TRIGGER WARNING: REFERENCES AND FLASHBACKS TO SEVERE PAST PARENTAL ABUSE. PLEASE DO NOT READ OR AT LEAST READ WITH CAUTION IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED. I love you guys! Stay safe!
Disclaimer: vid isn't mine.
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"I'm not perfect. But I love you. I really do. And I promise to be your best friend, your partner in crime, and your lover.
Forever."
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James Moriarty's proposal to Lizbeth Constance had not been planned. He hadn't gotten down on one knee in front of a water fountain while the sun was going down. There was no diamond ring sneakily slipped into a champagne glass at a restaurant. He hadn't even thought of proclaiming his love to her while fireworks boomed in the background, and the moon hanging high above them.
No. Not even close. Not at all.
It had been so much more darker than that.
It had all started with a storm.
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It was pouring outside, with the rain pounding against the windows, and the thunder nearly shaking the house at times. A flash of lightning would illuminate the huddled figure in the bed, curled into a ball, shaking. The figure would flinch with every sound. Every clap and boom of the thunder nearly scared him out of his mind.
That figure was James Moriarty.
Oh god. He couldn't stand these storms. They reminded him of when he was just a little boy. Hiding from his parents in the fields outside of his childhood home with his big brother hiding not far away. Yet he could still hear the fighting. The terror of when his father found him, and dragged him back inside.
No. He couldn't think of it. He couldn't. It would be the death of him. He had gotten out of those days a long time ago, and he was safe.
Yet there was another boom, and he screamed, this time laying flat and burying his face into his pillow. When he was 7, that was what he thought he could do in order to hide. He would lock his door, and hide. Under the bed, or simply shove his face in the pillow and pray to every god and deity out there that he would live.
And he did. Up until he was 12, he didn't live. No, that couldn't have been called living. It had been surviving. Simple as that.
That was 15 years ago. Yet the memories still haunted him with every single sudden noise that he heard. Usually he could repress it. Hide it down. Or maybe even occasionally expect it and be ready. But with thunder and storms, the constant noise drove him insane at times.
There was lightning, and he braced himself for the thunder.
Nononononononopleasenopleaseicantpleaseicantnononononononononononononopleasedontgodpleasedont...........
BOOM!
James screamed, horrified as tears came to his eyes, and flowed freely down his cheeks with wet sobs. He wanted to wipe them away, yet he couldn't. He was too terrified. He was petrified where he was. Yet he still managed to curl back up into a safe, protective ball.
More lightning. And a clap of thunder. And he went over the edge.
"Father, I-" he was cut off by a fist in his gut. He doubled over, his little 11 year old body screaming for help.
"Shut up!" his father was pulling him out of the field by his hair. Into the house. Past his mother, who was carelessly smoking her cigarette. Up to his room. He struggled to get out of the strong grip, yet the hand in his hair only tugged harder. He couldn't scream. No. Father would get angry. Then it would get worse. His brother, who was 15, had been hiding in a tree, and had somehow escaped their father's wrath. He'd come for James in an hour, and tend to any wounds he had. They were both dreadfully scrawny for their age, with sunken in cheeks and dark circles under their eyes. They were too weak to fight back. No, they would get beaten into a pulp. Until they had a weapon, they were defenseless.
Suddenly he was thrown to the ground, his shoulder hitting the wall with a painful thump. He cried out. He couldn't keep the noise in. Tears escaped him, leaving lazy trails down his face despite the chaotic atmosphere. He tried to stop the soft cries escaping him, his mouth open in pain, his eyes squeezing shut on instinct. He couldn't move. If he did, it would only get worse. If he had tried to run, then he probably would get a broken bone. He had tried it once before. He had ended up with his radius in his arm being broken, and two of his ribs being cracked.
"I thought I told you..." he could feel the vibrations of his father's footsteps getting closer. Then there was a hand around his neck, lifting his scrawny little body up into the air. He made a choked noise, his eyes going wide, clawing at his father's wrists, "I thought I told you to BE QUIET!! Must you be such a little wimp?! So WORTHLESS?!"
He choked, his face slowly turning blue, attempting to get at least one gulp of air in. But he couldn't. The hands around his neck were simply too tight. There would be hand-shaped bruises around his neck by the time this was finished.
"P-p-please..." he choked out, trying to get air into his lungs, "S-stop!"
He was dropped onto the floor, his head hitting his metal bed frame, and he gasped for air. His lungs filled, and for a second it was a relieving feeling. But then his father placed a hard kick to his ribs, and he let out a dreadful scream. It was bad this time. He wasn't sure what he had even done to get this started. But it was happening now. And all that mattered was doing the right things and living through this. Then he watched as his father stomped out, and breathed a sigh of relief.
There was a mirror to his right. There were already bruises forming. Hand marks on his neck, a deep purple in color. There was a large greenish bruise on his stomach. Two little cuts on his cheek. His shoulder was sore, and bruised. His clothes were stained with dirt from the field. His hair was a mess from being pulled and tugged.
He cried. He cried as if no one was home. As if no one could hear. Loud, wet sobs racked his body, and he couldn't move from his spot on the floor. He just couldn't.
"JAMES!" his brother was running in, a first aid kit in hand. Isaac Moriarty was a tall, lanky boy with a knack for helping people. Although, that last part was mainly because of mending his brother so many times. "Are you alright? How bad was it? Father went to the store. We're safe for the moment..." he was disinfecting the cuts, and putting bandages on them.
James rubbed his neck, coughing, still feeling winded.
"Help me. Please."
By the age of 15, he had a multitude of scars. 5 on his back. 3 on his legs total. One on his left arm, two on his right. Three on his torso. That was why he always wore non-revealing clothes. So no one would see.
Yet now, he didn't care. He didn't care that he was wearing short sleeves and loose pajama pants. Yet he was still sobbing. Crying out for help weakly into his pillow, still lost in the memory.
He froze as the door opened, spilling light into the room. Nononononononononononononononono......
"Jamie?"
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Beth couldn't sleep. The storm was so loud. Her night terrors still hadn't gone away. She always had loved the storms. The whole gloomy aura of them. Yet at the moment, she was starving. She had skipped dinner in order to help plan a heist.
She stood up, and quickly put on one of James's shirts. She had stolen a few one time, and they were just a bit too big for her. She loved them. She didn't expect Moran to be up at this time at night, so she decided to forego pants. Under her shirt, she was only wearing her panties and her bra. Both black. Skipping putting her hair up, she walked out of her room. Towards the kitchen.
That was when she heard it. A small sob. Coming from James's room. She got closer, knocking on the door. No answer, but there were still small pained noises. They were clear as day now. Beth gasped, turning the doorknob as the noises slowly got louder. He sounded terrified.
She cursed. The door was locked. "James?"
She tried harder, frantically turning the door knob. "James?!"
She sprinted to her room, grabbing her lock pick kit.
Within five minutes, the door was open.
The room was dark. Yet she could still see James huddled up in a little ball, his arms protecting his face as he trembled in fear. "Jamie?" her voice was soft, yet urgent.
She wanted to rush to him. Yet she couldn't. Her sudden movements might make him worse. So she closed the door, gently placing her kit on the dresser, before tiptoeing towards him. "Jamie?"
She gently placed her hand on his shoulder. He jumped, and instantly his breathing got rougher.
"Shh. James. Please, James you have to breathe. It's only me." she turned on the lamp on his night stand, "You see? Only me."
"Beth-" he was able to choke out her name. Yet that was all. He couldn't speak. She had just caught him at his weakest. His most vulnerable. Nobody had ever seen him like this. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Her grey eyes seemed darker in this lighting. They were filled with concern. With worry. For some reason, part of him couldn't believe it. No one... No one had ever cared for him this much. Wanted him to be happy this much. Besides maybe Moran. But he didn't even come close. He couldn't help the extra cries that escaped him, a few more tears sliding down his cheeks and dropping onto the grey sheets beneath him.
"It's okay. You don't have to tell me. It's over. You're safe."
She sat beside him, her back and head on the headboard of his bed. She adjusted him so that he was being held by her. It was soothing.
He tried to speak. Yet he couldn't. All that came out were whimpers that horrified himself.
She gently shushed him, whispering, "I'm here. It's okay. I love you. I'm here."
He nodded weakly, his hand tightly gripping hers.
Another clap of thunder, and she stopped his scream with a gentle kiss. He returned it.
She was holding him tightly, giving him a little kiss or squeezing his hand every time there was a clap of thunder. It was as if she was saying, I'm here.
He told her everything. Everything that had happened to him as a little boy. And by the end, he was sobbing all over again. Yet she didn't tell him to stop crying. Instead, she held him even closer. "Shh. It's okay. It's over. You're completely safe."
And suddenly, he knew what he had to say. He said the words no louder than a whisper. But to him, they seemed to be a scream. "Will you... Will you marry me?"
For a second, she didn't reply. Only held him close. He was terrified that maybe she hadn't heard him. He couldn't say it again. He felt so weak. So scared. A rejection right now could kill him.
Then, with an equally small voice, she replied, "Yes."
He cried louder. Not in sadness now. But in joy. Complete joy. This wonderful, beautiful woman was going to be his. Truly his. Oh, what had he ever done to deserve her?
The rain persisted throughout the night. Yet she helped him through it. Always giving him her sweet smile. Her gentle honeyed words.
"I love you, James Moriarty."
"I love you, Lizbeth Constance."
To Be Continued In...
Partners In Crime: Watch Them Fall
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Stay tuned for a sneak peak for the next book in the series in the next chapter, which will be posted tomorrow.