A Defiant Liaison

XVII

"Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time." Maya Angelou

*TW - mentions of SA*

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XVII.

Belle jumped awake when she heard a booming crash. Her heart began to thunder in her chest as she felt the pure energy begin to course through her veins. She shuffled up to a seated position in her bed, pulling her blanket up to her chin as her body began to uncontrollably tremble.

No.

He couldn't be back already. He was supposed to be away for another week at least. The last lot of bruises and welts had barely begun to heal.

"BELLE, WHERE ARE YOU?" she heard his furious voice bellow. She also heard the thickness of his voice, as though it was lubricated with drink.

Belle was in the slave bunk with everyone else. When he was away, she slept in there, on the small, wooden cots with the scratchy blankets. Perhaps one would wonder as to why she preferred such meagre quarters when she had the option of sleeping in the master's house. But Belle could never sleep in that house. In the two years since Jean had forcibly married her, Belle had not slept for one minute in that house.

Belle heard the fearful whispers of the others who had been awoken by Jean's shouting. Though the darkness concealed their expressions, she knew that their faces would have looked quite frightened.

Belle couldn't remain silent. She couldn't hide now.

Though Belle had learned to remain silent. Sometimes she could be so quiet that people would often forget she was there. She learned to move soundlessly. Should an itch arise, she could think it away. She would never, ever speak unless she was directly spoken to.

It was how she survived.

But Jean was furious, and Belle's galloping heart knew what was coming. Jean had a fearsome temper. Jean could become angry if the crop was not being harvested quickly enough. Jean could become angry if a thread had come loose from the hem of his shirt.

He was angry tonight that his enslaved plaything of a wife was not where he had left her.

It must have been God who intervened on behalf of the others, as it was not Belle who got up out of the bed and put one foot in front of the other. Stepping out into the humid night, Belle was confronted first by the scene of ale. It permeated the air, and his clothes stunk.

Jean was a large man in every sense of the word. He overindulged on his favourite French cuisine and he was nearly as round as he was tall. But with his size brought strength, and one swipe from his meaty hand could knock her unconscious as he had many times before.

"There you are!" he sneered in a drunken slur. He gripped a lantern in one hand, and she saw his top lip upturn distastefully. Jean usually kept his sandy coloured hair combed neatly, but he looked quite dishevelled, and his shirt and breeches looked creased and crumpled.

Belle swallowed. It never got any easier. Sending her mind elsewhere did nothing to detract from the harrowing experience. She fought all she could, every time. She never wanted to give up. But she could never win. She was never strong enough to win. When Jean didn't want her to struggle, he could easily silence her with the swing of his fist.

Jean stepped forward and reached for her, intending to grab hold of her upper arm, but Belle instinctively jumped out of his reach.

"Little slut," hissed Jean, "probably been out here whoring yourself!" He lunged for her again, but this time he did not reach for her arm, instead grabbing hold of a fist-full of her hair. He yanked, and by some miracle he did not pull her hair out, instead Belle lost her footing and was dragged a few feet by the roots of her hair. Her scalp burned, and Belle let out an involuntary yelp of pain. Jean laughed.