January 15th 1808
I am still thinking of the flower I killed with my love, I tell my cousin about that flower and she tells me, ‘flowers cannot feel pain’ then I ask her, ‘but I can. What about my own pain? What about my own sorrow?’ she was silent, and I kept asking her because I wanted a response, I asked her till she got tired of me and said, ‘Seize the talking, I am tired,’
October 5th 1807
My mother is perhaps the most complex person I have come to known
She bears her flaws with grace, as noble ladies oft hide them, yet in my youth, my mother’s touch remain a soothing balm
She, the duchess, tends to my unruly locks, a tender gesture, out of the ordinary for women of her rank,
In my youth, she bathed me in her warmth, whispered secres, and a bond of friendship was formed in the quiet out of home. She rarely ever called me Belle, but she oft called me Rose or Passion.
I am older now, taller, wiser, and the contours of my mother’s love have shifted. A transformation that left me shocked. She loved me- yes, her love is clear but she does not like me, that much is clear. My mother taught me about love without like, it is very possible she shows. I’ve longed to ask her when, oh when, did her gaze shift from jewel to fractured glass. Was it when i declared to her, ‘i shall never wed,’ or when her own imperfections surfaced and i gazed at them, not looking away, not being scared to look- seeing her vulnerability?
My mother, the seeker of perfection, herself adorned with intricate flaws, so intricate and fine. She loved the idea of perfection, yet she was the most imperfect lady to grace the earth. She knows it too, I think, but she pretend she does not.
January 2nd 1808
When I was young I thought Josephine was a god- i loved her that much. But she was not even an angel, she was more of a victim, the perfect victim and I was neither of the three- not agod, an angel nor a victim. I was more of a demon or the antagonist in a story, I think my mother knew it, and I think Josephine knew it too- what was why our love for each other was different. Kat will see it soon when she grows up, after all ladies are not as naive as they pretend to be, men I often find to be more naive and easy to fool.
January 9th 1808
I don’t trust people- I don’t even trust myself. I design and create dresses to forget, yes I often try to forget myself as well. I like myself, I like the way I am, I like it very much but I do not love it. I am a stranger to myself most of the time. On Mondays , I look in the mirror and I do not see Belle and on Tuesdays, Belle is all I see.
January 9th 1808
My father bought me a dress- a dress I had designed myself and he had paid to be made when I was sick. I was better the next day- healthier and I wore the dress, twirling around, I have never felt lovelier. That day I truly knew why I was named Belle Rose, with the heart I have that was filled with thorns, I still found a way to be lovely like a Rose.
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January 11th 1808
These days I can rarely sleep. I have trouble sleeping, sleeping feels so unsettling, so foreign to me so I drink till I tire and then I write till i tire. I do not cry- no, crying is an emotion foreign to me. No, that is a lie- crying was no stranger to me, it was a friend I had cut off long ago, a friend that always exists in the back of my mind but I refuse to see again. At least physically, I cry everytime in my mind.
I think I would die if I ever cried visibly.
January 13th 1808
Today I taught Kat how to braid her hair, I have never smiled this much in a long time.
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May 2nd 1807
I was thinking-yes I do think a lot but I was thinking of my family. Of my relationship with the second born in the house- with my brother Thomas and with the other of my kin. I was young- about seven if I remember correctly and my brother Thomas had me in his arms, we were talking a walk in the gardens and I was begging for him to let me down but he refused-an amused expression on his face. He threw me up in the air and caught me quickly so I would not fall, he would do it repeatedly and I would yell to be let down. The eldest, Louis had scolded him for that- telling him to drop me as he got a bouquet of flowers and gave it to my sister Josephine, Louis had told Thomas that he would hurt me and Thomas had scoffed. ‘Belle is also my younger sister,’ he had argued, ‘I shall never hurt her, you are not the only one who is her older brother. Elder Louis,’ Thomas said as he put me up in the air- not throwing me like I was ball but just holding me up and facing me with his eye color that was often considered weird to people and then laughed as he nuzzled himself into me as I kicked him. No matter what he did- i noticed that truly, Thomas had never hurt me- when I was with Thomas I had never gotten a scratch on my face nor hands nor legs even if he played like a brute. i had gotten injured when I was with Louis and Josephine but never with Thomas and I often wondered how? How was that possible?
