Charmante, Charmante

Chapter Three

"This was Hélène's brother, Anatole Kuragin."

Moscow, 1812

  Hélène woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. She sat up in bed and took a deep breath and looked around her. She started at the corner and suddenly saw a flash of bright blond hair and a mischievous smile. Hélène quickly blinked and shook her head, her curly brown hair flying into her face. When she opened her eyes again, the tall, dark, figure was gone. "Anatole!" she cried out, her wooden bed creaking as she sat up.  She looked around her dark room and saw nothing but dusty old furniture. Rather than going back to sleep, Hélène crawled out of bed and grabbed a candle. On the dark, she located her box of matched on the nighttime and lit the candle, the sudden bright glow blinding her tired face. She walked over to the doorway to see if the blond haired figure was still there. "Anatole, are you there," she called out. Only the echo of her loud voice returned her call. Hélène walked around the house, still searching for the flash of blond hair. Had she really been this desperate to see Anatole again? She wandered around, thinking about them together in Petersburg. Laughing, dancing, and most importantly drinking. The only thing that woke her from the pleasant dream was the loud bang of her already swollen shoulder on the stair railing. She cried out in pain, but was not greeted by anything. It was still dark outside, no wonder no one did. The light of the candle helped Hélène find her back to her room, where she quietly pulled her journal and began to write.

{Hélène's Journal}

I can't believe what I just saw. Was it a ghost? Was it really Anatole? Whatever it was, it sure had some nice blond hair. I miss him so much. We were a team, a team of devils. We worked so well together. I feel like a part of me is missing. Nothing can fill this gap, not even strong Russian alcohol. Not even Pierre. We were so in love last night. Well, up until he got violent. I need to find out where he was last night to cause him to act such a way. Nothing will make sense until I know what's going on. I bet it's something to do with that Natasha girl. A beautiful young thing. He has been mentioning Marya a lot. Probably has been with his old friends. Nothing to worry about, right? I mean, who could love that ugly, old, overprotective piece of Russian shit. I know I always cheat on him, but why would he, Pierre Bezukhov, cheat on a woman like me with, ugh. The goddamn Rostova family, always getting in my way. She banished my brother from Moscow, she's my husband's mistress. How else can she damage me? I think I should get revenge. But I know I'd need Anatole's help. Sweet, sweet Anatole. I'm coming for you.

Hélène wrote until her eyes started to droop. She quietly closed the journal and crawled back into bed. She stared at the blank ceiling, thinking about Pierre and Marya together. Drinking, laughing, dancing. That horrid old woman. Hélène thought to herself. Her red hair and dark eyes mean nothing to me, and they never will. Nothing nor nobody will break the Kuragins. I will not allow it. She closed her eyes and angrily drifted off into a deep sleep.

She awoke to the loud sound of the front door being closed. Puzzled, Hélène got out of bed and rushed out of her room to see Pierre tiptoeing into the kitchen. She angrily stormed up to him. "Where have you been?" She shouted. You could hear the rage in her low, raspy voice. Pierre glanced at his wife, puzzled. "Nowhere." he calmly answered. "Just shoveling the show outside." He turned around and walked to his room, slamming the door behind him. A now enraged Hélène knew something was going on. Instead of snooping around and questioning her husband, she turned to her favorite stress reliever, alcohol. She had shot after shot, ugly crying while once again picturing Pierre and Marya together. Her ever present mascara began to run down her face and onto her pale cheeks. At this moment in time, Hélène was not sure what her next move in this terrible life would be. She wanted to find Anatole. She wanted to get revenge on the Rostovas. She wanted to find out about Pierre and Marya. 

To escape all her thoughts, Hélène changed out of her dressing gown into a long-sleeved lime green gown and slipped on a heavy black coat. She carefully placed a think black boot onto each of her small, fragile feet. She wrapped a silver scarf around her neck and braced herself for the cold, snowy Moscow day that she was trapped in.

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wc; 814

sorry for being gone for so long! i missed writing this story and you guys. sorry for the kind of rushed chapter. my writing skills have been improving so i hope to update this more from time to time. a few days ago, i found out that i got a callback for my audition to the creative writing program at my local school of the arts! they only accept about 4-5 people for 9th grade in this program so wish me luck for the interview. much love to everyone, and thanks for reading! don't forget to comment and vote! xx