" No ! " Bel yelled.
Tristan gripped her by the shoulder, throwing her against the furniture. Her head hit the back of the table. A blinding pain erupted, black spots appeared in the corner of her eye. Something wet dripped down her neck.
She tried to crawl away. She tried. She did. She tried everything she could.
His hands were everywhere, they bruised her skin, they gripped her limbs, pulling her right back to him.
His nails dug into her skin. She wailed.
Her nightgown ripped open, revealing her body. She held the rags close to her chest, tightly closing her legs.
Tristan wrenched away the meager piece of tissue. Her hands stayed on her chest, gripping it tightly in hope of making her breasts disappear. Her legs pressed even tighter against each other.
" No, no, no…" She tightly closed her eyes.
She didn't want to know. She didn't want to see. But the hands on her stopped her from denying reality.
Tristan tried to take her hands away, but her nails were too deep into her chest. Trails of blood dripped down, but she didn't stop holding on. He took her shoulder and violently pulled it back.
Her shoulder suddenly cracked. It was stuck back at an unnatural angle. She screamed.
Tristan took Bel by the hair, pushing her face close to his. Bel momentarily opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred with tears. His breath was hot on her face. He licked at her tears.
His mouth was on her. His tongue tried to force its way in. Her lips stayed tightly closed. His hands went on her shoulder, pulling it back again. She screamed.
He hit her in the face, over and over again. He hit her until blood ran from her nose, until her whole face was on fire, until all she could see was blood and all she could feel was pain. She wailed and thrashed, before that too, was too painful.
" There, there. " He murmured softly in her ear.
He kissed her, gently, like he was in love. Bel didn't move, didn't even dare to breathe. Her eyes were wide open this time. She stared lifelessly, unwilling to close her eyes.
His hands turned away from her chest, they reached lower.
" No… " She begged more than protested.
Her eyes stared at him, pleading. He gave her a smile. He gave her the softest, most innocent smile she had ever seen from him.
He opened her legs without difficulty. She stared at the ceiling. She embraced the pain, trying to ignore everything else. Her shoulder burned. She could feel the bruises starting to form on her face, the wounds that started to properly bleed. She focused on everything and anything but the pain in-between her legs.
The ceiling. What a beautiful ceiling. She had a dream of being an engineer once. An engineer would have known everything one needs to make such a beautiful ceiling. But she hadn't become an engineer. No, she had become a wife. And she will remain a wife. Lives after lives, she would be a decoration at her husband's side.
She was and would stay the figure below them, taking their hits, making their child. What is the difference. What is the difference between her and a prostitute. What is the difference between her life and death.
What a beautiful ceiling, she thought nonsensically. Slowly, tears cale back to her. Sobs raked her body, and she wasn't hit for it.
Her tender muscles raised her up. She looked around. Some furnitures were broken. Droplets of blood painted the place.
She slowly stood up on shaky legs. Glass embedded itself into her feet, but she ignored it. Something dripped down her thighs, and she ignored that too.
She caught someone looking at her. Her hands raised to her chest, her shoulders slouching. She turned around, snarling, trying to stop them from looking. Nobody was there, it was just…her reflection.
Her hands went down. She stared blankly. Her reflection was familiar. The bruises on her skin, the ache inside her, all of it was a familiar reality : a routine. When had this became normal. She couldn't remember the first time it happened. But she knew this wouldn't be the last time. There would never be a last time. Not if she didn't do something.
Her limbs were slimmer, her breast had grown with childbirth, her imperfections were hidden away with makeup. She was a men's fantasy.
Why. Why was she like this ? It was all his fault. It was all Tristan's fault. Tristan and the crown prince and her father and her mother. Why had they made her into this dumb doll ! She was good with a blade, she was even better with numbers. But none of this mattered. No ! Lady Belladonna was just there to,spread her legs and take the hit. Lady Belladonna was the crown prince's pretty doll, the count's prostitute.
She stared at her reflection. Her fist landed on the mirror, glass deepened old wounds and created new ones. It hurt. Good, she thought, let it hurt. She punched the mirror over and over again, taking pleasure in her own pain. This wasn't Tristan's doing. This was her. This was Bel, not Lady Belladonna.
Her reflection was shattered in fragments in a way it had never been before. It was new. It was unfamiliar. It was the greatest thing she had ever seen. She laughed, her voice raspy with screaming. Was that what Tristan had felt ? Was this what people felt when they hurt her ?
The black spots in her vision multiplied until it was all she could see. Her own laughter echoed in her ear. Her chest hurt.
Eventually, the pain faded away.
" No ! " Bel yelled.
Tristan gripped her by the shoulder, throwing her against the furniture. Her head hit the back of the table. A blinding pain erupted, black spots appeared in the corner of her eye. Something wet dripped down her neck.
She tried to crawl away. She tried. She did. She tried everything she could.
His hands were everywhere, they bruised her skin, they gripped her limbs, pulling her right back to him.
His nails dug into her skin. She wailed.
Her nightgown ripped open, revealing her body. She held the rags close to her chest, tightly closing her legs.
Tristan wrenched away the meager piece of tissue. Her hands stayed on her chest, gripping it tightly in hope of making her breasts disappear. Her legs pressed even tighter against each other.
" No, no, no…" She tightly closed her eyes.
She didn't want to know. She didn't want to see. But the hands on her stopped her from denying reality.
Tristan tried to take her hands away, but her nails were too deep into her chest. Trails of blood dripped down, but she didn't stop holding on. He took her shoulder and violently pulled it back.
Her shoulder suddenly cracked. It was stuck back at an unnatural angle. She screamed.
Tristan took Bel by the hair, pushing her face close to his. Bel momentarily opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred with tears. His breath was hot on her face. He licked at her tears.
His mouth was on her. His tongue tried to force its way in. Her lips stayed tightly closed. His hands went on her shoulder, pulling it back again. She screamed.
He hit her in the face, over and over again. He hit her until blood ran from her nose, until her whole face was on fire, until all she could see was blood and all she could feel was pain. She wailed and thrashed, before that too, was too painful.
" There, there. " He murmured softly in her ear.
He kissed her, gently, like he was in love. Bel didn't move, didn't even dare to breathe. Her eyes were wide open this time. She stared lifelessly, unwilling to close her eyes.
His hands turned away from her chest, they reached lower.
" No… " She begged more than protested.
Her eyes stared at him, pleading. He gave her a smile. He gave her the softest, most innocent smile she had ever seen from him.
He opened her legs without difficulty. She stared at the ceiling. She embraced the pain, trying to ignore everything else. Her shoulder burned. She could feel the bruises starting to form on her face, the wounds that started to properly bleed. She focused on everything and anything but the pain in-between her legs.
The ceiling. What a beautiful ceiling. She had a dream of being an engineer once. An engineer would have known everything one needs to make such a beautiful ceiling. But she hadn't become an engineer. No, she had become a wife. And she will remain a wife. Lives after lives, she would be a decoration at her husband's side.
She was and would stay the figure below them, taking their hits, making their child. What is the difference. What is the difference between her and a prostitute. What is the difference between her life and death.
What a beautiful ceiling, she thought nonsensically. Slowly, tears cale back to her. Sobs raked her body, and she wasn't hit for it.
Her tender muscles raised her up. She looked around. Some furnitures were broken. Droplets of blood painted the place.
She slowly stood up on shaky legs. Glass embedded itself into her feet, but she ignored it. Something dripped down her thighs, and she ignored that too.
She caught someone looking at her. Her hands raised to her chest, her shoulders slouching. She turned around, snarling, trying to stop them from looking. Nobody was there, it was just…her reflection.
Her hands went down. She stared blankly. Her reflection was familiar. The bruises on her skin, the ache inside her, all of it was a familiar reality : a routine. When had this became normal. She couldn't remember the first time it happened. But she knew this wouldn't be the last time. There would never be a last time. Not if she didn't do something.
Her limbs were slimmer, her breast had grown with childbirth, her imperfections were hidden away with makeup. She was a men's fantasy.
Why. Why was she like this ? It was all his fault. It was all Tristan's fault. Tristan and the crown prince and her father and her mother. Why had they made her into this dumb doll ! She was good with a blade, she was even better with numbers. But none of this mattered. No ! Lady Belladonna was just there to,spread her legs and take the hit. Lady Belladonna was the crown prince's pretty doll, the count's prostitute.
She stared at her reflection. Her fist landed on the mirror, glass deepened old wounds and created new ones. It hurt. Good, she thought, let it hurt. She punched the mirror over and over again, taking pleasure in her own pain. This wasn't Tristan's doing. This was her. This was Bel, not Lady Belladonna.
Her reflection was shattered in fragments in a way it had never been before. It was new. It was unfamiliar. It was the greatest thing she had ever seen. She laughed, her voice raspy with screaming. Was that what Tristan had felt ? Was this what people felt when they hurt her ?
The black spots in her vision multiplied until it was all she could see. Her own laughter echoed in her ear. Her chest hurt.
Eventually, the pain faded away.