She smiled slightly. 'A reread.'

•••

Maisie possessed the ability to speak three tongues. English, Spanish, and French (thanks to the trilingual preschool she'd gone to) but even then she had trouble expressing herself. It was common for these language skills of hers to deteriorate as time goes on and she speaks it less and less. She wasn't completely fluent and graceful as she struggled to juggle the contrast in vocabulary.

Her mind would mix words and she would end up speaking all three at once. And because of this, as a child, she would always end up as a scapegoat as sorts whenever something went awry. Labeled a bad liar as she fumbled with the tips and edges of defensive vernacular.

Noah had always been there to save her. To redirect the unsolicited attention to another. That is till she ran away from home. But she'd adapted like all people naturally do.

A chestnut haired woman quietly tittered from the sidelines as blue eyed Wendy scolded Maisie over petty theft. It hadn't even been an hour since she arrived at the abandoned house and already, Ramona had fallen right back into her old habits of manipulation and lies. Placing blame on the girl who hadn't even had a chance yet to choose a spot to rest.

'Do you think Marlboro's are cheap?' sneered Wendy, her face mere inches away from Maisie's. The stench of her breath hitting Maisie like warm wind.

'I don't smoke,' she said simply. Staring straight into Wendy's eyes. Unblinkingly. Oh, but Nico did.

'Then, explain to me why your silly ribbons were left behind in my space when you fled, huh?' her voice is scratchy. Rough with decades of nicotine.

Maisie lifted a brow. 'Why would I purposefully incriminate myself?'

'You tell me.' And then Wendy's sweaty palm landed hard against her cheek. It stung, blood rushed. Again, she felt like a tall child being scolded by her mother. But the thought of existing in Wendy's womb made her quite nauseous. And not in a good way.

How was she meant to describe the concept of fabrication to a thirty-seven year old woman? If she hadn't heard of it till today, Maisie doubted the outcome of resolution. And why was this the grudge she clung to after all those days?

If she didn't allow this to happen, they would never leave her alone.

So, silently, she took the beating.

All Maisie could think about was Nico, how he looked right out of a black-and-white film—the romantic protagonist, of course—when he smoked on those steps outside of Elise's house. And for a moment, she wished she had stolen the cigarettes. So she could at least play pretend to further indulge in the pools of riveting rhapsody he brought her with a single look. With a single thought. A breath.

Her mouth filled with blood.

•••

Maisie hadn't planned to drink the entire bottle. But the pain grew intense, in need of something to suppress it. And the closest and most effective thing nearby was the stolen red wine sat quietly in her bag.

If she'd gone home to Maryjane, she'd stay forever. And that was the problem.

•••

Paralytic drunk. There were a couple categories of what kind of drunk one could be or at least from what Maisie had experienced. One, very social and friendly, a talkative individual. Two, the weeping, emotional drunk who trauma dumps. And three, the affectionate kind of drunk who shares spontaneous words of unsolicited affirmations and physical touch like embraces and kisses. Maisie turned out to be the latter.

It's all fuzzy when he approached. She's curled up in herself, in the trashed shed so no one would see her drink. Alcohol was gold here.

Nereus loomed over her. 'Oh, Belle.' He kneeled. 'Who hurt you?'

'I love you.' And in the moment, it felt like the truth. As if nothing said in the world would ever be any truer than that.

He smiled sadly. 'Belle.'

Maisie stirred when he hoisted her up into his arms. 'Why do you call me that?' She clung to him.

'Why do I call you Belle?'

She can practically feel his words tremble through her entire being.

'Yes.'

'Why do you call me Noah? Why Nico?'

'Because you are.'

'Because you are,' he mimicked, releasing Maisie who blushed under his scrutinizing gaze. He brought his hand to her mouth, brushing her split bottom lip with his thumb, she winced. Her blood sinking into the shape and creases of his finger. 'I'm not a disgustingly nice people pleaser like Noah nor am I as prideful and reckless as Nico. So, no, Belle. I am not.'

'Then, who are you?'

He laughed, hauling her a bit. 'I am the monster under your bed.' The moon hit his face, then.

She's quiet because that's when she spotted the features that distinguish him from Noah or Nico. The two small beauty marks by the highest part of his right cheekbone. And his left eye was blue rather than black, lighter in the rays of moonlight that slash across his skin like a cross. He possessed the face she'd loved twice. And maybe once more.

Solemnly, she said, 'don't call yourself a monster.'

'I killed your father.'

Her heart dropped. A slight pause.

'So?'

His lips twitch. 'So,' he repeated. 'I am a murderer.'

'A monster can't kill a monster.'

He smiled. 'Says who?'

She shrugged. 'Me.'

'Are you God, Belle?'

'Can I be?'

'Should I pray to you?'

Her lashes flutter. 'Do you love me?'

'Inordinately.'

She closed her eyes. 'Then, yes. Pray.'

•••

When Maisie woke, she's back in her childhood bedroom.

Darling BelleDonde viven las historias. Descúbrelo ahora