Beastridden

Exit, Arabella.

When Arabella lost her first partner to tubercolosis, she felt like no one else would ever have her. She'd been alone for so many years, and felt her prime was behind her. That time was running out, and fast. Tick tock. So when Arnold Whitechapel asked for her hand, she was quick to say yes. Despite the fact that she barely knew him.

It had seemed like a good idea in the beginning, marrying Arnold. He was smart, and would surely secure himself a good job that would support them and their future family. The family she'd always dreamed of creating. She'd hoped for many months, after their wedding, that a miracle would happen. But the sight of the blood in her fabrics every month was a disappointing one.

It had been over a week since she and Arnold had last been intimate, and it had been a usually brief and awkward affair. But Arabella had been sure that this time was different. She'd told Arnold that, excitedly. And then immediately realized what a mistake it had been.

"We've talked about this, Arabella. Don't be stupid." He'd said, without even looking up from his cooking.

"If you were able to conceive, surely you already would have. But your womb is too old and worn." The sound of the chopping of vegetables had been a bitter companion to the harshness of his voice.

"We have already discussed this matter, and there is nothing more to say. Besides, you simply aren't fit for motherhood. You know this too."

She'd nodded in agreement, silently, despite knowing he couldn't see it with his back turned. It was good that he also could not see the tears. She feared he was right. Surely she would have fallen pregnant by now, if it was meant to be. Surely it had to be her body that betrayed her. Maybe she was too old, indeed.

Arabella had learned early on that Arnold was not a kind man. Arnold was controlling. He was harsh and cruel. He never put his hands on her, he didn't have to. He knew that words were enough. And he used his words like weapons. He grew scarier with time, and she somehow grew used to it. She learned what she was allowed and not allowed to do, what she could say. She tolerated him most of the time, when he didn't shout or punch the walls, when he didn't knock over furniture or slam doors. She tolerated him as well during the time they occasionally spent in the same bed. It wasn't often it happened, but it did happen. They slept in seperate rooms, but sometimes he would come to her in the late hours. Knock on her door. She'd let him in, and they would make the closest thing to love that Arnold was capable of. It was always brief, thankfully, and he didn't linger after. While Arabella did long for passion and romance, she knew she would never get it from her husband, so she never expected it from him. She thought that if only he could give her a child, nothing else mattered.

When she met Myrna, everything changed. She knew they had to be careful, and they were. She couldn't introduce her to Arnold like she could with her other friends, the few she had. It didn't feel right. It was too risky. But being married to Arnold somehow felt more tolerable, knowing Myrna was out there.

"Bella" she called her. "My sweetest Bella."

They only met in secret. Myrna had little to lose, but they both knew Arabella's situation was different. It was less about what she had to lose, and more about her safety. Arabella didn't dare to think what Arnold would do if he knew the truth. So she made sure he didn't suspect a thing, that he never had reason to doubt her loyalty to him. Years passed, and she managed to keep up the act. She played the role of a loyal and good wife, who cared for her husband. A wife who was not scared of her husband, or the way he acted. A wife who didn't snoop around her husbands things when he wasn't home. A wife who was not afraid of the things she'd found in her husbands room. The notebooks, the drawings, the box full of teeth and jewelry. In fact, she played the role of a wife who knew nothing of it. If their home contained terrifying secrets, she didn't know. She didn't even tell Myrna. It was best that way.