Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

I greedily watched the last drops of my fairytale disappear, the glittery lights fading until I was left in a dark, dank hallway. There were two big men standing outside a door, and I recognized them from the first day. They’d been present for my flesh trade, just as stoic now as they were then. It was like they were statues, except for one thing: the man to the left of the door watched me with dark, beady eyes.

I swallowed, looking away from the two men as Beast walked through the door, tugging me along. When we got inside, I halted.

The Beast sat down behind a thick wooden desk. The music outside was muffled, the untz untz untz of the beat sounding like an angry animal trying to break through the walls. Around the room I saw four other men besides the Beast, all leering at me.

It was so unlike the penthouse I was trapped in. Paper posters of semi-nude women warped by time and humidity were taped to the wall. A poster of Michael Jordan dunking underneath a small basketball hoop was stuck behind the Beast’s huge desk. A broken skateboard sat on a shelf.

For a moment I wondered if I’d stumbled into a teenage boy’s hangout room, not the lair of a mafia Beast.

But then there were knives. And guns. Oh and the three scary-looking men sitting on the nearly decomposed couch and the one sitting on the chair. The one in the chair was somehow more terrifying than the rest, shadows clung to him like wet paint. Those things had none of the nostalgic charm as the rest of the items.

“Strip,” the Beast said, and I was immediately pulled back into reality. In the dark, his bluegreen eyes were colorless. All I saw was a void.

I tugged at my shimmery Hervé Léger dress, reluctant to lose the shield. I glanced back out the door, imagining the dancing and beautiful music, and then I looked to the Beast, who was waiting for me to get naked in front of a bevy of strangers.

I was once again reminded why I stuck to books.

I glared, trying to focus on a dark spot on the wall. At least the room was dark. At least my humiliation wasn’t under spotlight. When I was on the desk, I was certain he was going to take me again. As the hardness in his pants bruised against me, I thought that it was going to be a repeat of the window. I could feel my body betraying itself, the liquid heat coursing through my body. I’d clenched my fists, trying to steel myself, but the flutter in my stomach and the jelly in my legs told the truth: I was beyond the pale.

I mean, what is wrong with me that I liked it?

Remember their faces. I am the only thing saving you from them. His whisper had been harsh like smoke, and I think only I heard it. When he’d stood up, he told me to stay in the corner, loud for everyone to hear. Then he’d thrown me to the floor.

Like trash.

His words were an echo in my head now as I lay on the floor naked and cold. Now they talked business as if I was just wallpaper. Peeling. To be ignored.

But that was better than being seen. I watched them, though. They talked about me as if I wasn’t there. It was horrible and freeing at the same time. It made me feel like nothing, but I learned so much.

Her contract has been terminated as she is no longer a virgin. When he’d said the words, it felt like someone had taken one of those giant mallets to my stomach. No longer a virgin. He said it to a bunch of strangers as if it was public knowledge, as if my deepest, most horrible and soul-fracturing shame was to be shared like a bottle of wine. My shame had almost blinded me to the most important part of the sentence: he’d said my contract. The way they spoke made it clear they weren’t talking about a simple business arrangement.

No.

He had planned to fucking sell me! Apparently now, though, I was stuck with the Beast. I wasn’t sure what was worse. People say it’s better with the devil you know, but the devil I knew was horrible.

How much worse could it really have gotten?

With one hand I rubbed my arm up and down, looking at the others, the ones who were completely unfazed by talk of slaves. At first I’d taken to calling them Assholes #1, #2, #3, and #4 in my head, but then I’d learned their names: Pretty Boy, Big O, Little O, and Crazy A. It wasn’t like they introduced themselves or anything, but I gleaned as much. The only weapon I had was knowledge, and my weapon was currently pretty dull. I was doing whatever I could to whet it.

They were nicknames, and Pretty Boy’s was obvious. Little O and Big O I knew were ironic, but that was all their names gave away. They both looked to be about Beast’s age, maybe a bit older, but it wasn’t time that aged them, it was life. Monstrous was the word I would have used to describe them. In another life, they could have been handsome. Objectively, I could see the comely features but the evil parts robbed the beauty. They wore their anger and hate and cruelty proudly and it twisted their faces grotesquely.

All the assholes were dressed in suits, but you couldn’t hide the street on their faces. Every one of them had scars that underscored the hard lines in their skin. The one that had started it all, the one that had made me cower against the wall, Little O, had the most scars. He had scars all over his face and arms, like someone tried to carve him up for Thanksgiving. He was also definitely not little. He was huge, bigger than the Beast, even. He had to bend down so his head didn’t touch the ceiling. People that big should be stupid. It’s how it should be, how books and movies trained me. The bigger you get, the more muscles you grow, the smaller your brain gets.

But the look Little O gave me before Beast called him off, it was like he was studying me. I shivered at the thought, or maybe it was the air conditioning. The room was so cold. I hadn’t moved since Beast set me on the floor, hadn’t even attempted to cover myself. I was so afraid to draw attention. Another gust of frigid air hit though, so I crossed my legs. It was stupid, a reflex. I nearly sighed, thinking I’d gotten away with it, but then Pretty Boy’s cruel voice drifted over to me.

“Open your legs.” I stared at Pretty Boy, my emotions a soup of fury and betrayal. I tried to stop him from being strangled. I tried to help him. I don’t know why I did it. It was like the Beast had been ruining him. With wavy brown hair so light it was nearly blond, Atlantic eyes, and smooth skin, he was beautiful.

I was ashamed to admit I found the Beast handsome—no, it was more than that, I found him utterly enthralling. With sculpted lines and a hard jaw, the Beast was gorgeous. It was a dark and dangerous beauty though, like I imagined a god of sin would look. Pretty Boy, however, was divine. He was an angel and the Beast had been ruining him. At that moment in time I was so naive. I thought I wasn’t, thought that because I’d lived a few days in hell I’d learned.

But I hadn’t.

When I saw Pretty Boy amidst a group of dirty, ugly assholes, I assumed he didn’t belong. I felt kinship, because I didn’t belong either. That was wrong. What I should have felt was terror.

“Open your legs,” Pretty Boy repeated. My gaze flicked to Beast, pleading, but it was like earth begging mercy from fire. The Beast had its nature, and its nature was to end me.

“P…please…” My lips quivered. I so did not want to cry. I didn’t want to beg. God, I just wanted to go Xena on their asses and make them pay, but there’s only so much a person can take; even diamonds shatter. Not even a week had passed since trading myself, though, and so much had happened. I’d lost my virginity, been thrown into a freezing room, been plugged, nearly came, unplugged, teased, vomited…

I hung my head, my legs falling open. I barely spread them, hoping the shadows between my thighs would protect me.