath her lashes.
"What?" she asked irritably and he shrugged nonchalantly.
"A nice, hot cup of tea." He said and she looked so startled he couldn't help but chuckle. Despite her disapproval he felt a stir of triumph in his chest when her pink lips curled upwards in a small grin, one she quickly hid beneath her hair.
"Tea?" Isabelle asked incredulously, surprise colouring her tone enough to induce a short chuckle from Robert.
"What else would you suggest?" He teased, surprising himself, and her, with just how easily to action came. The girl seemed stunned to silence, shaking her head as though ridding herself of a passing thought… or an inner voice. After a moment she cleared her throat and looked over her shoulder at him, her lips pursed and her expression rather sorrowful.
"I don't know. Honestly, I believed you'd be on the phone to the police the second I let you take the gun. Isn't that what most people would have done?" She asked and Robert frowned, tutting her quietly.
"Yes, but I'm not most people." He said smugly and sat back on his hands as she laughed.
"No, I guess not." There was another silence and, buried in the warmth of the flickering fireplace, Robert began to doze off. Her presence was a unexpected balm, one he should probably be worried about considering she tried to commit suicide. Spoke volumes about him though. Yet, in spite of the fact Isabelle was a would-be suicide with major issues both inside and outside her head, he was content to simply sit and doze beside her, something he hoped to god no-one ever found out about. He was sure the combined substances of his new-found son and this moment would destroy whatever premise of a reputation he'd ever been able to conjure.
"You know, I always took you for a coffee drinker Mr Gold." He started violently and almost woke Bae as her voice suddenly broke the peace around them. He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember the conversation they'd been having. Looking over he saw that she was smirking broadly. So much for the fearsome reputation. He couldn't help the dark and instinctual scowl that crossed his lips, he hated being mocked by anyone, but instantly regretted it when her own drooped pitfully. Her slim shoulders bunched around her ears and she began to earnestly study the dust floor, as though dust motes had always been a great fascination for her. Sighing he reached out and grasped her arm, marvelling at the warmth beneath his fingers. She flinched so violently he thought she'd give herself whiplash. His scowl only deepened.
"I won't hurt you dearie." He muttered darkly and she nodded meekly, her incredibly blue eyes downcast. Her face, which had only moments ago seemed warm as the sun, now took on a hue he assumed was only natural on the dead.
"Of course." Isabelle replied stiffly. She slowly brought her face up towards his and gave him such a wide eyed mask of an expression he could feel the ache of it in his teeth. Disgustedly, he dropped her arm and turned away, trying to ignore the automatic relaxing of the girl's muscles as he did so.
"I'm sorry." She said and he snorted.
"It's no matter." He replied dismissively and winced when her shoulders hunched even more. It was disturbing to see her so fearful and insecure, even more than when she waved a gun around her head and screamed at him. At least then she had a spark of life to her, unlike the dull creature she became when threatened. He craved to comfort her, to put her at ease somehow but was at a complete loss as to how he could achieve that without damaging his own reputation. Inspiration struck and he swallowed.
"I enjoy tea because when I studied law in university, I lived with a sixty year old woman who made the foulest tasting brew this side of poison." He said quietly and, although she gave no sign, he guessed she was listening with an intensity bordering on mania.
"I must have consumed the stuff in metric tonnes during my final year, hell or high water that stuff would knock you for six and leave you buzzing for a good three days. However, it's also scarred me; I now harbour a deep resentment for anything stronger than a cup of black tea." He informed her candidly and glanced askance to see her biting her lips to keep from laughing. He grinned and ran a hand through Bae's unruly curls.
"That must have been positively wretched." She said teasingly and Robert rolled his eyes dramatically.
"We Scots are devilishly hard to kill, occasionally I ponder how on earth I survived though." He retorted and she laughed delightedly, her head tossing merrily as the gentle sound echoed throughout the small log cabin. Robert almost lost himself in the music of it. It was such a careless and fun loving sound he knew instantly, regardless of the state he'd found her in, Isabelle's natural disposition was brighter even that Ruby Lucas'.
"Well thank goodness you did, or else this little man wouldn't be with us today." She said, glancing down at the quietly snoring boy in Robert's lap. Again Robert carted his hand through the soft brown curls and smiled softly. He looked up to see she was now looking at him, her extraordinary eyes gleaming in the firelight.
"And, neither would I." She said softly, her head ducking slightly with silent thanks. Cautiously he reached over and clasped the slim, delicate digits of her hand and held it carefully. When she didn't flinch he smiled and squeezed it gently.
"Why haven't I seen you around town?" He asked curiously and Isabelle's face momentarily darkened before she brushed it off and sighed.
"I suppose I haven't really made much of myself… I don't… I mean to say… I hate my life and that's all there really is to me." She murmured and he frowned.
"I find that hard to believe." He said and she snorted.
"My life's a cage, one I made for myself and I didn't even think to make a key." Isabelle muttered bleakly and Robert raised an eyebrow.
"There's always a choice dearie, just like there's always a price for every decision and every deal that you make. Just because you might be paying your price now, doesn't mean this is the end of the story." He said; drawing back and making her glance at him curiously.
"Then what? What is the end of the story?" She asked and he snorted quietly.
"Didn't you ever read fairy tales dearie, happy endings are just around the corner for those of us brave enough to reach out and fight for them." Robert told her seriously and watched as something flickered deep inside those azure eyes, something primal, something she didn't even seem to be aware of.
"But, what if there's no opportunity to fight?" She asked sadly, standing up and wrapping her arms around her and shaking her head nervously.
"Make one." He said determinedly but once again she shook her head, perhaps even more firmly that before. She was drawing back from the fight, something that didn't suit her he decided. Isabelle French did not strike him as the cowardly type.
"No, I could never do that." She said softly, but there was a seed of doubt in her tone he didn't think she herself even heard it. So he shrugged and gently stirred the boy in his lap, groaning as he clambered to his feet and picked the drowsy lad up from the floor. Standing awkwardly before her he indicated towards the windows, which although darkened showed the rain had finally stopped.
"Can I drop you somewhere?" He asked and she began to protest.
"No, you've done enough already." She said but he shook his head.
"Please, just let me get you into town then… at least then, if the rain comes again, I don't have to feel guilty. I didn't just stop you from… that, to see you die of pneumonia now did I?" He said bracingly and, after a long moment, Isabelle nodded. She went to take the candles but he stopped her.
"Leave them, they don't belong with you." He said resolutely and she nodded. Squaring her shoulders she walked past him to the door and opened it, allowing the fresh smell of wet earth and fresh air to sweep inside the cabin. The chill was rejuvenating after his haze by the fire. He led her out, still bare foot he wondered idly, and opened the back door to buckle Baden back into the car. He went back and closed the cabin door and returned to the vehicle, where Isabelle had buckled herself in and was leaning over the back of her seat and murmuring something to Baden. At first he was alarmed, after all she was slightly psychotic, but as he approached he saw she was singing softly, her fingers trailing lazily over his son's forehead as the lad's eyes closed once more. He paused, not wanted to frighten her. The words floated through the glass and he cocked his head to listen.
"I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back,
The less I give the more I get back,
Oh your hands can heal, your hands can bruise,
I don't have a choice but I still choose you,
Oh I don't love you but I always will,
Oh I don't love you but I always will-" Isabelle broke off suddenly as she saw him out of the corner of her eye, sitting back in her seat and blushing furiously. He stepped into the car and started the engine.
"I'm sorry, my mother used to sing to me when I was going to sleep." She said and he shook his head.
"No, you know as much about children as I do dearie." He said and she frowned confusedly.
"But I thought…"
"I was informed of his existence as of this morning actually." Robert said stiffly, unsure as to why he felt he could tell her this. Damn it, he needed to get a grip on himself before he made a bigger ass of himself. He gripped the wheel tightly and focused his attention on the slick road, reminding himself to watch for Deadman's Curve which was notoriously dodgy in wet weather. Isabelle however seemed determined to talk now.
"But you seem so, natural with him… so you got thrown in the deep end huh?" She said and he frowned.
"No offense of course, just…I know how hard it can be for a single parent. My father raised me on his own since I was 5, it wasn't always easy but you learn to value what you have; just like I know Bae will as well." She said and he looked at her in amazement. She smiled and cocked her head playfully.
"What? Have I got something on my face?" She asked and he chuckled, smiling out into the road ahead with a renewed sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could do this. Suddenly his future didn't look so grim.
"You really think so?" He said after a minute's driving and she nodded.
"Bae's lucky to have a father like you." She said and pointed to the side of the road, just outside Clark's convenience store.
"Just here will do, I'll walk the rest." She said brightly and he frowned. He pulled over and she unclipped her seatbelt, preparing to walk out of his life once more without even a fare-you-well. Her tone was simply to faux cheery for his liking. Be that what it was.
"Are you sure?" He asked worriedly, eyeing the darkened sky doubtfully as she turned to leave. Isabelle however smiled and nodded, looking back at him and not seeming to care about the unpredictable weather outside.
"Absolutely, besides… wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation Mr Gold." She said and winked as he stared at her bewilderedly. She grinned and opened her door, stepping out and leaning on the door to peer in at him.
"Thank you for the drive back. I never believed what they said about you, that you were a monster, I know monsters and you aren't one of them." She said softly and, without another word, closed the door and walked away from the car. Her dark dress blended almost immediately into the night and he thumped the steering wheel in frustration. Monster. It was a word that aptly described him, thank you very much. He was a monster, whatever the minx thought. He was. Then he thought about her words, and a cold chill ran down his spine. What monsters did Isabelle French have to worry about? And why wasn't he one of them?
OoOoOoO
Belle took a deep, fortifying breath before she pulled the door key out of her pocket and slipping it into the lock of her apartment, gently pushing it open and praying it didn't creak. He always hated it when she woke him up without good cause. She breathed a sigh of relief when the hinges swung soundlessly. Carefully closing the door behind her Isabelle shuffled noiselessly down the tiny hallway and into the kitchen.
What are you doing? Just leave! Go back to your Papa, say you're sorry and end this! Isabelle gasped, pressing a hand to her forehead as the sweet voice returned. It was actually a shock to hear it, after a blissful couple of hours without them, either of them. She wondered why that was, why they left when Mr Gold was around. The whole time he'd stayed with her, not a single whisper had sounded inside her mind. It had felt both exhilarating and a little frightening to be so alone inside her head. It was usually so crowded she didn't know up from down, yet with him around the voices faded, the shadows no longer held her fears. Almost on cue, the other voice returned.
Don't forget to cook it perfectly this time; you know he hates burnt meat. Isabelle nodded distractedly, seizing the frying pan that hung over the stove and laying it quietly over the counter almost automatically. She buried her nose in the fridge and rummaged about for the food she'd eventually prepare for the nights' dinner. She'd need to go shopping tomorrow, they were almost out of food again. She closed the door, humming quietly to herself, and screamed when Gaston's face loomed out of the dark beside her. He'd been standing there as she'd rummaged, not making a sound and waiting for the right moment to frighten her. He was especially proud of his ability to unnerve her, even more so of his ability to scare the living ends out of her. So he grinned, his handsome face creasing into a deceptively pleasant smile as she fought to control her thundering heart-beat.
"Evening Izzy-belle, what are you doing?" He asked, his tone congenial on the surface but wrought with hidden depths Isabelle was only too familiar with. She took a depth breath to calm her shaking nerves and answered him quickly.
"Making dinner." She said as steadily as she could and even managed a weak smile. He scowled and she immediately stopped.
"What are you sneering at?" He demanded and she shook her head hurriedly.
"I'm just happy to see you Gaston. Are you working late tonight?" She asked carefully, placing his interest elsewhere. Anywhere that wasn't on her was better, even the job he detested. He worked as a night shift yardsman down by the docks, taking deliveries on the quayside from local and upriver fisheries and growers. He complained bitterly about it, almost every night without fail, and Isabelle was aware that his ego was continually slighted by the knockbacks he believed he received from the higher ups. To his manager he was lazy, arrogant and belligerent to his betters, to Gaston this was an unimaginable blow to his pride. Personally Isabelle saw nothing wrong with the manager's perception of her boyfriend, but God forbid should she ever say it aloud.
Not to mention he's a dumb-shit dock worker without enough wit to best a chicken, only an arm hard enough to crack your face. If Isabelle was startled by the voice she didn't let it show. Instead she focused on Gaston, who was speaking again.
"Yes, I'll be back at one… don't wait up." He said curtly and she nodded quickly, buttoning up and getting on the dinner-prep. He re-opened the fridge and grabbed a beer, sitting down at the table and watched her intensely as she moved around the close-knit kitchen. Gaston was a large man, not as large as Isabelle's father who often seemed to be like a bear in human skin, but extremely tall and muscular as most young men who'd played football in high school generally were. He was handsome, very much so, and his dark hair and blue eyes had held some attraction for Isabelle when they'd first met and even to the day they'd moved in together. Now she knew the truth, knew what lay beneath that calm, collected beauty and it frightened her. There was more to Gaston Marsh that first met the eye.
"Anything unusual happen today?" Gaston asked casually after a few minutes of tense silence and Isabelle cut her finger by accident as she sliced the vegetables. Hissing in pain and immediately bringing the ruby-red tip to her mouth, she shook her head and went back to cutting again. Gaston pursed his lips bemusedly.
"Really? What's Mr Gold giving you a lift for then?" He asked and she froze. She was trapped, and he damn well knew it. Her eyes began to burn and she fought quickly for the least offensive answer, one that might just spare her another round of abuse. Of the physical kind at least.
"The loan, he wanted to talk about the loan." She said softly, taking the first thing that came to her head and wincing. Her gratitude to Gold knew no bounds and it pained her to speak ill of him, even though it was probably the only way to go about the situation. Placing the knife down she cast a tremulous look over her shoulder to see her boyfriend lounging idly in the chair, his beer nursed between hands capable of many things, not all of them very pleasant.
Keep calm Isabelle, do not let him see. She grasped onto the voice like a lifeline and fixed her eyes to the floor.
"The loan?" Gaston murmured and Isabelle nodded. Clasping her hands anxiously in front of her she stared at him innocently. He glowered at her and she swallowed thickly.
"Of course, what else would the old bugger be doing? Reptilian and cold-blooded as a snake." He said finally and Isabelle nodded.
"Nasty." She murmured softly, making him nod in slow agreement.
You are nasty, not him. Isabelle controlled her reaction with the practiced ease of one who'd dealt with voices for years. This voice, the same one from before, was new. It was a strange mixture of the light, warm voice and its velvety dark counterpart. Its power lay somewhere between the two and for some reason Isabelle's strength momentarily returned with it, rejuvenated in its glow. Taking a deep breath she turned back to the stove and put the steak on. It sizzled and she was so focused on its process she didn't see the hand coming towards her until it was too late. Out of the dimness Gaston's fist connected with the back of her head, sending it sickeningly into the front of the stove and blinding her momentarily with pain. With a soft groan she slipped to the floor and sprawled senselessly on the tiles. Vaguely, she was aware of Gaston's enormous frame looming over her and raised her hands weakly to fend new blows away from her face. It didn't work but it was all she could do. He was screaming at her, calling her a bitch and a whore, a liar and a stupid one at that. Even as she stammered denials he screamed, pummelling he harder if it were even possible.
"Did you really think I would be fooled so easily? Did you think I wouldn't catch on to your little games?" He demanded and Isabelle croaked faintly.
"I'm sorry Gaston." She cried pitifully and distantly heard the unbuckling of a belt. Flinching the tried to crawl away but he gripped her hair tightly in his fist and yanked her back towards him. The pain was excruciating, her scalp felt as though it were on fire and the blow to her forehead was throbbing now with a vengeance. There was a stickiness to her face, warm and rather sluggish, and she knew at once that she was bleeding. Tears mingled with her blood as she begged Gaston to stop.
"Please Gaston, I'll be good, I'm sorry." She pleaded and he leant close, pressing his face to hers and leering dangerously.
"Oh no you're not you filthy little whore, but you're going to be." He said menacingly and without another word brought the unclipped belt down on her back. She shrieked and he cursed.
"Shut up!" He ordered and she bit her tongue. He forced her roughly to lie on her belly, standing over her with his hand still curled in her hair, and brought to belt down again. It was a long lick of agonising flame, searing her right down the trail of her spine and Isabelle's body writhed as she struggled to hold back her sobs. She bit down on her tongue and felt her mouth flood with blood. She spat it out and the tiles were flecked with crimson spittle.
"Stupid. Fucking. Dirty. Little. Whore." With each word Gaston brought the belt down on Isabelle's back and each time she felt as though her body was being raked through a furnace. She gasped and twitched, writhed and strained but not once did she utter a word. Doing so would only bring him down harder upon her. Her vision began to tunnel, there was a wetness on her back now and she knew there'd be new scars, news marks to cover up, new reasons she could never go back to her Papa. Finally, he stopped. Unable to do anything but pant Isabelle simply lay on the floor of the kitchen, blood pouring from her face and mouth, back flaring with each ragged breath and her scalp feeling as though it were on fire. Her face was pressed into the tiles and she could see red smeared across the white clay. She'd have to clean that now, she noted idly. Suddenly she was yanked up and spun about on her knees.
"Open." He said forcefully. Isabelle fought back the groan in her throat and obeyed, slowly opening her mouth just as he rammed his pulsing member as far as he could down her throat. His cock was monstrous, blue veined and wide, choking her with every moment and she gagged. Instinctively she sought to withdraw from the action but he held fast to the hair on the back of her head and thrust angrily into her mouth. She was sobbing and gagging and spitting as he furiously fucked her mouth. Each breath was impossible, her lungs were on fire and she felt the urge to pass out growing with each violent thrust of Gaston's hips. Soon she could feel him jerking erratically, already spiralling into the climax. If it was one thing about Gaston Marsh she could be grateful for, not that there was much, it was that he had never lasted long, in bed or out of it. She fought on, gripping consciousness with as much gusto as she could. Gaston shuddered, his fingers flexing and curling sporadically in her hair as he began to curse.
"Mh, yeah, that's it! Take me, take me deeper." He muttered, ramming so far inside her mouth her face was pressed into the nook of his groin. The smell choked her and reflexively she swallowed around him. The contraction of her throat made him groan and suddenly, he came; the milky liquid spurting from him and sliding down her throat before she could pull away and spit. It was bitter, vile tasting and she fought to disentangle herself from his grasp but he kept on until he was finished, making her swallow every last drop before sliding his limp cock from between her lips and throwing her away. Her shoulders struck a glancing blow against the counter's cupboard and she curled up on herself, her body and soul raw to the touch. He scowled and zipped his pants up, re-buckled his belt and moved to the door of the kitchen. Running a hand through his hair he checked his appearance in the mirror in the hall and smiled devilishly. He had not a care in the world. Then he turned back to her and the smile became almost feral.
"I'll be back at 1, and I'll make sure you learn exactly who you belong to." He said before turning on his heel. He paused and swung back to face her.
"Don't you forget izz-belle, you're nothing without me, you were nothing before and if you leave you will always be nothing." He said and she nodded, closing her eyes and wishing him away so she could just deal with his mess. She heard him striding away without even a backwards glance in her direction. She flinched when the door slammed and lay, curled in her misery by the stove and unable to bear the thought of moving. He would be back, and he would be hard on her. She had displeased him, like always, and she deserved it. She could never get it right. It would have been better if she was dead. At that thought she screamed, letting the long wail escape her lips as she slammed her fist repetitively into the bloody tiles. Gold had kept her alive, only for her to come back to this. What was the fucking point? It would have been better if he'd never stopped her. It would have been better if she had pulled that bloody trigger. It would have been better if he'd never come by that cabin at all.
Run away Isabelle. Run hard and fast. The voice was back but she couldn't listen to it now. She eyed the blood on the once pristine floor and knew he'd want it gone, whatever the mood he'd been in when it got there. Slowly, painfully she clambered to her feet. They trembled, her back flaming as the torn dress she wore gaped icily at the back, and she clutched the counter for support. Carefully she turned off the stove and moved into the hall, opening the cupboard and removing the mop and bucket. Jerkily she filled it with warm water and began to mop, sliding away the traces of curling crimson until they faded to a rosy pink, then until the pink had disappeared altogether. She hummed despairing at the sign of the off-coloured grout. It was a dull pink and no washing would remove it now.
"Not as if anyone ever visits anyway." She muttered and carefully put the cleaning supplies away. Dinner was also put away, whole and hearty just in case Gaston was still hungry when he came back. Once she'd mistakenly thrown it away after he'd stormed out… she'd never made the mistake again. Now her back was really burning, throbbing as though she were a giant light-bulb on its final legs. With the kitchen organised and her appetite gone she stumbled through the small apartment to the tiny ensuite attached to the bedroom. Once inside she stripped naked, hissing whenever the cuts on her back were touched. She immediately tossed her ruined black dress in the dustbin and opened the medicine cabinet on the wall. She winced at the sight of her face in the mirror. Even after all the times she'd been here, all the occasions she'd done this, the sight of her bloodied face always made her wince. It left her feeling ashamed and more than a little frightened. Her eyes were huge and covered in shadows, her lips puffy and swollen from her 'act' from before and there was a grotesque mask of dried blood smeared across her entire face, curling down her eyes hollows and congealed across her left cheek where it had been pressed into the floor. She looked like something out of the horror movies she'd used to go to with Ruby during high school. That was a long time ago now. Tracing the ribbons of blood she found the source which was a deep, centimetre long gash just above her left eyebrow. It was no longer bleeding but the scab was still weak. Taking out antiseptic cream, a bandage and several other things from the cupboard Isabelle started to clean her face. Slowly, bit by painful bit, the mask was eradicated. When at last her face was clear of blood Isabelle tried to turn her attention to her back but the moment she tried to twist her body and clean strips of white hot pain erupted over her skin, making her gasp and shake with their intensity. She groaned, knowing she'd have to shower and wrap. The shower was started and she stepped under the steady stream of warm water with practiced ease. Keeping her face out of the spray she allowed the water to run down over her bruised body like a benediction. Despite the god awful sting she welcomed the feel of water down her limbs, washing her clean of Gaston's filth. She could almost believe it too. She'd never truly be clean, that was an illusion that she'd long ago destroyed, but she could pretend, just for a few hours, that she was still the little bookworm her Papa would remember and that she was still pure and whole. It was with some reluctance that she shut the water off and stepped out of the shower. Staring at her battered, scar-ridden body with a grimace of disgust Isabelle shattered that illusion once more. There was nothing beautiful about Belle French anymore. It had disappeared a long time ago and nothing would ever bring it back.
Okay, this is heavier than I anticipated; I think I put just about every possible angst/horror moment in this chapter. I was originally going for just the suicide attempt but then I decided to bring in the abuse after remembering a prompt I received from billandsookie; ps I'm sorry it's not quite what I promised, the abuse and circumstances changed a bit but I really like the ideas I have going for this. I hope you all read it without flinching too badly, although I didn't and I wrote it. A note to everyone: THIS FIC DOES NOT CONDONE SUICIDE AS A METHOD OF DEALING WITH YOUR ISSUES, IF YOU FEEL LIKE THIS IS A PROBLEM PLEASE, PLEASE SEEK HELP! Alright, love to all and please let me know what you thought? Too dark? Not dark enough? Any pointers with where you think I could take this are also appreciated.
Incidentally if anyone is interested in the song Belle sings to Bae, it's called Poison and Wine by The Civil Wars and I think it sums up the Rumbelle relationship almost perfectly.
