Belladonna

10.5

(AN – Yes, that's correct – 10.5. Enjoy <3)

She doesn't like the way he can sit beside her like nothing is wrong.

How he can rub his hand down her back and expect her not to flinch away.

How this group of men can casually discuss arson, which they justify by saying they're abolishing inequality, over drinks.

Juliette never likes when they drink.

Nine years, and the roles have shifted, like that of a rota. It works perfectly for Claude, but not for Juliette, as you can imagine. She never really listened when Claude would come stumbling home, tired and weary, muttering nonsense to himself before the alcohol would kick in, giving him the courage to start shouting, accompanied by the pounding of his fists on the table. Sometimes it even gave him the courage to hit her.

But every night it was the same.

He'd lament and complain endlessly, swearing that one day he'd change things. Juliette would merely shake her head in response, as when she objected, it would often end in violence, and when she agreed, he simply sneered at her. Sitting on the leather sofa now, Juliette can probably recall all these moments. Sometimes, the hardest thing is to remain silent—yet even if she couldn't, who on earth would listen? To the public, this is Juliette's family, and she calls the shots. But that's never been the case, not for a single second. Claude's always been pulling the strings.

It's abnormal in society, completely unheard of—how Claude and all of the unlikely friends he's somehow picked up have formed what they like to call a resistance force. In reality, it's nothing of the sort. It's a twisted sort of rebellion, of protest. Juliette is merely an unwilling member of the audience, as they pursue such corrupt entertainment, terrifying the public, burning things, all because they're so bent on proving that men are better.

And while Juliette has never argued they aren't, whether you're a man or woman, it's all wrong.

They never spend long planning; sometimes destruction is just a spontaneous run-of-the-mill thing for this group of warped, all partially insane men. What Juliette always hates is when they plan their next location, their next target. Every word is like a dagger twisting within her gut, yet she's forced to listen on.

"It's get awfully boring around here," one of the men drawls drunkenly, a grin spreading over his face as he rolls his neck back, his head resting on the sofa that lies across from where Juliette sits uncomfortably. "What's next? It's been a while." "It's only been a while due to the renovations," Claude explains, sipping from a wine glass. "Isn't that right, Juliette?" She doesn't reply, her jaw clenching. On any other day, she wouldn't have gotten away with evidently showing her irritation. But Claude and everyone else in the room save for her are far too intoxicated to care.

"It's the taste of freedom, men," Claude mutters, his words running into each other. "Savour it well." "If freedom is what you want, and this is how you get it, you're all stupid." Juliette says lowly, staring down at the floor.

No reaction. Not yet anyway. She knows well that the reaction always comes later—at this time, she's more of a ghost in the house than a participant—the response always occurs after, whether she keeps her mouth shut or not, so it may as well be the former.

"There's a girls school..." It's the same man from earlier, and he's still staring at the ceiling. "A private school." Juliette stiffens, fighting the instinct to get to her feet and throttle him. She knows how it goes after this, and she doesn't want to hear it. A girls school. They're not going after places or women, but little girls.