Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

But it called to me.

I picked it up, clasped it around my neck, and closed the drawer. I looked at the clock on the wall, trying to figure out how much time I had left. It was analog and there weren’t any numbers. The hands of the clock were branches and there was one long branch with a bird sitting on it. On the wall to the left of the clock, another bird was pinned. I stared at the clock, trying to imagine a man like Beast buying and pinning the little bird to the wall. I gave up. It did not compute, like trying to make two plus two equal five.

Sighing, I looked from the clock to my door. He said dinner was in one hour, and it was five minutes past the hour. He never told me to wait, but he’d never expressly told me I shouldn’t leave either. When I’d first traded myself to the man, there hadn’t been any doubts in my mind that he was bad—clinically bad, the type of mean you need a thesaurus for to find a deeper, more suitable description for but still end up coming up dry because the type of badness, of meanness, of hard twisting fright you feel around him is just that—a feeling.

But now, I wasn’t sure. Riding with him, alone, had unfurled other feelings within me and now I was in this dress, in this room, in a penthouse. The doctor had been inexplicable, but what kind of person would give me all of this if their intentions were bad? I curved my hand around the brassy doorknob.

Later…later I would blame an aneurysm for that bold and insane decision.

It felt sort of like I was attempting a jailbreak. Still, at that moment in time, I wasn’t even entirely sure I wanted to go home. I was in a penthouse, all dressed and dazzled. Life had told me this was what I was supposed to want, and now I had it. A distant thought floated through my mind as I turned the knob: it was like leaving Eden. If I left, I’d be faced with all the evils of the world. A part of me was worried if I didn’t leave the room, though, I would turn into a pumpkin.

I had on vintage Dior, Badgley Mischka peep toes, and diamonds.

I just wanted to explore. I had a pretty dress on and I wanted to walk around in it. Part of me was starting to think the Beast might not be so bad. Another part, though, thought the minute I opened the door, guys with guns would storm in and force me back into the bedroom.

They didn’t. I opened the door and was greeted by the long white corridor I’d walked down when we’d arrived. I hadn’t paid much attention then because I’d been so nervous. Now I noticed the creepy abstract art dotting the walls. Red slashed with black splattered against white canvases along the hallway walls, almost as if the individual paintings were one large installation. It was the kind of art that while not exactly looking like anything, still reminded you of blood and sex.

Hanging on to the doorframe, I looked down the hallway. I could run for my life, out of the apartment, and scream. Maybe the cops would come. I could

tell them my story, and maybe if by luck I found the one cop not on Beast’s payroll, the Beast would be arrested. I might even be able to keep the vintage Dior. That wouldn’t stop Papa’s murder though…or mine. It was surreal being a prisoner in the middle of a bustling metropolis.

Swallowing, I stepped out into the hallway. The space was immaculate with white walls and sandy wood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows were the theme of the penthouse. As I exited the hallway, I came to a room where more windows stretched even higher as the room’s ceiling rose. The windows reminded me of those I saw in magazines. White wood trimmed the latices and some even had Christmas lights. I paused, looking around. It was so nice, so…homey. I sniffed. Was that…gingerbread?

It would have been so much easier if the moment I left the room everything was dark, ugly, and smelly.

The way a beast’s lair should be.

I came to a sitting room with a piano and tilted my head back. The place must have been three stories high. I wondered if he owned other floors than the ones I could see. My gaze shifted to the piano. Did the Beast play piano? Who was this man that took me captive, yet gave me nice clothes and a nice place to sleep? Maybe the Beast wasn’t so bad.

I should have read more fairytales.

As I walked by another sprawling window, I stopped and pressed my fingers against the cool glass, staring down at the sidewalk. How many other people were prisoners like me?

Probably not many were so well dressed. I pressed my entire palm to the glass. I’d read thousands of stories about heroes and their heroines. So many of the men were tortured on the inside, their emotions a train wreck, and the heroine couldn’t see the beauty of their soul at first. Maybe the Beast was tortured. Maybe that’s why they called him the Beast. Bad men didn’t give their prisoners nice clothes and diamonds and a comfy bed.

Right?

I pressed my forehead against the glass.

Maybe there was hope.

It was as if at that moment fate herself heard me and didn’t want me getting any funny ideas. Within seconds of me wondering if there could be hope, a cold, unmistakable voice gripped my spine. “What are you doing out of your room?”

I spun around. The Beast was leaning against a whitewashed, exposed brick column. I exhaled slightly because at first glance, he looked calm and collected, which ameliorated my fears. Then I saw his face and my gut refilled with ice. His earlier cruel impassivity had been replaced with sunless anger.

Even though he was still a good few feet from me, it wasn’t enough. I attempted to step back, but I was already against the window. My heel bumped painfully against the wall.

“Answer me,” he said quietly. I wished he would have yelled; his harsh whisper was like a toxic fog. I felt his anger more than heard it, and it was so much more powerful, more menacing, more dangerous.

“Dinner?” I lifted the dress slightly. It was all I could do, the only tool in my belt. I was like a deer stuck in headlights as he closed the distance between us. He stole the shadows as he advanced, growing and growing until he was so close I felt I would die of suffocation.

“Did I say you could come out?” he whispered in my ear. I closed my eyes like a little girl against a scary movie, hoping it would go away. Earlier that day when he’d whispered my name, I had seen my life, my hopes, and my dreams disappear.

Now when he whispered to me, this time I was certain I would never see them again.

“No, but…” I trailed off as the Beast pressed his massive hand against my chest, pushing me flat against the window. My entire body pressed against the glass and terror filled my veins like liquid nitrogen. I wondered if I would explode, like a rose frozen then broken, shattered into a billion pieces. I wondered if anybody below could see me.

“I…” My voice came out pathetically high. “Thank you?” The words came out as a question. Was I seriously thanking him right now? What I wanted to say was I thought we had an agreement, I thought the nice things meant you were nice, I thought the clothes and the room and the little birdie clock meant something, but the words got jumbled in my brain as he pressed into me and forced me against the window.