Belle | Princeton
She wasn't expecting for this to happen. She was sitting in bitter silence, the chill of the air consuming her entire body in solemnity; closed off from each nervous, shaky voice that filled the room. Just before, she was laughing. Giggling. And feeling his contagious smirk spread onto her face from his crackling voice on her phone. And now? She was watching from her window as ambulances and fire trucks pulled around the corner, their sirens sending a scream into the hectic air. Everyone crowded around the house in front of them. The house where Princeton had resided. As well as his mother and his father. And now, there were cots. And death. And the overwhelming sense that she would lose him.
And his whole body was shaking; each ounce of strength flooding into his main priority: he would not less his mother die. He patched up each cut to no avail, but each chunk of ceramic was wedged so deep in her frail skin that Princeton wanted to cry. His father, the madman, was racing away from each cop car. And his mother was suffering the consequences of that psychopath. Why had Princeton ever thought there was a God? And why hadn't he been more conscious? Now his mother's lifeless body was lying in an ambulance, the shadow of wonderful Anne Wheeles. The baker. The democrat. The sweet woman who kissed her son goodnight and peeked at his sleeping body through the crack. And now, she was slipping away, and Princeton was realizing that Belle had truly stayed on the line.
And she was still listening.
