Belle's Hell

By Sam Jones

Belle's Hell is the story of Belle and Vanessa, two young women and best friends who were brutally attacked while still in high school and who now try to make sense of their world as they've grown older. It's also the story of other's in their lives; friends, relatives, lovers and acquaintances and how they too are affected by the tragedy years before. Belle's Hell is also the story of Cal, one of the young men involved in the attack and how he spends years thereafter running from his demons, only to find, he can never truly escape them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Jones
• Release date: Jun 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458020321

Book preview

Belle's Hell

By Sam Jones

Copyright 2011 Sam Jones

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter One

Belle

"Say my name."

Nothing.

"Say my name," I repeat.

She looks at me, eschewing my latest ploy.

"Come on, I tease, the words echoing through the years, bouncing around in the back of my mind until I am no longer sure they were ever spoken at all. Please."

She gurgles as only a two year old can; soft and pliant, eyes wide with amazement at a world constantly evolving.

"If you say my name, I’ll give you a present."

Her eyes light up. She knows I have things hidden away somewhere, things that can make her smile.

"Tinkle Belle, she coos, gimme a present." Her voice, like candy coated ice cream dripping slowly down the back of my throat.

I reach behind me for the little doll I’ve been saving for just this moment; handmade, with eyes of carefully sewn blue thread. It seems as if edging near the cliff of tears. Inside of the doll, our grandmother has hidden a little black box that giggles when turned to the side. I hold it out for her. She reaches for it, but I pull it away. She pouts.

"Watch," I tell her, turning the doll.

She is an obedient child, sitting back on her fat little diapered butt, waiting.

As the sound of the giggles reaches her ears, her face once again erupts in pleasure, as if I am somehow able to reach inside her and turn a switch. She is my very favorite play-toy. At the tender age of six, I have the world right where I want it.

"Say my name," he says, his voice husky, his eyes flashing up and out of the dark at me.

Years and years of unwinding faith intervene. Years of turmoil and changes in the way that life is lived.

"Say my name," he repeats, as if I ever had the capacity to tell him no.

I look at him, his eyes; so deep brown, they melt the chocolate imagery of my childhood.

"Did I ever tell you I had a sister who died?"

He bends his head down, lets it hang, this man lying on top of me, so sure of himself, so sure of me. He sighs, another opportunity passing.

"She was three years younger. My mother was driving us both to the zoo. She lost control somehow, went over an embankment, and down into a river. I pause then add; she was only two years old, I had learned to swim by then."

He nods slightly, trying to figure a way to get us back on track.

I touch his ear, his mouth; my fingertips on pure cane sugar.

"Belle," he whispers.

"What?" I ask, as if I didn’t know.

"Say my name."

Judgment day

The tiny drops of nature fall indiscriminately out of the sky. Sparkling in the late spring sun, they appear to hover for a moment, and then are gone, lost in the steady embrace of the carefully clipped grass below. The trees, so green they pull at the senses, beg disbelief. A breeze has disturbed the delicate balance, setting free the drops that had been collecting on the leaves as the rain fell earlier in the morning. The sun breaking through, then taking over, has left the storm a distant memory.

Vanessa studied the image of her friend Belle. The girl had just climbed off her swing and was now on her hands and knees inspecting the dirt beneath, apparently looking for something.

Need help?

Belle froze for a moment, then looked up, her face a tangle of curiosity. Her eyes were twinkling though, so Vanessa knew it couldn’t be all that bad.

If you wouldn’t mind. She said it casually, almost as if she really didn’t care.

Vanessa climbed awkwardly to her feet. Her skirt was a little shorter than she liked and her blouse too tight. She’d put on some weight over the summer, which made her wonder if Belle had just been polite in not mentioning it. Or worse, if perhaps she was so caught up in her own little world that she truly hadn’t noticed. As she stood, she wiped the grass from her skirt and hoped it hadn’t stained. Her mother would notice. Her mother noticed everything, even if she rarely mentioned it. She walked slowly over to where Belle was searching.

What are we looking for?

Belle looked up at her, and frowned. Vanessa noticed that the tan on the girl’s face made her look a lot older than someone that was only a sophomore in high school.

My contact.

Vanessa nodded, then turned to look around them. General H.H. Arnold High School was an intimidating place, far bigger than she liked. The older boys, especially the ones that were already starting to shave, made her nervous. The ones that didn’t bother left her feeling self-conscience, as if they could see through her clothes; see the tiny red hairs that had begun to sprout beneath her skirt. There was nobody nearby, nobody close enough to see the fresh new underwear her mother had bought only last week. She knelt down and was soon on all fours, helping the girl that had been her best friend since shortly after their first day of ninth grade. Nobody ever stayed longer than a year. It was the military that made the rules. They had some idea that a tour of duty should never exceed one year, for the family’s sake. She and Belle were an exception. Their fathers were officers, men of rank, men that everyone knew because they ran Wiesbaden Air Force Base.

Vanessa began to comb the soft earth. She was meticulous, moving just enough of the dirt to uncover a small handful at a time. She knew Belle was counting on her, just as she always was.

The swing-set was just off the school grounds. It belonged to a German day-care center that had been built long before the Americans had decided to build their high school. Vanessa and Belle were breaking the rules. Nobody was supposed to leave the school grounds during lunch break. But nobody ever bothered with the rules at General H. H. Arnold High School. Nobody that mattered anyway.

It’s no use, Belle said, a trace of bitterness in her voice.

Vanessa sat back on her heels, a small pile of dirt in her palm. She turned to look at her friend, who was nearing tears. Vanessa knew that if they didn’t find the contact, her friend would be forced to wear the big ugly blue and green glasses that she hated so much. Her father was big on rules. She opened her mouth to say something reassuring, but couldn’t think of anything, so she forced her lips back together, hoping her friend hadn’t noticed.

My dad is gonna shit, Belle said.

Vanessa nodded. Belle’s father was all fire and eyes when angry. Belle had already lost one of her contacts; at the pool over the summer. We’ll find it, don’t worry. She clenched her teeth together, imagining her own father. A man so big she often found herself lost in his shadow. When he spoke to her, it was always as if from a great distance. We’ll find it, she murmured again, hoping her enthusiasm would rub off.

Vanessa had never known anyone like Belle. Not even close. In her short life she had already lived in eight different places and gone to nine different schools. Every place was different, but still unique in its own way. This was the first time she’d been overseas though. The rest of them had been in the States: Virginia, Kansas, California, Alabama, Texas, New Mexico and Indiana. She looked at the dirt in her hand, and imagined Belle at one of her other schools; always the new girl, always the stranger. But when they’d met, Belle had seemed like someone she’d known since birth; like a sister. But definitely not like the sister she actually had. That sister, Gail, was a snot. A bitch. A sister that would rather push your head under the water if a boy came by, than acknowledge that she was related to a fat, awkward red-haired girl with a nose that would better fit a large man, such as their father. A sister that was two years older and had problems of her own.

But Belle was different. She never called names, never pointed out mistakes, or laughed when you wore ruby red nail polish beneath your socks so your father wouldn’t see. Belle never laughed at anything. If she found something funny, she would give you a distant soft smile, nod slightly, then look away, as if laughter might chase her back to her nightmares. Belle did this a lot, but only with Vanessa. With others, she simply sat silent, waiting for them to finish whatever they were talking about, placating them. It was her way.

Vanessa sighed and went back to digging; lunch break would be over soon. She’d already made up her mind to skip class if they didn’t find the contact. Skip the whole rest of the day if necessary. What was school anyway, but a bunch of rules laid down by a bunch of lazy teachers that were only here to see Europe on Uncle Sam’s dime. She didn’t care, even if it meant getting busted. Her dad could rant if he chose, he would anyway. Anger suited him, even when he wasn’t in uniform.

Vanessa’s fingers upended a small rock, distracting her. She turned to look at Belle. The girl was sitting with her legs spread wide, the dirt between her thighs, her shorts riding up. She wasn’t digging though, she was looking off across the field that separated the playground from the soccer field. There were three boys, walking slowly together. They were walking across the soccer field towards them. Every few steps one of them would turn and look behind them. The image made Vanessa nervous. She’d never seen them before. They looked older, perhaps a couple of years older.

You know ‘em? she asked Belle.

Belle turned to look at her, her eyes reflecting something Vanessa couldn’t understand. But she didn’t answer, just sucked in a deep breath, and then let it out, slowly, ponderously, the weight of fifteen years of perpetual unfortunate incidents carried on every molecule.

Vanessa looked behind the boys and noticed that everyone else had gone back into the school. She wished the day-care kids would come out for recess. She wished Belle hadn’t looked at her like that.

Let’s go, she said, purposely, hearing the nerves in her own voice.

Belle nodded.

By the time they got to their feet, the boys were only about fifty yards away. Vanessa could make out their eyes. What she saw made her adrenaline pump. Hunger. She grabbed Belle’s hand and pulled, running, running hard, far and fast. Even though she’d never been in danger her whole life, she recognized it immediately. They were in trouble.

The two of them ran to the back door of the day-care center. It was locked. Belle’s face showed she’d already died, if only inside. The weight of her against Vanessa’s fingers as she tried to pull her in another direction made Vanessa scream. Loud. Loud and long. She kept screaming as she ran, pulling Belle along. They would cross around to the front, check that door, or run across the street. She didn’t know what was across the street. She’d never been there. Didn’t matter. She pulled harder, feeling Belle’s fingers begin to slip from hers. The sweat was beginning to make it hard to hold on to her. Vanessa noticed that Belle was breathing hard. Much too hard. Vanessa worried she would pass out. She pulled anyway, the boys had begun to run, to chase, their own breathing a rhythm, a signal of worse to come. Vanessa tried to slow her own, to make her heart slow. Her father had told her a million times, when in trouble the first thing you do is calm yourself. Think. She could hear his voice now; so far away, clearly articulating the word. Think Vanessa. THINK!

Vanessa heard one of the boys laugh. They were close now. The boys were much faster, stronger. She would tell them she had Herpes or AIDS. Which was more believable? She would tell them she had a big brother who would kill them. A father that would send them all back to the states. She would scratch their eyes, kick their balls. Bite them.

In front of the day-care center was a street. Trees everywhere, bushes. Too late to hide. Across the street was a garden. A big one. Some German had planted a garden next to his house. Nothing next door. Nothing but trees, for at least several hundred feet. The day-care center was their only hope. Vanessa dragged Belle across the front lawn and up the short steps. She pulled at the door handle. It too was locked. She began banging on it, as hard as she could; and yelling; hollering for someone to please come open the damn door. The boys’ footsteps were on the steps, then their hands were on top of her, covering her mouth, covering Belle’s, pulling them both across the wide front porch, down the steps, and back across the lawn; to the trees. Vanessa could see they were dragging her to the trees. They would not be seen. The trees would cover everything. The trees would muffle the noise.

Vanessa fought back as they dragged her along; punching when she could, kicking at every step; biting at the fingers that held her arms. It was no use. They were so much stronger. Biting on their arms only made them mad. One of them slapped her. Not hard, but enough. She looked at him, the one that had slapped her. His eyes were blue, clear blue, matching the sky. The skin on his face looked soft. He didn’t look like he’d begun to shave yet. He had a dimple on his chin and a little scar under his right eye. Vanessa looked in his eyes and found nothing she recognized. The boy was beyond reason. Anger was twisting his mouth, his nostrils were flaring. He looked fully prepared to kill her. Vanessa hadn’t expected this. She yanked a hand free for just a second, balled up her fist and slammed it against the boy’s cheek. His head jerked to the side from the impact, knocking the baseball cap off his head. Vanessa was amazed at the long soft blond hair that fell out and landed chaotically on his shoulders as he slowed for a moment. He didn’t stop running though; didn’t retrieve his cap, just looked stunned. He picked up the pace again, matching his cohorts, his hair now bouncing behind him, matching each frantic step. His eyes fixed straight ahead, focusing on the privacy of the trees. He was on a mission. Another son well trained by a military father. Keep your eyes on the target. Don’t blink.

Once in the trees, Vanessa turned to look at Belle. She wasn’t fighting, just hanging off their arms. For an instant Vanessa was reminded of Jesus, as they drug him up that hill. She turned to look at the boy who’d slapped her.

You’ll never get away with this.

The boy curled his lip, giving way to a sly smile.

I’m on a flight out of here in forty five minutes.

Vanessa’s mind raced. Everyone got to leave at the end of a year; everyone but her; her and Belle.

How fucking unfair, she thought, as the boy reached over and yanked her skirt up.

a predestined end

Images of a life, years in the making. People grow up and move together or move on; ten years later to the day, she wrote:

Dearest David,

I know this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be done, writing like this. But, it’s the only way I have left. Sitting across from you, looking into your eyes, my mind goes blank, my thoughts jumble, and I am left with nothing for you but tears.

Being with you has been wonderful. At times. Being with you has taught me so much. There is so much that I am grateful for, so much that I will cherish well into my declining years.

But the time has come to say good-bye.

We were simply not meant to be, my love.

You have your ways, I have mine, and nothing in the middle seems to make sense.

I love you, still, but the pain that lies beneath the happiness that you and I once shared, has become more than I can endure. More than anyone should have to. For me, and for you. We are too good to settle for something that will never be. Something that we dreamed of, all those days ago.

I wish for you, all the things you dream of. All the things you need.

I wish for you, a happiness that will endure.

Good-bye my love,

Nessa

A simple note on a nightstand, a good-bye for all time. Words strewn carefully across a page; ending the life he’d known; starting the life he might now begin.

But where to begin?

She was the center of his being, the beginning of every thought. She was the constant in his morning routine. The voice of reason. The warm body beside him as they said their evening prayers. She was the light that shone throughout his existence, the punctuation at the end of a dreary day. She was his life. And now she was gone.

He’d looked up the word dissonance in the dictionary she had bought him for Christmas one year. Pages flashing by, filled with words that might describe the prospect of a world without her. Dissonance had been their division, the catch in their otherwise happy world; wanting separate things; things that could not be defined. Things that had festered, until this bitter spring morning when his breath was visible in the room, even if she was not.

The bed creaked as he turned to look at the spot where she once lay, the slight indentation, where her body had warmed their sheets. The smell of her; lilacs in June, or talcum in the fall, greeted his senses as cheerily as the sun trying to peek through the curtained window; the only visible evidence of a dream; the only reliable resource. She was gone; from the room; from his life.

He tossed the blankets aside. His blankets now, and settled his feet firmly on the floor. The cold hard wood reminding him that they had planned to put down carpeting. The two of them. Planning.

He looked around the room. It was a cozy place. Perfect for lovers who wished to hide away from the insanity of the world. Perfect for living. She had an eye for natural wood. He had the money to pay for it. Rustic, yet full of life, warm, soft and generous, just as she had been with him.

He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the fingers on his scalp. He’d always liked it when she’d done that for him, purring next to him, her eyes still waking up. She would touch him, her fingers soft, stroking the dreams from his heavy head. She would love him, there in their warm cozy bed.

Outside he could hear the call of an owl; a Great Horned, they’d decided. Softly cooing, hoping for a meal, sharing with its mate. The owl was something to be emulated; consistently generous, consistently monogamous.

He read the letter again, perused the words; listened to her voice in his head, reminding him of everything he thought he had known. She was right of course. Living a dream was much more difficult than their parents had made it seem.

He looked towards the window once again, listened to the owl; the throaty coo, the wise old bird with all the answers, and wondered what to do.

He thought about days past, empty promises and resolutions made. Hadn’t he tried this time? Hadn’t he done everything he possibly could? It didn’t seem right that one person could so change your world without your consent.

He looked around the room again. The letter. The owl. The empty space. His mind reacted the only way it knew.

It isn’t fair, he murmured, closing his eyes. It wasn’t fair at all.

draggin’ the pipe

Jason had never lived in Germany; had never been farther than Detroit. His ties to events that had transpired years before and thousands of miles across the sea wouldn’t become apparent until it was far too late. Until then, he would go about his normal business; taking care of friends and family, even if it meant putting up with the often illogical actions of strangers. More often than not, it seemed, these actions would manifest themselves as rudeness. It seemed to come easy to the people he came in contact with, especially white people; pushing in front of him in line, cutting him off in traffic, leaving him for dead when he’d been hit over the head at the 7-11. It was all old news to him, almost funny. They’d look past you, as if you were nothing more than a skinny black kid from the projects. He wasn’t. Skinny maybe, definitely black, but his past was more closely aligned with those that judged him every day than those that stared at him on the city streets. He was a white boy in colored clothes, or was it vice versa. He couldn’t be sure, especially when his uncle came for visits. Now that was a black man. Heavy in the shoulders, quick to anger, with skin so black, Jason had to look closely to see any details at all. Jason’s uncle was from Philly, a city Jason had never seen. His mother was too, but denied it whenever anyone asked. His father was from Detroit, still was, now that he’d gone back without them. Jason had his picture though, that was something.

Jason’s father was a white man. He’d worked the line at the Ford plant for nearly twenty years. When they’d cut him loose, he’d lost all perspective, moving his family to D.C. Jason’s father had heard they were hiring black people at decent wages. His wife would work, even if he couldn’t. He’d been wrong though. There hadn’t been much room for a white man in the black community. He left in the night, going back to where things were better understood, leaving Jason and his sister alone with their mother to survive on welfare. Jason hadn’t missed him until they’d called his name at graduation nearly ten years past. He’d told his mom he didn’t care. She hadn’t believed him. By then they’d managed to move up in the world. Getting off the dole and living in the suburbs; in Maryland. His mother had found work at an insurance company. She answered the phones and kept things in order. Most of the customers were black, something that made Jason wonder if the world was as clear cut as all that.

Jason worked at a pharmacy; one of those in the back of a huge grocery store. He liked it, sort of. Most of the customers were old. Some looked like they’d be better off if they’d just give up and die.

He looked now at the lady that had just told him that she understood why her prescription had been messed up; nodding, as if it were common knowledge that black people had a way of not caring if one of their white customers got the wrong medicine and had a stroke or something. She was fat, old and annoying. He could see her blood, blue beneath the stretched skin on the top of her hands when she held out the new prescription. It had made him feel nauseous. But he had apologized, even though he knew it was the doctor that had made the mistake, not the pharmacist. After he’d rung her up, she’d glared at him, and then, as if it were nothing, she’d thrown the receipt back at him. Just flung it. I don’t need it, she’d said, as if he were stupid. As if she weren’t the most rude person he’d waited on that day.

Jason shook his head, ignoring the beads of perspiration that had begun to creep down his neck. He had other things to think about, other things to plan. He’d moved out of his mother’s apartment only six weeks before, into his own place for the first time. He’d met a girl. They’d had only one date, and that wasn’t even a real one. But she’d agreed to go out with him this evening. Jason was psyched. He smiled at the next customer, a bald guy with a band-aided X on the top of his head. The man looked sad, worn out and abused. Jason wondered why he bothered. After working at the pharmacy for over four years, he’d learned to read these faces. Learned what different medicines were, and what they were used for. He’d learned to look into the eyes of those that knew they weren’t going to make it, and stood in line for their medicine anyway. He tried to be nicer to these people, regardless of their mood. They deserved it he figured, after being dealt the death card.

Jason had met the girl at a nightclub in Georgetown. She was short, withdrawn and seemed totally out of her element. When he’d asked her why she was there, she’d told him it was as a favor to a friend. The friend turned out to be one of the girls dancing beneath the flashing lights. The friend was on Ecstasy, the girl explained, as if it might explain why the other girl was thrusting her pelvis at the crowd that surrounded the dance floor and screaming that she wanted dick and wanted it now. Jason had frowned and looked away, white girls always made him nervous.

He smiled to himself as he remembered the rest of the evening.

He’d asked her if she wanted a drink. She’d nodded slowly and asked for ginger ale. He’d nodded then turned and wound his way through the crowd to the bar. He hadn’t been altogether sure that she would be there when he returned, but took his chances anyway.

When he got back, she was waiting. He handed her the drink then jerked his head towards the opposite side of the room. He knew from experience that it would be much quieter, enough to talk without shouting. She nodded and followed him. As they made their way across the room, he could feel her eyes on his back; holding on, as if afraid if she lost him, she’d never find her way out. Halfway across the room, he stopped and turned to look at her. She looked up at him, her eyes drooping, like a hush puppy. He reached for her hand, she gave it.

They’d found a little corner that was as out of the way as you could get in a downtown Washington D.C. nightclub. Jason liked her hair, long, brown with waves. He liked her eyes too, glad they were brown. Blue always seemed unnatural. She had some sparkly stuff in her hair, and a little on her face. Jason smiled. She was cute; distant but cute. He wondered why she was talking to him.

I’ve never been with a black guy, she said.

Jason rolled his eyes. Me neither.

She didn’t laugh, just smiled shyly then looked away. Jason hadn’t known what to make of her.

You have a nice face, she’d said, reaching over to run her fingers down his cheek and under his chin.

You been here before? he asked, knowing the line had been used far too often.

She shook her head. Never.

He raised his brows in question.

I don’t get out much.

He nodded.

I live in Manassas, she added.

Jason had heard of the town, knew it was in Virginia somewhere, but that was it.

My dad retired there.

Jason nodded again. I live in Silver Spring.

This time she nodded. Close to College Park, right?

He nodded again, running out of things to say.

They have a campus in Germany, she said.

Jason had had no idea what she was talking about, but liked the way she stroked the side of her glass as she spoke.

You wanna go somewhere else? he asked.

She pushed her brows together, something Jason found unreasonably erotic.

Like where? she asked.

Jason shrugged his shoulders. We could just go for a drive or something, talk, ya know, hang?

She smiled at him, or her eyes did anyway. The rest of her face didn’t move at all. The effect was like that of a painting, like the Mona Lisa. Jason was planning to go to art school some day. He needed more money though.

I don’t know you, she said.

Jason had heard that line before. So get to know me. He smiled, showing his teeth, knowing she would see them glowing in the dark. My name’s Jason.

She stood looking into his eyes for a moment. Not blinking, not smiling or hiding. She was sizing him up, just as they all did.

I aint no street nigga, he said, in disgust.

She raised a single brow at him, her eyes fixed on his. No?

For the first time, Jason noticed that she might have a little Asian blood in her.

No. He shook his head and turned to look around behind him, a habit he’d been taught by his father.

She smiled again, this time seeming to mean it. My name’s Belle. She looked away, then looked back at him. Tell you what, I’ll go with you, if… she let it hang there a moment,