Latin Chapter 42

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WARNING this chapter contains highly sensitive topics, including
-major character death
-description of character death
-suicide

If you are triggered by any of the following please read at your own risk.

Stay safe.

I do not fear death. I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.

Mark Twain

There was a stiffening silence as Belle sat on a lone bar stool in a creaky run down pub, a glass of whiskey placed haphazardly infront of her by a bartender who asks few little questions and far too many at the same time.

The scent of sweat and vanilla swirled around her as she picks at the skin around her nails an emotion she couldn't quite place building in her chest, constricting her, bubbling and overfilling like a glass.

A man sat a few stools down, casting a glance to her every now and then, not prying, not angry or flirtations, just curious. It was a welcoming watch, in the teens opinion, a relief from the leering a rather slimy creature seemed to be sending her way from the other corner of the shadowed room.

It wasn't surprising that there was so little occupants, perhaps the reason was that it was six in the morning on a Monday, so who in their right mind would be at a bar except for shriveling alcoholics clinging onto the only home they'll ever have.

Belle shudders at the thought, yeah, that description fits her.

Yet, here was this man, dressed in a way that didn't quite fit the aesthetic of a homeless drunk. He looked like he was about to attend a gala. It reminded her so much of how her Nono had dressed. Though this man adormed a more colorful lavish suit than her beloved Italian grandfather. He was all high cheekbones and piercing gazes. He didn't try and hide his leering, no, he watched her with unbridled curiosity and wonder.

It made her skin crawl in a way, but more so it was reliving, he didn't look away when she pinned him with a rather rude bitch face, only tilted his head in an inviting manner. As if wanting to start a conversation.

Belle wasn't in the mood for talking.

The woman tending the bar placed down a rather expensive glass of wine infront of her, "The dude sent it this way, I can dump it if you want, I poured it, so there ain't nothin in there."

The teen twitched her nose shaking her head, "Nah, s'fine, I'll handle it."
Walking over she placed the deep mulberry liquid in front of him, "I don't drink wine."

He smirks at her, pushing the glass back to her. "I know," his accent bled through his words, peeking the teens attention, it was strange, definently not one she'd heard often enough to place, especially in a place like Baltimore, maybe polish? Mixed with something... russian? Latvia?

It immediately put her on the edge, her jaw tightening, blood racing just a bit, the itch of metal like a phantom pain brushing acrossed her fingers.

"Perhaps you could sit with me," his tone cuts through her, as he waves invitingly to the chair, "I do rather like company."

Belle hummed, seating herself, "as you drink wine at six am?" She questions, nodding to his very full glass. He smirks at her shaking his head in confirmation, a smug grin edging the corners of his lips as he turns to her.

"So, what events lead you to a lete in the middle of nowhere hmm?" He asks taking a deep inhale of his wine before sipping it.

The teen snorts, "Wow, all that and you don't even introduce yourself?" She smiles, "kinda rude."

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