Trigger Warnings for Attempted Suicide
AN: So, bigger chapter this week. Something you can really sink your teeth into.
Saturday. It's now the third day Joan's been gone, but I'm not so worried anymore. She's told me she's safe—and I called in a favour with Lefou to track her phone. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I wanted to be sure. She's my only daughter, and I can't lose her. It's not like I'd get a second chance at parenthood either. With what Hans did to me, with my past, a lot of people asked why we didn't have children. I'll just come out and say that the problems weren't his.
I've spent the last three days trying not to worry, and failing pretty horribly. Kristoff's been there for me, and it's been him that's stopped me from haring off after Joan at every opportunity. Like trying to nab her after school—because I didn't get any calls telling me she was absent, I had to assume she'd gone. I tried following her, but Kristoff caught me. She needs space. She needs to realize what it is we're trying to do. Tried to do; with Tina. The way it's turned out, I'm going to call that evening an unmitigated disaster. At least they're both safe.
I've said in the past I have my suspicions about those two, now they're out there, presumably staying together, with limited options for entertainment. I wonder if they've been using each other for entertainment. I wonder if they've done that before. Under my own roof, no less. But I won't pry—too much. And when I haven't been worrying about Joan, I've been plotting about how punish her. Oh, yes, I have plans and plots and schemes and layers of evil ideas. Well, unpleasant for her, at least.
I won't take away her regular fencing night—that would be unfair—but I'm seriously thinking about banning her from the tournament and the melee. I won't stop her from seeing Tina—mostly because I can't. I can, however, make her more careful. Then there are the chores she'll be landed with. And removing most of the technology from her room. She can earn those back with good behaviour. Hmm… not sure what else, really, but I'll think of somethin—oh. Driving. No more driving, at least for a while. Even though we got the car back—and the Belafonts somehow got theirs back too—it's just… well, nobody should try stealing their parents' car.
It's still pretty dark right now, and checking the clock it's only about 6am. Waaaay too early for me to be awake, but there must be a reason. I'm not sure if I was dreaming, but I thought I heard something downstairs last night. Maybe I did dream it, because I can only remember the time you came back came back so very late one night, Elsa, and then you crashed on the couch, too tired to drag your lazy butt up the stairs. But I'm out of bed now, and in the hall the hardwood floor is cold against my bare feet while the morning chill cuts right through my chemise. Maybe I should've pulled on my gown, but something's pulling me to the stairs.
I can hear something coming from the living room. Rough sounding but rhythmic breathing—snoring, actually. But Kristoff's still upstairs, so I ball my hands into fists, and grab the nearest blunt object to have at the intruder. Intruders. Sleeping on our couch. Short, dark hair, and flashes of platinum gold. Yup, she's snoring—but that may be because she's trying to use her friend as a blanket, and honestly, that pose cannot be comfortable.
I fall back into the nearest chair, letting whatever it was I took fall to the floor. Huh, yesterday's rolled up paper. Sure, that would've been really effective—if our intruder was a disobedient pet. I let out a sigh of relief, because now I know Joan's safe, and it's kinda funny seeing her use Tina as a blanket—but oh, they are in so much trouble when they wake up. We're gonna have to take Tina home, but after breakfast, because that's fair, right? Then me and Kristoff are going to have a long talk with Joan about responsibility and the consequences of her actions.
And later, much later, when I've calmed down, I'll tell her about the time I had to take responsibility for my actions—for the fact I didn't leave Hans for so many years. You gave me the push, Elsa, and maybe that makes you the hero of the piece. It certainly does to me, so that's how I'm going to tell it, even with that argument we had beforehand.
Platinum hair goes flying as Joan bolts awake.
"Gah!" I can only watch as she both brushes her shoulder and—I'm not sure if it's accidental or not—turfs Tina onto the floor. "Mom?"
Tina lands with a heavy thud, looking up and glaring at my daughter. "What the hell was that for?"
"You were drooling on me." Fair enough. "Again." What?
I clear my throat, and Tina turns to look at me. "Oh, hi miss Bergman. Um…"
"You two young ladies are in a whole heap of trouble—but, I'll let you have breakfast before I march you in front of the firing squad." I stand, heading for the stairs. "I'm getting my robe. You both better still be here when I get back."
They are, and Kristoff's still upstairs, pulling on some pants. When in bed, he's a strong believer in the idea that clothes are optional. So am I, most nights, and it's nice to snuggle up next to him, but it was a little chilly last night. Anyway, Joan and Tina are in the dining room, carefully avoiding my gaze as they take great spoonfuls of cereal in. The toaster pops in the kitchen. I get the feeling they didn't eat too well while they were away. I also suspect that Joan may have run through what was left of her allowance—because according to Lefou's information, they weren't staying at some low-rent motel.
"Joan," I speak softly, because it's much better at getting attention than shouting in cases like this. She turns to look at me, shame faced. "You realize you're pretty much grounded for the rest of your life, right?"
Joan hangs her head, staring intently into her bowl of coco-pops. Tina shuffles a little closer to her.
"You're not getting off scot-free either, miss Belafont," and I fix her with my best attempt at a stern gaze. "Your mother was so worried about you. So was your father. They are going to decide your punishment."
"But… but what if they say I can never see Joan again?"
"Honestly, they can't," I chew thoughtfully on another spoonful of cereal, then continue. "You two go to the same school. You walk past each other's houses. You have phones. Computers. It would be impossible to stop you seeing each other unless your dad decided to up stakes and move out of the country. And cut off all your internet and phone services. All he can really do is limit how much you see Joan."
"You're not… mad… at me?" I honestly didn't see the point of being mad at Tina, or at Joan, because it was Tina's father, damn Weaselly—Westley. Westley! Belafont that was the problem. Archaic thinking, really, given the world we live in. I don't have any problem with Joan being a lesbian—or exploring that side of her sexuality first. I can sort of understand Westley's issues, but it's hard to fathom given how inclusive and tolerant my friends are. It's like being on a different planet, really. And Tina's still looking at me, expecting an answer. Oops.
"No, Tina, I'm not mad at you. Or at Joan—but what you both did was wrong. I'm angry at that. I'm angry at how you've acted, not who you are. And it was Elsa that first taught me that distinction, by being angry at me for what I let myself suffer, but not at the person I'd become. I guess you both probably think you were running away for the right reasons—and maybe, maybe you were."
"But stealing our cars was wrong," Kristoff put in from the door, walking through to the kitchen. "Worrying your mothers half to death was worse. Miss Belafont, you do not want to know how many calls I got from your mother while I was at work yesterday. Joan, you don't want to know what I had to do to stop princess feistypants over there from dragging you back after school on Thurs—"
"Thank you so much, Reindeer King." Yeah, real mature, I know. Gimme a break, it's early, and I've gotta defuse the tension in me somehow. It's not going to be an easy day for any of us.
"Anyway," Kristoff just plowed on, ignoring the dig. "We have had a very busy week. No charges relating to vehicle theft have been laid—Tina, you'll need to talk to officer Erikson about that one before you go home. You didn't do anything illegal, just reckless, and maybe a little bit stupid."
"Did you just call me stupid?" Joan stares daggers at her father as he pops into the kitchen.
"Maybe." And then he's gone, and I hear something banging around with the pans. It mostly muffles an indignant shriek from my daughter. Mostly. Tina just gives her a look. Then she goes back to gorging on our cereals. Yeah, I think I may need to teach them about the importance of shopping for the necessities. Later. Much later. When all this has blown over.
We dropped Tina back home a little while ago, and I gave Westley a short but pointed speech about what would happen if I found out he'd tried to hurt Tina instead of merely disciplining her. I'm not really sure he got the message, but his wife was all tears and hugs when she came out to the door and saw Tina standing there, looking very meek and apologetic. We got back home without incident, and true to my word I've locked out most of the tech in Joan's room, amongst other things. Of course she doesn't think it's fair, but I've already given my reasons.
I'm sprawled out on the couch, and Joan's in one of the armchairs, trying to keep her distance. Yeah, it stings, but I know she can't keep it up for long. Just like you, just before Hans did what you predicted he would. I hate that you were so right about him—that you forced me to see everything that I could have done, and why I didn't. Back then I didn't know that those stirrings I felt were the beginnings of love, true love, even. All I knew was that you made me happy, and that I wanted to protect you. I didn't care so much about myself so long as you were safe. I was an idiot—and you told me as much when you saw me after, and all I could do was laugh which as I recall quite charmed you.
Anyway, getting sidetracked. Just because Joan's been bad doesn't mean I'm going to stop telling her our story. I mean, if she's still willing to hear it right now.
"Joan?"
"Yes." Her reply is about as curt as it's possible to be without trying to be insulting.
"Do you want to hear more about auntie Elsa?"
She looks at me blankly, blinking once or twice as her mind processes what I've just said. Rabbit in the headlights. She can't believe what she's hearing, and I can see that written all over her face. Then she schools her features into a neutral expression, and she answers me in a small voice. "Yes."
"I can't remember what day our last morning meeting was on, before the attack. It might have been a Tuesday," I give Joan a little look, making sure she's paying attention. "Honestly, the whole week is a blur, from the drugs, and the surgery, and the time in the recovery ward. I'll always remember the argument though."
—∞—
I'd come in that morning bearing some new bruises that my choice of dress didn't manage to hide once I'd taken off my jacket. Perhaps wearing a sleeveless dress wasn't my best decision ever—or maybe it was, because Isabella finally saw what Hans was really doing to me. I'm not sure how I felt about that—maybe I was proud of my scars. Proud of all the marks he was leaving on me, because even though they hurt, they were also proof I was alive.
The cut of my dress was actually quite low—daring, even, for me anyway. Somehow the 'v' on the front of Isabella's hospital gown seemed lower too. I didn't notice at the time she'd pulled the back collar up to manage that. I wasn't even sure it was deliberate on her part. It was on mine though. I wanted her to see me, not just my body, but the real me—who I wanted to be—and I wasn't sure why. I'd thought about her, and what it might be like to kiss her, but beyond that, aside from being there while she healed, I hadn't given it that much extra thought. I only wanted to be there because I felt responsible. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.
I was sitting in the chair next to Isabella's bed again, my crutches lying on the floor between us. I stopped using them as much, able to rest most of my weight on that ankle now. I could walk with a limp, and in a few days I was sure I'd be back at work with Kristoff and Audrey. Little things that I could look forward to. I reached into my satchel and withdrew a pair of orange fruits, tangerines. I placed them on the table next to Isabella's bed.
"I'm not sure what you like, but I got you a couple of tangerines, because I hear citrus fruits are really good for your health."
"Better than the food here," and she smiled, reaching over to pick one up. I could see down the front of her gown, and honestly, I quite liked what I saw. I hoped my blush wasn't showing when she turned to look at me. It must have been, because she fixed me with a hard gaze, her own cheeks becoming slightly flushed.
"Why do you let him hurt you?" Now that I had not been expecting. Such a direct accusation—even implying getting hurt was my fault. Did she think I wanted any of this?
"I don't let him do anything." That came out so wrong. It sounded like I was defending Hans, not myself.
"So you like it when he hurts you?"
"What?" I stared at her, not believing what I was hearing. "No. I hate it. I hate it every time he does it!"
"But you stay with him, silly girl." She was implying I was stupid. Naive, maybe, but not stupid.
"I'm not an idiot. What he's doing is wrong, but I can't get out."
"No, you don't want to get out." It was the most accusing tone I'd ever heard. Everything here was my fault, somehow. To her, I just didn't want to see it. Couldn't she see how trapped I was?
"You don't know hard it is!"
"No," her voice dripped with sarcasm. "I've never known what it's like to be alone. To lose hope. To want to die."
I just stared at her, seething with anger.
"Anniken, if he thinks you're getting out of his control, he'll kill you."
I said possibly the stupidest, most spiteful thing that ever came out of my mouth. "My bike should have killed you. Then I wouldn't have this problem!"
"If you hate me so much, then leave." She didn't shout, but it was the most forceful whisper I ever heard.
I did leave. Nurses scrambled past me, to her room, calming her down I guess. I just went home—and that was dumber than arguing with Isabella. One shot at a new friendship, and I'd let it blow up in my face. I didn't hate her. I wanted to run back and say sorry—but I knew the words wouldn't come out right. I had to tell Hans I'd screwed up, that I needed a second chance to make right with Isabella. I sat heavily on the old couch, dragging my laptop over and checking my emails. All junk. I closed the laptop and tossed it onto an empty cushion. I needed something I could really vent my frustration on.
We argued through the afternoon and into the evening. To say dinner was tense would be like calling the ocean damp. He hit me, several times. It hurt, and he wasn't holding back, but this time it wasn't breaking my resolve. It was breaking my heart—and breaking the cage that held all of my anger. Everything I'd held back for so many years, repressed, hidden, seething and festering anger. My rage was incandescent, fuelled by the knowledge I no longer had anything to lose. There was one last thing I could do, and it would hurt Hans so badly it might destroy him. It wasn't like anyone else would miss me afterwards.
I took the sharpest knife I could find, and with my right hand, stabbed it as deeply as I could into my left wrist. I didn't feel anything, but I could certainly see the fear and uncertainty on Hans's face giving way to horror. That's right, watch me die. It's what you always wanted you monster. I was dragging the knife down my arm, the pain so intense I was gasping for breath when he came at me again. He managed to knock the knife loose, putting one hand around my wrist, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was a futile effort.
I had a moment of utter clarity, with Hans so very close to me. I took hold of his wrist, then I slammed it against the edge of the counter, hearing the most awful, terrible, satisfying crack. I was aghast at what I'd done, Hans standing there, cradling his wrist as the knowledge sunk for both of us that I was the stronger person. Dying, bleeding, but still stronger than him. He was fit, and a health freak. But I had a powerful, wiry kind of strength. Moving large chunks of steel on a daily basis will do that for you.
He grabbed a knife from the block, the biggest he could think of. He was going to kill me. No! If I died, I wanted him to suffer, watching it happen, being powerless. I stepped back. My foot slipped, weight falling on my bad ankle. I felt cold steel puncture something vital, then my side lit on fire and I screamed—but not loud enough to drown out the sirens. Something clattered on the floor of the kitchen, and I could hear running footsteps, growing more and more distant. I was lying in a pool of something warm and sticky, and my arms felt really fuzzy. I could hardly move my left hand. The sticky stuff was red.
Blood.
My blood.
It wasn't supposed to be outside me. Hans was supposed to see all of it.
I was hurt. I wanted to hurt him.
By dying?
Knife.
Pain.
Darkness. Blinking.
Isabella.
Darkness. Pain. Floating. Rough hands. A muffled voice down a tinny pipe. A familiar beeping noise. Grey's Anatomy? Lefou. Knowing Gaston was secretly gay. Isabella. Kisses. Darkness.
I had to open my eyes slowly, everything was so bright.
"He–hey," a vaguely familiar voice. "You're awake."
I blinked at the light, trying to raise my arm to shield my face. I felt a lot of wires and tubes dragging on my arm, then a hand pressed gently against my wrist and elbow.
"Try not to move too much." I knew that voice. I turned slowly because my head felt larger than the earth. And fluffy, like a giant marshmallow. I could see blond hair out of the corner of my eyes.
"Isabella?" And that was stupid, because it was a masculine voice, but for some reason I wanted it to be her.
"Unless she's 6'2" and weighs two-twenty pounds, I doubt it."
"Kristoff?"
"God, you had us worried for a while there feistypants." I felt him pat my shoulder. "I knew you'd pull through; you're a fighter."
That's right, I was hurt. I had been stabbed—by Hans. Hans! Had they caught him? Surely he couldn't weasel his way out of this, officer or not. I must have been thinking out loud, because Kristoff answered my questions and statements in order.
"You had a punctured lung and a fractured rib, along with severe internal bleeding—you're fucking lucky, because that knife missed your heart by less than an inch." He looked pointedly at my wrist, all bandaged up. My shoulders drooped—he had to know what I'd tried to do.
"I don't feel lucky. Head's all fuzzy. Feel kinda light."
"Painkillers, but they'll wear off. The doctors say you should be okay in a few days." He took my hand, the one with less wires, and I felt my fingers curl into his, a sign of friendship; solidarity. "They caught Hans two days ago. He's going away for a very long time—the doctors here remember what you looked like after the crash—and then the next afternoon."
"Good." It was really all I could say. I couldn't think of much else, except that I was happy to see justice get around to kicking him in the nuts. Hans deserved everything the prison system had in store for him.
"And Isabella says she's sorry." What? "I think she likes you." Again, what? "Like that."
I tried to sit up, and Kristoff only just managed to hold me down, a hand against each shoulder. I tried to take deep, calming breaths, but it was kind of difficult. Shallower breaths worked, but then I was hyperventilating.
"Whoa, slow down before you faint." I managed to calm myself enough to think sort of clearly about things.
"How… how long asleep?"
"Four days, three surgeries. Lefou watched over you when I couldn't. I know we can trust him. Audrey's been holding down the fort, and she would have come tomorrow, but her sister's recovering from her last fight. It's Sunday right now"—he looked at the clock on the wall—"yeah, it's been Sunday for about half an hour now."
Something in my messed up brain finally started working. "They let you stay?"
"They couldn't find any next of kin—not with Hans being the monster he is—but I was your I.C.E. contact. Y'know, I thought you were joking when you said you'd done that. Maybe Lefou, or someone who knew you better. They also didn't want to leave you alone." He looked pointedly towards my wrist again. I would be paying for that for a long time. I'd damn well tried to kill myself. Worse—I'd tried to make someone else watch, monstrous as they might have been. I was rational enough to know I'd been both very stupid and very lucky. Especially if Kristoff was allowed to stay—and there was a reason I'd made him my I.C.E. contact.
"You big dummy," I tried half-heartedly thumping him but he grabbed my arm before it could move more than a couple of inches. He held it effortlessly. I didn't let my fear show.
"Anna, he can't get you anymore." And he laid my arm down as gently as possible, brushing his fingertips against the crook of my elbow. I shuddered and drew away, and he apologized: "I'm sorry." But I laughed a little, because it actually tickled when he did that. Laughing was not a good idea.
"Ow. Please don't make me laugh." I could already see the joke he was trying so hard not to unleash on me. "Run. Run!"
He ran out into the hallway, told the nearest person he could, and got slapped. Unfortunately for me that was even funnier, and I simply could not hold back the laughter. Never had I been so happy and so hurt at the same time. I was stupid. Isabella had been right about Hans. Had maybe been right about me too—because lying there, in pain from laughing, I asked myself why I hadn't had the courage to stop Hans before. Why the dam didn't break until that night.
It wasn't just because I'd lost hope. It was because I'd found it. I had been so afraid of being alone, I hadn't really considered that what was being done to me might be worse. Being alone was my worst fear. Ever since my parents died I'd been terrified of being alone. That's why I married Hans. That's why I couldn't leave him. I'd been willing to die rather than be alone. But now—now I had hope. I had someone to live for. I might have ruined her life, but she had just given mine back to me. I needed to thank her for that.
Isabella. I didn't know her last name, or her favourite colour, or even what she considered a fun evening—but now she meant the world to me. It was dark, and late, and my head was getting heavy. Tired. But it was a happy kind of tired. I'd ask if I could see her in the morning. Use my phone for a video message if I couldn't. I smiled, a dopey, painkiller enhanced, but happy smile. Tired, but happy. I was content just to lie on the pillow, close my eyes, and sleep. Everything else could wait.
