The story of Belle

Chapter 3:The Weight of Silence

I woke up, disoriented and heavy, as if I had been floating in some dark, endless ocean and had finally washed ashore. The room was too bright, blinding almost, and I blinked, trying to focus. People surrounded me, their faces swimming in and out of view, but the heaviness in my chest kept pulling me back under. I tried to speak, tried to ask where I was, what was happening, but nothing came out. My throat felt like it had been stitched shut, raw and aching, and when I tried harder, all that came was a dry heave, like my body was trying to purge the words, force them out.

I looked around, panic starting to bubble up inside me. Billie was standing there, his eyes locked on me. I could see the fury simmering just below the surface, but his face was expressionless. That look—the calm before the storm—made my stomach churn. And then there was Angel, standing next to him, small and terrified, like a fragile bird that had fallen from its nest and didn't know how to fly. Her hands were clutched together, and she kept glancing at me and then at Billie, as if she was waiting for something to break.

I wanted to reach out to her, to tell her I was sorry for making her worry, but I couldn't move. My body felt disconnected, as if it no longer belonged to me. Everything was happening so fast, and yet I was stuck in slow motion, watching it unfold like I wasn't really there.

Billie spoke first, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Isabelle, you made a stupid choice," he said, his words deliberate, sharp. Each one sliced into me, cold and unfeeling. "Why would you take a whole bottle of pills? Do I not give you the love and satisfaction you so desire?"

There it was—that question. He didn't ask if I was okay, didn't seem to care that I had nearly died. No, it was always about him. His love, his satisfaction. The world revolved around Billie, and I had just disrupted his perfect little orbit. His voice was coated with what sounded like concern, but I knew better. There was no real worry there, just anger, just his desperate need for control. His words were like daggers, twisting deeper with every breath I took, reminding me that I was nothing without him.

I wanted to scream, to tell him that his so-called love was suffocating me, that it was the reason I couldn't breathe anymore. But my voice was gone, swallowed up by the weight of everything I'd been holding inside for so long. I wanted to tell him that I was tired—tired of bending myself into whatever shape he needed, tired of pretending that his love was enough to fill the emptiness inside me. But the words stayed lodged in my throat, refusing to come out, and all I could do was stare at him, my body trembling from the effort of trying to hold myself together.

Angel was watching me, her eyes wide and glassy. She didn't say anything, but I could feel the panic radiating off her, like she was holding her breath, waiting for me to fall apart again. I wanted to tell her it wasn't her fault, that she couldn't save me from this, but I couldn't even save myself. She had pulled me back from the edge, but I was still standing too close, teetering, unsure of where to go from here.

Billie kept talking, his voice fading in and out like a distant echo, and I stopped trying to listen. It didn't matter what he said. I wasn't here anymore. I was still drifting, lost in that ocean, too far gone to care about his anger or his disappointment. I just stared at the ceiling, my chest tight, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn't hold onto for more than a second.

All I could think about was how tired I was. Tired of trying to be perfect for him, tired of changing everything about myself to fit his mold. The girl I used to be, the one who laughed too loudly and wore mismatched clothes because she liked them, was slipping away, piece by piece. I had been drowning for so long, and no one had noticed. Not even me.

I felt a tear slip down my cheek, warm and slow, and I didn't bother to wipe it away. I wasn't crying because of Billie's words. I was crying because I didn't know who I was anymore. Because I had let myself become this hollow, fragile thing, shaped by someone else's hands, and now I didn't know how to get back to who I used to be.

Billie's voice grew softer, almost pleading now, but the anger was still there, simmering just below the surface. "You shouldn't have done this, Belle," he said, his hand resting on my face, his touch cold and unfamiliar. "If you needed help, you should've asked. This isn't the way."

But I had asked. In a thousand silent ways, I had begged for someone to see me, to hear me, to understand. And no one had. Not even him.

I closed my eyes, shutting out the sight of his face, his hand still resting on my cheek like a weight I couldn't shake off. I didn't want to see the disappointment in his eyes, didn't want to face the anger or the guilt. All I wanted was to disappear, to drift back into the darkness where no one could reach me.

But I couldn't. I was still here. And I didn't know how to keep going.