Belle Rose's Last Kiss

Warning: this story contains elements of sexual violence, mental health issues, and self harm

                                                                                                                                                                     Belle Rose’s Last Kiss

Moonlight gleamed through the high, narrow window down into the small basement bedroom. The light shone on the pale ivory face of the petite young woman as she stood next to the bed, before she lowered her head.

She wrote a name on a scrap of paper and circled it three times. She reached over to hold the paper over the candle flame until it caught fire.

She thought of the man whose name she had written and how he was far different in reality than most people knew.

Belle Rose Gentry, or more precisely, Belle and Rose Gentry, covered her face with her hands and mumbled, “I’m not myself right now.” 

She ran her hands through her long straight glossy black hair, which fell down past her shoulders. Whispering, “I create magic with my spells. I have the joy of celebration in the light balanced with the intensity of a sorcery embracing the shadows.”

Outside the wind suddenly gusted, shaking tree limbs and scattering leaves. Rain began to trickle from the sky, then suddenly began to pelt down.

Belle Rose wrapped her white cashmere robe more snugly around her as she heard the bolt of the lock being moved back and the creak of the door opening. She took a deep breath as the light from the hallway streamed inside the room.

“When I came home, I longed to see you, all of a sudden I really missed you,” the man said to her. “I thought of you down here all by yourself.”

“Oh, I’m never really alone.” She ran her left hand over her face.

He was handsome, with a medium but powerful looking build. Thick dark hair on the man’s arms. A strong, large nose under unwavering black eyes. Short neat beard and black hair cropped short enough to give just a hint of the natural waves.

Her cousin Holland Gentry stepped back, sniffing. “Belle, you’ve been burning candles again. I smell vanilla.”

That was why she’d chosen that particular one when she’d asked him to buy her a candle, because it gave off a soothing scent of vanilla when burned.  

Earlier that day, she’d watched a cyclist in a red bandanna ride by her window, as he blasted rap music from his bike. She had suddenly realized how little freedom she had. Her world had become so small, locked into Holland’s basement. But all Belle said was, “Holland, I don’t go to sleep and leave the candle burning."

He sighed. “I need a drink.”

She looked away from him down the hallway, and held out her arm, already covered with several healing knife cuts. He shook his head and smirked. “Not now, I met some new people tonight. Fresh blood.” He laughed deep in his throat.

Belle Rose turned away from the door as Holland shut it. He turned the key in the lock.

Oh, yes, Holland Gentry was different from what most people knew of him.

Belle felt her heart sinking in her chest. Belle Rose wept, tears of despair for Belle and tears of rage for Rose.

After his special guests were gone, Holland watched Belle Rose on the hidden camera. He smiled in enjoyment when he saw her curl up on the narrow bed and cry herself to sleep. He waited for a while, then returned to the basement. He opened her bedroom door without a light, moving quietly so he wouldn’t wake Belle Rose up. He knelt next to the bed and slowly lifted the covers to peek.

Belle’s blue eyes fluttered open. She saw him as in a dream in the soft glow of the nightlight next to the bed. She felt empty as he pulled her up into his arms and began kissing the side of her neck. She felt helpless, unable to respond in any way. It was so much easier to just give up all will, to go along, let him have his way.

Rose struggled to reach the surface, yanked herself away from Holland, and jumped to her feet. “Don’t force yourself on me!”

“We’ve shared the intimacy of me drinking your blood.” Holland’s voice was husky.

“You kidnapped me!” Rose screamed. She turned away from him, pacing around the room. “I don’t remember ever consenting to you drinking my blood. I don’t recall you doing that.” She switched on the overhead light and stared down at the scabbed cuts on her arms. “I thought Belle must have harmed herself before you brought me here.”

Rose’s head was spinning. Why would Belle have been the one to suffer the cuts? Rose was the keeper of the pain. Unless it wasn’t all pain for Belle. Perhaps Belle had welcomed Holland cutting her and licking up the blood.

Perhaps in some pathetic way it’d made Belle happy….

Holland sprang up and approached his cousin from behind. He planted a kiss on the back of her neck and then murmured into her ear. “Little cousin, if you don’t say yes to me, you’ll regret it.”

 Rose put her hand on the back of her neck and massaged it. “ I don’t like it when people touch my neck. I don’t like being touched at all.”

Her life experiences had caused her to split into two personalities. The shy, people pleasing Belle and the blunt, assertive Rose. What most people wouldn’t understand is that splitting was an act of self-defense and self-love.

Holland turned her around to face him. His gaze held hers until she looked down. “If I kiss you and lose control, Belle, I will sink fangs into your neck and slake my thirst.” Holland paused and added in a deeper voice, “Right now I’m holding back and satisfying myself with just a little taste of your blood. But the day will come when I give you the last kiss you will ever have, other than my lips on your cold cheek after you become drained of every last drop of blood from your body.”                      

Belle turned away and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “No, I won’t listen to that.”

Holland’s dark eyes narrowed. He turned on his heel and left without another word. She laid there for hours, every nerve on edge, expecting him to return, before she finally drifted off to sleep.

Belle Rose had been held captive in Holland’s basement for sixty-six hours at that point.

When Belle Rose woke the next day in mid-morning, she felt renewed and with a sense of purpose. Belle hung back, not agreeing but not fighting, as Rose pulled out an old photograph she had, showing Holland wearing a tuxedo and standing in front of a grand curving staircase on a cruise ship. Rose found a black permanent marker and drew an arrow on the photo, pointing at the back of Holland’s neck. “Touch the back of my neck, will he?” she muttered.

Upstairs Holland clapped a hand to the back of his neck. “Ouch! Maybe I need a chiropractor.”

Rose drew an X over Holland’s head in the picture. Every act of defiance against her captor was an act of loving herself. She blew a kiss at the photo. “Give me a last kiss, will he?”

All that day, Holland didn’t come to see her. Belle was despondent and puzzled, Rose was cautiously optimistic that he’d left for good. She was in the bathroom washing her hands after eating a small salad out of the mini refrigerator when she heard someone try the bedroom door, then the sound of the key unlocking the door. Then a knock. It couldn’t be Holland. Holland never knocked.

She opened the door to see the young cyclist she’d seen riding by the day before. He was in his mid-twenties, she guessed, a few years older than she was, with the deep tan of someone who worked outdoors, sandy hair, and kind blue eyes. He bit his lip and said hesitantly, “You know what’s happened to Holland?”

“No. I’m Belle Rose Gentry, his cousin. I’ve been here for a while.”

“I’m Matt Arden. I’m a partner of Holland’s.”

“A business partner?”

“No.” Matt blushed under his tan. “A play partner. Holland liked to do vampire scenes.”

Belle Rose sighed. “I don’t think they were just scenes.”

Matt bit his lower lip. He motioned for her to sit down on the bed and said softly, “Belle Rose, I’m sorry. Holland’s dead.”

Belle’s eyes widened and she sagged on the bed. Her hands were shaking as she covered her eyes with her fingers, tears falling. Rose felt stunned as she listened, wondering if her spell had really worked. Matt explained that Holland had put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Belle was grief-stricken, but Rose was relieved that she had burned the photo of Holland with the center of the X on his lips, the same lips he would now never use to give her the last killing kiss.