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Rachel slammed the door shut and scoffed at the answering crash from the other side, the telltale sign that Mister Hamilton had way too much to drink yet again, despite his own vehement insistence that he wasn't drunk.
But oh, of course he wasn't. He never was, after all. It was Rachel who had the problem, not him.
A deep breath swelled her chest, and she closed her eyes for a few moments, palms flat against the peeling paint of the door.
A resounding bang. Something shattered. James grumbled to himself.
Rachel set the latch.
She hoped he'd cut himself on whatever he had just broken in his drunken rampage.
A tiny sound at her back made her jump and whirl around-
Her heart dropped. Shattered much like whatever had found its end on the other side of the door just moments prior.
"Alex," she choked, her throat suddenly too tight. "Oh, mon petit chou-"
Rachel rushed over to the other side of the small room and scooped her child up into her arms. The poor thing had cowered in the corner, smushed into the narrow space between the wall and one of the beds, as small as possible and dead silent until he'd seen her and known there was no danger.
She settled on the edge of the nearest bed and placed him upon her lap, stroking the messy dark curls from his little face–his red, puffy, wet with tears face–and hugging him close.
He wasn't supposed to be here. Rachel had dropped the boys off at her sister's earlier because she had seen the cursed bottle of rum James thought he had successfully 'snuck in', and she'd known exactly what was about to happen.
"My little darling, what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at auntie's house?" she said and fumbled a handkerchief from her pocket to dry those reddened little cheeks.
Alex's chest rose and fell frantically, and the tears wouldn't stop rolling down his blotchy face no matter how often she wiped them away.
But not a single sound parted from his trembling lips.
He was silent, utterly and completely.
Alexander had learned to cry quietly a long time ago, and it still hurt her heart to contemplate that. He was four years old. A toddler, basically.
Lord above, he was only four.
"Shh," she whispered to him and pulled him snug against her breast, stroking his heaving back and tenderly playing with his hair. The little angel curled into her, and Rachel rocked him carefully, back and forth, back and forth, until his breathing had calmed a bit.
She pressed a lingering kiss to the top of his head and rested her cheek over that spot.
"How did you get here, petit chou?" she inquired again, blinking a few times so her own treacherous tears wouldn't spill over her lashes.
"W- we went to the market," he mumbled into the fabric of her dress, his timid words muffled. "And I wasn't supposed to, but- but I walked away, I didn't mean to, I got distracted-"
Alex's breath hitched, and the whole of his little body shook with another silent sob.
"Shh, baby, it's alright, I know you didn't mean to," she said gently. Alex… got distracted. A lot. Through no fault of his own, he was a curious boy by nature. She knew to pay attention, to take him by the hand and keep him close when they were out in public–her sister didn't.
"A- and then, then I couldn't- I didn't find them again and I didn't know the way back to auntie's house, and I got really scared so I walked back home, and, and daddy didn't like it-"
Her whole ribcage constricted, and she struggled for breath.
Rachel's hands started roaming of their own accord, searching for any bruise or hurt or blemish on her baby's body, however big or small.
Maybe James hadn't been drunk yet when Alex came back. Maybe he had just yelled at him and scared her little boy into hiding in the room he shared with his brother, maybe he was fine-
Her gentle exploration reached his forearms; a tiny "ow", followed by a heart wrenching sniffle, and Rachel squeezed her eyes shut so hard, colours exploded over her closed lids.
He was just a child. How could anyone ever lay a hand on him, God, he was just an innocent boy Rachel had brought into this world and failed to protect, again and again-
She forced her eyes back open and sucked in a single, calming breath. Rachel ever so gently rolled the sleeve covering his right arm back, exposing a slowly purpling bruise that spanned almost the entire length of his forearm.
Bile rose bitter up her throat as she looked it over and so very carefully prodded at the discoloured flesh, just to make sure nothing was fractured or even broken.
She could see individual fingers. Pressed into her son's skin, and she could imagine it all too well, James grabbing him in a rage, dragging him across the flat by his arm as Alex cried quietly and let him, not that there had been anything else to do for the poor boy. He was just a child, and small for his age on top of that.
God, she hated herself. What kind of mother stayed with a man who left bruises on her children's bodies?
But then, what else was there? Would it be better to watch them starve? To force them into a life of indentured servitude?
Rachel kissed her son's little forehead and hugged him close, carding her fingers through tangled curls.
"He shouldn't have hurt you, petit chou," she said. Her voice broke, and she attempted desperately to swallow down her tears for Alex's sake. "That's not right. That's never right."
The words rang hollow, because if it truly wasn't right, someone would do something. Anything.
But no one ever did. Rachel never did. Her sweet little boy would grow up, thinking it was fine and ordinary for people who were supposed to care about him to harm instead.
"Mami?" his small voice ripped her from her thoughts, and she dropped another kiss to the crown of his head.
"Yes, my sweet?"
"Why, um." He sniffled, and those clever, so curious eyes–his father's eyes, good Lord, she remembered his eyes so well–misted over with fresh tears. "Why does daddy hate me?"
Her heart split.
He was just a baby. Alex shouldn't even have a concept of what hatred was yet, and much less should have been on the receiving end of it, but Rachel couldn't even deny it. Couldn't offer some empty platitudes along the lines of oh no, he doesn't, it's the drink, he loves you, of course he does, because it wasn't the goddamn drink, it was James.
That man wouldn't know love or even just basic human decency if it jumped into his face and bit off his nose.
Rachel looked upon her son, looked into his big, teary eyes, and for a split-second, she couldn't help but see his father.
His actual father, not James, and she so desperately wished they could have had him instead. She hadn't known him well, or for very long, even, but by God, she knew in her heart that George could have never hurt their baby.
Or her, for that matter.
He was a good man. The best man she'd ever invited into her bed.
"Daddy loves no one but himself," she croaked and wiped a single tear from her son's plump cheek. "But I love you enough for two people, petit."
Alex sniffled pitifully, but his face scrunched up into an expression of intense concentration, and Rachel's heart swelled despite everything.
He was so sweet. Such a smart, wonderfully inquisitive boy.
James fucking Hamilton wouldn't snuff out that little light shining behind those eyes, and if trying to preserve it killed her.
"I love you, too, Mami," he said and snuggled into her arms, his head pillowed securely on her chest. "I wish someone loved daddy. Maybe he wouldn't be so mean, then."
Rachel bit the tip of her tongue.
She wished she hadn't fucked everything up so badly. Wished she could have given her little boy a real father, one who never hurt him. Wished she could give both her boys a home where they would be safe.
But it was this–or starving in the streets.
Her children hurt and terrified, or her children dead before their time like so many others.
What kind of God would give a mother those two options and force her to choose?
The same one who would let an innocent child be hurt at the hands of the man who thought himself his father, she supposed.
"I'll never become mean like daddy, Maman. I promise," he said and blinked up at her from wide eyes, and Rachel's throat closed up.
"I know, baby," she choked and kissed his brow, holding him as close as she dared. "You'll grow up to be a good man. One of the best, I reckon."
Just like your father.
Alex beamed at her past the tears still clinging to his lashes. "I'll be good, Mami. Make you proud."
"Oh, you already do, my angel. Every day."
She kissed his little cheeks until her son's delighted giggles filled the room, and then she sat and held him, numb with her helplessness.
Paralysed by the weight of all her mistakes–and trying so desperately to keep that crushing pressure off her son's shoulders.