A/N: So this is my first attempt at a Wuthering Heights fic. I may turn out utter crap, but seeing I'd just finished the book for the tenth time, I thought I'd better give it ago.

Reviews are much appreciated, but be kind. I'm sensitive (:


God help me

I don't see

How I can live this way

Any I don't know why he's

Touching me

Won't you shine in my direction and help me

Won't you lend me your protection and help me

Isabella was on her knees again, hands clasped in earnest. The flag stones hurt her knees terribly and their coldness made her ache, but still she remained. Heathcliff had gone out, leaving her in sweet solitude. Tyrant! Fiend! Such an evil man had never been born and she cursed the day she knitted her soul with his.

A fever must have taken control of her brain when she decided to give herself to him. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve her love.

Well, he was doing well to extinguish it; she could now only dimly recall what she had felt for him before, how her heart had been enchanted by his dark and brooding ways. What a fool she felt, for leaving behind a comfortable home and loving society for this earthly bound hell! She felt like a lost soul trapped in the clutches of her own personal Satan – Heathcliff's soul was just as black and his ways just as cruel.

"God help me." She muttered aloud. She had taken to praying; she felt so powerless in her own life that the only thing she could think to do was to entreat the help of the Divine.

Only God held power over her tyrant.

Down below, she heard the fiend enter the kitchen, her heart started to stammer painfully fast in her heart. Her entreaties became more desperate. "God help me. Don't leave me, he's burning me with his wickedness. Help me. Please."

She heard his measured step on the stairs. He was quite slow in his movement, almost as if he wanted to torment her in the anticipation of his approach.

It was working. She feared him over any other man; she hated no one like her husband, yet no one could make her so terrified. At moments he almost appeared sub-human to her; not a gypsy, but a goblin or demon, cursed to terrorise and destroy anything he touched.

The latch of the door was raised, and the dark fiend entered. Isabella stayed kneeling on the floor, a cold sweat gathering about her.

She heard him turn the lock.

She swallowed. "I've got too much to loose." She whispered, so that he couldn't hear her. "Shine in my direction. Help me."

"Isabella" The tyrant barked her name.

She turned her fair head to look at him, to acknowledge, yet she couldn't bring herself to look into her face.

"Come here Isabella." He demanded gruffly.

Her stomach knotted, and her knees felt weak, but she complied; she'd rather suffer what he wanted than feel his wrath upon her. Isabella was well acquainted with the weight of his fists.

What she suffered at his hands was nothing short of diabolical.

Only a fiend would rip her virtue so violently, only a tyrant could bare to treat his wife so violently.

Places everyone, this is a test

Throw your stones, do your damage

All the world is a judge

But that doesn't compare

To what I do to myself when you're not there

And if I had a dollar for every time

I repented the sin

And commit the same crime

I'd be sitting on top of the world

I'd be sitting on top of the world