CHAPTER TWO!
okay, this chapter is slightly more violent and disturbing than the previous ones, and there is a little (only a little) mild language.
so this chapter is T...okay? and it's quite sad...
Disclaimer: I don't own anything! Ownership is an illusion! We're only part of one giant dream! (damn you, philosphy class!)
Enjoy!
Henry Wellard, Midshipman, knew he was nearing the end. He could tell by the way he felt his mind failing him, his heart failing him, his soul slowly leaving his body...
'It's not as bad as they say' thought the boy optimistically –for indeed, he was just a boy, and much too young to die- 'at least I'll see my sister again…'
It was then his life flashed before his eyes.
But it was not flashes of a happy childhood, a toddler running down a hill with a flush on his chubby cheeks, a young adolescent getting his first kiss.
No.
It was nothing so innocent…
The following are flashbacks to Wellard's past:
A 13-year- old Henry Wellard stood in front of his cowering twin sister, shielding her defiantly from their father's violent, insensible rage.
"She's done nothing wrong!" cried the younger Wellard.
For two months now, Isabella Wellard had been taking lessons in secret, from a loyal friend of their now deceased mother. It was only reading, writing and basic arithmetic, for that was all the twins could afford.
However, one night their father, John Wellard,had gone to the local tavern after working the farm with Henry all day and heard from the husband of Isabella's teacher that the girl was taking lessons.
He had come home blind with anger.
Henry had come inside from feeding the livestock to find his sister on the floor of the kitchen, with monstrous great bruises on her arms and legs.
Their father was towering above her, livid and positively foaming with rabid loathing for his only daughter.
"You betrayed me, wench!" he seethed, kicking her solid in the stomach, "you made me look like a soft fool who can't control his daughter in front of the village!"
He had drawn his leg back for another kick. This time aimed for her face.
Henry had run to stand between them.
"She's done nothing wrong, father!" Henry exclaimed again.
"Don't you dare get in the way, boy! I have to discipline her!" bellowed John. Henry could smell whisky on his father's breath. It was familiar, and nauseating
"NO!" Cried Henry, "You mustn't, father, you musn't! You have to understand we did I for the right reasons! Bella must be educated if she is ever going to marry!"
John growled and pushed Henry out of the way.
"Move, boy."
In a last ditch attempt to save his sister, Henry threw a haphazard punch at John. It found it's mark and the twins' father reeled backwards, clutching his nose. However, Henry had broken the most vital rule of the wild. Never anger a predator.
And John Wellard was an animal of the most primal kind.
The man scowled through his bleeding nose at his son.
"That's it, boy," He hissed, "I've had enough of you."
John Wellard aimed a perfect punch at Henry's brow. Knocking the boy over.
The last thing Henry saw before he lost consciousness was his father; throwing punch after punch, kick after kick, blow after blow at his sobbing, cowering daughter.
Then darkness.
When Henry woke up, It was dawn, and the boy was lying on the cold, hard cobblestones, with a little warm sunlight leaking through the grime of the kitchen windows.
He also noted that -for some unknown reason- his hand was wet, lying in a puddle of some liquid.
"It must be grease from the cooking," thought Henry, then he thought: "Why am I even lying here, on the floor of the kitchen?"
It all came back to him suddenly.
His father, beating his sister senseless, the lessons...
Henry sat up suddenly, holding his hand to his head, and looking around.
There was his sister, lying with her hands still covering her head -even in unconsciousness - in a pool of blood.
Henry desperately crawled to his her, snatching a cloth from the kitchen bench and dabbed at Isabella's wounds.
That son of a bitch he called a father had ruined her face,her hands, normally delicate and soft,were bloody and bruised.
Her pretty face, her complexion still perfect, even after years of working on the farm, was marred by huge scratches and a bruise that covered her nose and all down the right side of her paleface.
Actually, her face was more pale than usual.
It was then he noticed, cradling her in his arms, that his sister was cold. Freezing.
No. No. He wouldn't believe it. She wasn't...
But she wasn't breathing.
She couldn't be...
Henry's hearted thumped in his own chest as he placed two fingers at her neck, searching frantically for a pulse.
Nothing.
Isabella was dead.
Dead. Murdered by her own father.
Tears ran down Henry's face as he realised the truth. His grief choked him, blinded him and seemed to turn his knees to lead, pinning him to the ground. He thought of all the things he and Isabella had planned to do with their life.
Her hopes to teach children and get married.
He recalled her telling him he wasn't allowed to go to cambridge to study to become a doctor, for he wouldn't be able to stand by her side at her wedding.
Henry couldn't move, couldn't breath, couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't see.
His body shuddered and he pulled his sister's lifeless body towards him. They had been so close.
Of course, because they were twins, they were constantly together as young children.
They had been best friends.
The thought that Henry would never again play tag with his sister, or sit up late at night, trading ghost stories they had heard a million times, yet still jumped at, or making funny faces at the nobles passing by in their fancy carriages.
And he thought of allthe times they had protected each other-drawn together for comfort and safety from their violent father.
Henry thought of the the sacrifice their mother had made for them both, all in vain.
Anger kicked in and consumed Henry. He stood, stumbling like a drunk, his hand still holding his aching head.
Adrenaline cut in and blocked the pain.
He had to find his father.
The tears poured down his face.
He would kill him for what he did to Isabella.
mmm, cliffy...sorta.
The fact that I nearly cried when I wrote this shows:
A just how pathetic and obsessed with Wellard I am, and
B That I am so much better at angst.
anyway, I was going to keep on going...
but I felt like making you squirm :P hehe
R&R. please!
Luv, PretJb4eva