Beast: An Anthology

by Amanda Richardson

  “Hmm?” I lift my head, not realizing that I closed my eyes and lost myself for a moment.

  He smirks knowingly, and asks again. “No pictures?” He gestures back to my shelves with a quick angling of his face.

  I shake my head because what can I say? My mom isn’t exactly my number one fan. While people at school want me or want to be me, no one wants to be friends with me after rumors went around about my mother. Now they aren’t rumors. They are cold, hard facts.

  Even her own mom hates her.

  Says she’s a witch, just like her father.

  She’s evil.

  Maybe I am. I’ll be the first to admit that there’s blackness in my veins.

  “What are you thinking about?” Reece’s voice draws me back to the present.

  “Nothing.”

  His hand rests against my cheek, pulling me closer until his breath fans over my face. “Tell me,” he pleads.

  It’s hard to look at him and think that he wants to know this one simple thing, and it’s the one thing I don’t want him to know. It’s one thing to witness how my mother reacts to me. It’s another entirely to know that the whole world thinks the same.

  “I just don’t have friends.” I shrug again, going for nonchalance.

  His eyes soften and the corner of his mouth tips up slightly. “You have me.” He turns away before I can reply. “People are terrible to others. I should know,” he mutters as he sits next to me on the bed.

  “I’d never be terrible to you.”

  He smiles at my words. “And I’d never be terrible to you.”

  “I know.”

  My cat stalks into my bedroom, weaving her way around the mess of books scattered over the floor until she gets to my feet. “Morning, Predator.” I lift the fluffy orange tabby into my arms. She meows incessantly, but I squeeze her tight.

  “Predator?” Reece chortles.

  “Of course. She’s fierce.” I hold her out to him, but she screams, frantically clawing at the air and manages to scratch my arms. I drop her, shocked by her reaction. The tabby darts out of the room in a flurry of orange and white.

  “Who’s there?” My mother’s frightened voice echoes from down the hall.

  I turn to Reece, terrified. Before I can run to my window and usher both of us outside and away from this hell hole, he grips my arm. It’s not hard, but it’s not gentle. It’s firm.

  “Try.”

  One word, one action that I don’t want to follow through on. But for Reece, I’d do just about anything.

  * * *

  “Mom, no one is coming after you. Calm down.” I try to comfort her with my hands up and palms outward, showing her that I mean no harm.

  “Don’t lift those witch hands at me,” my mother snarls in a tone that makes my hands instantly drop to my sides. “I see him waiting in the shadows. Waiting for his chance.”

  “Where? Where do you see him?”

  Her eyes drag up my body from my toes until they meet my eyes, and she sneers, “Every time I look at you.” I shudder and shake my head, but she continues. My mother’s voice is tormented as she speaks. “He brought them. He always brought them, and you do, too.”

  “Who?”

  “The monsters.” Her eyes are wild with fear and anger. “He was good, but the monsters got to him. Year after year he changed until he was brutalizing and buried deep.” She shoves her hands folded together between her legs. It takes me a moment to realize she means literally. “Then there was you, and he was gone. It was silent and good and us. You look like him, but it was okay because you were good. You were different.”

  “But you started seeing things you shouldn’t see. Then you came home naughty and smiling and ready to torture me. You.” She points her finger as her voice practically growls the last word, her whole body trembling as she steps closer to me. “You gave me that letter with his stench all over it.”

  I shake my head, not understanding. “You mean, he sent you a letter in the mail?”

  “You brought it in!” She spits hysterically at me.

  “I didn’t know! How was I supposed to know when you wouldn’t tell me. What did he do, ma?”

  The word slips out. Ma.

  She freezes. Her body stops shaking. Her lips clamp tightly shut, but I can see the quiver in her chin. A soft light in her eyes. I look to Reece, and his lips lift at the term he uses when he speaks about his own mother. I try again, my voice soft and tender. “What did he do, ma?”

  I don’t know if it’s the weight of the word being so different on my tongue or the tenderness of the term. She sobs and falls back into the couch with her head in her hands. There is no screaming. There is no more hatred. I look to Reece for guidance, and he nods to where my mother sits. I hesitantly step towards her. When she doesn’t react, I continue until I’m sitting next to her. Lifting a hand, I place it on her back and rub soft circles over her bony frame. She needs to eat more.

  We sit for a while. I’m doing my best to comfort her even though I’m still terrified she’ll scream at any moment. She cries until the tears seem to stop. A few trickle down her face, but the moaning subsides.

  “Your father is not a good man.” It’s all she says, wiping the tears from under her eyes before looking at me. She cringes when our eyes meet.

  Some people hate how the mirror reflects them. In this moment, I hate how I reflect my father. Never before have I hated the beauty he had given me, even though my mother clearly can’t stand the sight of me. I never hated my looks because somewhere inside I thought it was all I had. But now...

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  I only nod, unsure of what to say or do with that, but I try to understand. “Why is he bad?”

  “The monsters changed him,” she whispers as her dull brown eyes pierce into me like knives. She’s looking for the monsters.

  “What monsters?”

  “The less you know, the better.” She stands suddenly, adding more distance between us.

  “But I need to know. If you’re going to hate me because of him, then I should at least know why.”

  “It doesn’t concern you.”

  I’m pissed. If it doesn’t concern me, then why does she hate me this much? Why can she not stand the sight of me? “What did he do.” It’s a question, but it comes out of me like a demand.

  Slowly, she turns. Her clothes hang loosely over her small frame. Her collarbones are rigid, her eyes are large and dark, and her greasy brown hair hangs in clumps, looking darker than normal. In a snarl, a single word spills from her lips. “Leave.”

  I don’t move. I don’t want us to back track already. Reece was right, but it can’t be over. My mother speaks again, this time louder and more aggressive. “Leave!”

  Her anger is clawing its way up again. I don’t give her a chance to come at me even though her next words hit with every step I take past her to the door.

  “All you’ll be is bad. All you’ll do is worse.”

  For once, I do what she asks.

  Tugging on a jacket and snatching up my bag by the door, I leave.

  And I don’t intend to ever come back.

  * * *

  Reece follows me outside into the bright and warm mid morning summer air. Not even three steps from the house, we hear my mother scream as something crashes inside.

  I shove down the sidewalk, defeat in each step. My mother will never open up to me. She’ll never tell me what went wrong between her and my father and the monsters she insists ruined him.

  We pass kids playing in their front yards and adults doing yard work before the sun gets too high. The beautiful summer day counters my mood, and for some reason it pisses me off more. My feet slam against the pavement as I pick up speed. My chest aches and my eyes burn, but I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I hold it all in, letting it fester.

  A hand snags out of nowhere and grips my upper arm. I try to yank free, but the hand holds firm. My eyes burn the longer I hold back the tears. I don’t want to br
eak down in front of anyone in this town.

  “Let me go,” I try to sound fierce, but my voice wobbles with the ache splitting up my chest and into my throat.

  “Come back to my place, and I’ll make you feel better.”

  I know that voice. It’s Connor, a boy from school. He’s with a group of boys I typically flirt with in the halls between classes. It makes me feel good. Better. Wanted. But they aren’t who I want.

  I shove into Connor hard, pushing into him, hoping he’ll let me go in order to catch himself, but his hand on my wrist tightens. Connor’s steely eyes glare at me, and he snarls, “What the hell? No wonder your own mom can’t stand you.” The words hurt, but I don’t have a chance to react. Connor shoves me backwards into the road.

  I hear a car horn.

  Then I feel the hit.

  I tumble over pavement, my body burning from the contact.

  “I’m so sorry!” A man stumbles off his bicycle. “Are you okay?” His hands move over my body checking for injury, but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Not until I give him some recognition. It’s a small gesture, but one I appreciate. My body stings in various spots where my flesh had skid across the pavement leaving bloody scrapes over my knees, hands, and shins from trying to catch myself.

  All I can manage is a nod. I’m too afraid to open my mouth, terrified of the sound that will break free. The man helps me up on trembling legs as he apologizes repeatedly about how he tried to get out of the way, but a car was in his only path of escape.

  “I’m fine,” I manage to say as I step back onto the sidewalk.

  Connor and his friends snicker as they stand by the window of a liquor shop. The owner lingers behind the register while his eyes ping between me and the boys, unsure if he should come out once he finishes with a customer.

  Reece glares at boys, but there’s nothing he can do. No one can see him. No one can hear him. In this moment, my anger wins over everything else and it turns on Reece. Why did he have to kill himself? Why couldn’t he be real for me?

  I turn away, needing to get some distance from my ever hurting body and breaking heart, but before I make it to the end of the street, the sharp noise of shattering glass echoes behind me.

  Everyone’s startled gaze pins on Connor and the other boys. The store owner abandons his current customer and rushes out while the boys look dazedly at the empty window space. The owner tells them to stay put as he tugs out his cell phone and calls the police.

  Reece walks out of the store and comes next to me, lacing his fingers with my own. A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth as it spreads over my face. The anger boiling blood before completely vanished. “What did you do?” I whisper.

  “They could have killed you.” Reece’s face is as hard as stone. He’s livid. “Now hopefully they’ll never hurt you again.”

  “You broke the glass?”

  He tugs me into him as we leave the damage behind. “I’d break them if I could.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. Reece doesn’t realize that he’s the first one who has stood up for me, who has cared for me in a long time.

  * * *

  We round the corner where the coffee shop resides, and I push through the door. Reece follows as I make my way to the counter. “Just a coffee.” I reach into my bag for a couple dollars, pull out a five, and ask Reece, “Do you want something?”

  “Who are you talking to?” The boy behind the register looks between me and the space next to me. Empty air. His brows furrow.

  No one can see Reece except for me. I shake my head and reply, “Oh. Uh. Just the coffee.” I hand him the money. He eyes me warily as he counts out my change. I snatch it out of his hand, grab the cup at the end of the counter, and sit at a table in the back corner. Reece sits across from me, his eyes pinging over the room.

  My stomach drops and all the blood drains into my toes. How could I be so insensitive? I shove upwards, the chair falling behind me in my rush to leave this place where Reece first came to realize that his life wasn’t what he thought it was; where he met his blood dad for the first and last time.

  Reece holds his hand up, his voice low and rich when he tells me it’s okay.

  After a moment of hesitation, of analyzing his features to know if he’s being honest or just putting on a brave face, I reposition my chair. I offer an apologetic smile to customers who stare at me.

  “I’ll be right back,” I whisper, showing my hands to Reece. He tenses again, but I don’t linger. I push the door open to the bathroom and wash the dirt and blood from my hands, knees, and shins as best as I can, then make my way back out to Reece.

  The rim of the coffee cup is warm as I run my finger over the circle. Steam billows up from the hot liquid. My eyes drift to Reece who glowers at the coffee shop with such contempt that it causes my skin to prickle. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ask, “What would you tell him? Your dad?”

  His eyes dart to mine. “That I hate him. That I wish he’d never showed up. That I wish he was dead instead of me.”

  I shake my head, and ask again, “What would you say to your dad?”

  After a moment of staring at me, he relaxes and exhales the anger once he realizes that I’m not asking about his blood dad. I’m asking about his real dad. The one who had been there for him every day growing up. The one who taught him how to ride a bike and how to drive. The one who went to his sports games and picked him up when he was too drunk or high to get anywhere on his own.

  “There’s just so much,” Reece manages to croak out as he runs his hands through his hair.

  Reaching into my bag, I pull out a small recorder. I usually use it to vent about my mother. I call them voice logs. With quick movements, I place a new tape inside and slide it across the table. Today, it’s for Reece.

  He raises a curious eyebrow at the device before meeting my gaze.

  “Tell him,” I whisper.

  “The living can’t hear me, Jadyn.”

  This time I arch an eyebrow.

  “Except you, but you’re special.” He winks at me. The blush that heats my face is instant, and a smile stretches my lips even as I pucker them to try to control the effect he has on me.

  “In the movies and television shows, it works. We can try it, right?”

  He wants to argue, but also desperately wants this to work. There is hope at the edge of his fingers as they spread towards the device and grip it. Before he can talk himself out of it, Reece stands and leaves the coffee shop behind an older gentleman.

  * * *

  A few hours later, we stand outside a ranch style house. After Reece returned to the coffee shop, we tested the recorder and sure enough, his voice recorded. I didn’t listen to the message. It wasn’t meant for me, but it is meant for someone in this house.

  Reece nods that he’s ready, and I ring the doorbell. We don’t wait long for an older gentleman to come to the door.

  “Mister Winters?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Jadyn Andrews. I’m a friend of Reece’s. Can I come in?”

  His brows furrow with confusion — after all his son died over a year ago — but he opens the door wider, letting me enter. The house is clean and classy, filled with bright colors. It’s nothing like my mother’s place. He gestures for me to sit on the couch while he sits in an elegant yellow floral chair that contrasts his masculine frame.

  I cough, unsure of how to start, but since I’m the one who showed up on his doorstep, the first word is on me. With a deep breath, I begin. “Reece tells me that I have a gift, and I guess I do.” Reece nods for me to continue as his father watches with narrowed, skeptical eyes.

  “I’ve been hanging out with Reece for the last day, and gotten to know him pretty well. He, uh… He left you a message.”

  “My boy has been dead—” but his words stop when he notices the recorder in my hand. He watches me with a furrowed brow for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if I’m a crazy person or not. With delicate fingers, he takes the recorder,
as if holding it any tighter will make what is happening more real. His eyes lift to mine once more before he presses play, and Reece’s voice punctures the silence of the room.

  “Dad? Uh, hi. This isn’t the way I wanted this to go, but it seems, being dead, I don’t get much say in how I reach out to you. But I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, dad.” Reece’s voice trembles, tears evident in the rattle of his words. “I wish I could take it all back. Everything I s-said and d-did. It was stupid. I was stupid. I want to make it up to you, but I - I can’t, dad. I can’t, and I’m so damn sorry for that. Just know that I love you. Sarah and ma, too. Tell them that for me, okay?” Reece sniffles on the recording. “Goodbye, dad. Goodbye.” Reese whispers before the message ends.

  “My boy,” Mr. Winters cries. “My boy,” he folds over clutching tightly to my recorder.

  Reece steps next to his dad and rests a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here, dad.” Tears choke his throat as his words go unheard by his father.

  “He’s here, Mister Winters.” The man looks up at me, still folded over, still crying, but his eyes hold hope and sorrow. “He’s here.”

  Mister Winters nods before handing the recorder back to me. His eyes wander the room, seeking out his son, but he’ll never find him. He’ll never see him the way I do. “I’m sorry, too.” He takes a moment to regain his composure then adds, “I love you, son.”

  We sit in silence as Mister Winters struggles to hold himself together. He slaps his hands against his thighs before standing and asks, “Would you like to see Reece’s room?”

  A smile breaks out over my face as Reece’s expression turns to shock. “I’d love to.” I mischievously grin at Reece. He shakes his head at me, but a smile tugs at his lips.

  “He probably wouldn’t want me to share, but, well, he’s not using it.” I follow Reece’s dad down the hall to a closed door. He opens it and the room is filled, not a single item out of place or thrown away. Losing their son is one thing. Losing every aspect of his life, of who he was, is another. I don’t blame them for hanging on to his things. In fact, I’m giddy that they kept his room just the way Reece left it.