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columbariaAnne Bonny can never decide if she loves or hates docking in the Belt. Anywhere, maybe, but they're always in the Belt anymore; Earth's slipping away from her, everything from the wretched smell of garbage in the heat to the way the ground pulls everyone toward it, harder than anything out here. She's almost fourteen years old, married almost a year, and when she's off the ship, she doesn't have to worry about anyone on the crew cornering her.
She does, however, have to take care not to breathe too loudly, look too bored, eat too quickly, eat too slowly, slump in her seat--anything that'll set James Bonny off. Something always does, the one thing she doesn't think of, and he always makes her regret it. Today, it's fidgeting where she sits, trying to keep from putting too much weight on the burn blistering the side of one thigh.
"Fuck're you doing?" he snarls. They're in a bar, he with a bottle of what the Belters call rowm, she watching. Someone's supposed to meet them, a new job for the trawler to take up. Whoever it is, they're late, and her husband's pissed.
Anne stares at the table. If she talks back, it'll only be worse. She's done that--lived to regret it, too. There're things he can't do, here in public, but he's not above dragging her away somewhere he can, if he's mad enough. If he isn't, there's always the chance he'll go back to his beer and let her alone.
His hand lands in the matted mess of hair at the back of her head, yanking it so sharply that she yelps, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "I asked you a question."
"Sorry." It's no more than breath--he's pulling her head back so hard there's no room in her throat for any kind of tone. It's walking a line of broken glass, knowing how much to answer and how much to disappear into the chair beside him, and right now, she can hardly manage either.
She does, however, have to take care not to breathe too loudly, look too bored, eat too quickly, eat too slowly, slump in her seat--anything that'll set James Bonny off. Something always does, the one thing she doesn't think of, and he always makes her regret it. Today, it's fidgeting where she sits, trying to keep from putting too much weight on the burn blistering the side of one thigh.
"Fuck're you doing?" he snarls. They're in a bar, he with a bottle of what the Belters call rowm, she watching. Someone's supposed to meet them, a new job for the trawler to take up. Whoever it is, they're late, and her husband's pissed.
Anne stares at the table. If she talks back, it'll only be worse. She's done that--lived to regret it, too. There're things he can't do, here in public, but he's not above dragging her away somewhere he can, if he's mad enough. If he isn't, there's always the chance he'll go back to his beer and let her alone.
His hand lands in the matted mess of hair at the back of her head, yanking it so sharply that she yelps, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "I asked you a question."
"Sorry." It's no more than breath--he's pulling her head back so hard there's no room in her throat for any kind of tone. It's walking a line of broken glass, knowing how much to answer and how much to disappear into the chair beside him, and right now, she can hardly manage either.
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Date: 2020-01-19 01:54 am (UTC)"He said--" Her throat closes up. She has to swallow before she can try to explain. Not defend James Bonny, exactly, but try to make that anger in this man's eyes disappear. Talking doesn't usually make things better, but that's because her husband hadn't liked to talk. This doesn't feel like that. "Told my ma he'd take care of me. Wouldn't matter about being undocumented, out here."