Beast: An Anthology

by Amanda Richardson

  “I used to have a few girls I could call for a good time but none of them seem to want to play nurse these days—at least not when it’s not the kinky kind,” I wink mockingly. “This may come as a surprise but it seems woman aren’t all that interested in fucking a scarred monster.”

  Louis barely flinches. Probably because he’s now used to my cynical, contemptuous remarks.

  “My boys are on rotation this weekend. Still able to work since the roof didn’t cave in on them so they’re out.”

  Not even a blink.

  “And I’d rather burn my entire other side than visit my mother. So, yeah. Those are my weekend plans,” I say, giving him a wide, malicious smile. “What do you say Louis? Want to hang out with a bitter, out of work, twenty-nine year old? I swear,” I raise my right hand, “I’m a hell of a good time.”

  Louis presses his lips together, his first and only reaction. “Sounds like it.”

  I flick my eyebrows twice. I wasn’t lying when I said I used to be a hell of a time. I was. Always lightening the mood at the station, the one with the best jokes. Even on dates—including the horrible ones.

  I. Was. Fun.

  But that’s the key word.

  Was.

  Louis raises his arms, crossing them over his chest. A sure tell he’s got something more to say and I’m going to have to hear it, whether I want to or not. “You’ve really got the self-deprecating thing working. Remarks like that so easily roll off your tongue. Tell me,” he says, “how much longer is the poor me attitude going to stick around?” Looking down at his Apple watch, he pretends to do the math in his head. “It’s been…” he tilts his bald black head to the side once more, “ten weeks, four days and what…three hours now?”

  I narrow my eyes into tiny slits.

  “Sounds like I’ve got a good streak going,” I say, fully aware of how insolent I sound.

  But hey, I’ve earned the right to be an asshole. If there’s one thing the scars have allowed me, it’s that.

  “You refuse to see the bright side,” Louis says, dropping his head in disappointment.

  “Bright side?” I repeat, certain I heard wrong. “There’s a bright side to this?” I point to my neck. “I must have missed it. So please, enlighten me,” my tone deepening, “tell me how my life still has a bright side. Tell me how being forced to leave my job—”

  “It’s a leave of absence,” Louis interjects.

  “Losing all my strength and most of the feeling from my shoulder—”

  “Which you are regaining.”

  “From being the guy girls would cream their panties over to the one they can barely stomach to look at—”

  “Those aren’t the right kind of women for you.”

  “STOP! Jesus fucking Christ, will you just stop!” I say standing, coming face to face with him. “Let me wallow in my self-pity like a grown-ass man.”

  Louis takes a step closer. So close, if he were to move any further our chests would be touching. He may only an inch or two taller than me but, fuck, sometimes it feels like he’s either grown by three feet or I’ve shrunk by that much.

  “I have,” he says sternly. “I’ve given you time. Time to wallow, to be spiteful—angry. I’ve given you longer than I’ve given anyone else.”

  I’m resentful of how he manages to keep his voice so steady—so unwavering when he must be itching to yell, scream, maybe even shove. I wish I had that kind of discipline. But I don’t. Not like he does. He reigns it in, inflicting his influence and authority with small gestures. A tilt of the head or arms crossing over his chest. The feeling of inferiority it inflicts burns through my veins. Inferiority was not a feeling I was used to. I never bowed down to anyone or anything. No man was too big, no blaze was too strong.

  But now…

  My inferiority only infuriates me.

  “Maybe it’s because of how you got here,” he says after some thought. “The why. You’re here because you saved a life. Have saved many lives. Because of you, there are people out in the world who get to live. So I’ve treaded lightly. More than I should have.”

  “Spare me the hero worship bullshit,” I answer back. “The time for that was months ago.”

  “Don’t you know how lucky you are?” he asks. “You of all people know how many people come out of fires worse off than you did. How many lose everything. Everything! Their lives will never be the same. Yours was only altered.”

  “Altered?” I repeat, enraged.

  How dare he minimize how my life has changed?

  What I’ve lost.

  “Fuck you Louis!” I growl. “You have no idea.”

  “No—you have no idea. You forget what I’ve seen. The scars I’ve also had to witness. My client after you,” he nods to the reception area, “is a ten year old boy who has burns covering nearly forty percent of his body. A ten years old and forty percent!” he repeats. “And he’s nowhere near as self-pitying as you. He still smiles and is kind! His life has barely just begun and for the next foreseeable future it will be centered around surgeries and skin grafts instead of baseball and play camp yet he comes in here, week after week, happy.”

  I swallow, embarrassed at how his words affect me. Hearing how a ten year old seems to be handling things better than I am only adds to my current inferiority complex.

  We burn victims, we always get the most sympathy—the special treatment. As we fucking should. But a kid? That’s just God being fucking merciless. No kids should need to deal with this.

  “Not everything is skin deep, Adam,” he says, backing away a few steps. “See you next week.”

  Before I have a chance to reply, he walks out the door of the workout room, dismissing me.

  “Everything is skin deep Louis,” I say no one but myself, the room now empty.

  I gather all my belongings—towel, water bottle, keys, wallet, and head to the locker room. I splash some cold water on my face, scanning the surface of my scarred skin in the mirror, my fingers gently touching the rippled skin. I feel for any openings, hoping to God none of my healing skin has reopened even though Louis already gave it the okay. It’s happened before and it took forever to close back up. Mutilated skin refuses to work with you. Only against. My eyes move upwards, towards my face where by some miracle, most of my scarring is minimal and has barely left a mark. But from the bottom of my left ear and the side of my neck is another story. My shoulder and my side…even more so. I decide to head straight home and shower there instead. I never feel much like sticking around, but today more than any other feels like a day I need to get out of here. And fast.

  As I walk out of the locker room I see Louis giving a high five to a young boy.

  “Gus, my man,” he says with a smile. “Ready to kick some butt?”

  “You can say ass Louis,” the kid—Gus—replies. “I’m almost a teenager.”

  “I thought your teen years were still three years away,” Louis says, smirking.

  “A short three years,” Gus answers.

  Louis bends at the waist, coming eye level with the kid. “But if I do, I’m afraid your mom might kick my—” Louis looks around the room, “ass.”

  I can tell this makes Gus laugh by the shaking of his shoulders. “She only dropped me off today. She’s meeting with my doctor—”

  Their voices fade as they walk away and head to the workout room where I can no longer hear what’s being said. But I can still see them perfectly, him—Gus perfectly. The distance doing nothing to fade away what can no longer be unseen no matter how much I wish it did. Yet, I can’t seem to look away either.

  With his back facing me the entire time, his loose fitting cotton pants and a Spiderman t-shirt leave only his arms exposed…for everyone in the room to see.

  I blink several times. Anger and rage boils inside at what the flames—my nemesis—can do to others. Did do to him.

  Fuck. He’s just a kid.

  A young kid who has his entire childhood ripped from him.

  I zip up
my sweater and pull the hood over my head, covering it. A new habit I’ve adapted—not leaving myself exposed for others to see. I pick up my gym bag, turn and head for the door, not wanting or ready to face another victim here today.

  AN HOUR LATER, I grab a beer out of the fridge, twisting off the cap. I take a long swig, finally feeling relaxed after a shower. My phone chirps, indicating that I have a few text messages waiting for me.

  One is from my mother which I ignore. If she really wanted to talk to me, she’d call. The second is an automated text reminder of my next appointment with Louis. I delete that one with vigor. The last one is from Stix, asking once again if I want to go to a club with him tonight.

  I gotta give it to him, he doesn’t give up.

  Stix is one of few the buddies I have that aren’t from my squad. Friends since high school—when he was too tall and too skinny to be called anything else. That, and because we played Varsity Lacrosse together. But to those who only know him now, he’s Clayton. I’m about to text him back my usual reply when my phone lights up, his name flashing across the screen.

  “Fuck face,” he says before I even answer. “Flaming Lights—tonight. And yes, I see the irony in the club’s name in talking to you.”

  If anyone but Stix opened their mouth and said anything like that to me now, we’d most likely have a problem. But since he doesn’t think twice about saying those kinds of things to me, ours is the only relationship that hasn’t changed since my accident. I feel like the same old me when around him. I’m able to feel…normal.

  But not normal enough to go out to a club.

  “Negative,” I reply, sipping from my bottle.

  “Will you fuck off and just come out already? No one’s going to pay attention to your pussy ass scars when that ugly face is all they’ll see.”

  My lip twitches, a hint of a smile forming but it still doesn’t change my mind.

  “I don’t think so,” I tell him. “Max and I are hanging out tonight.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you got a little action from actual pussy and not just from your cat?” At the mention of Max, I pop my head around the corner of the kitchen and find him sprawled out on the couch, paws up in the air.

  “Your lack of interest is hurting my game. I don’t work as well without a wingman.”

  I think back to some of the crazy nights Stix and I used to have. If my face wasn’t enough to get a girls attention, being a firefighter was. Nothing gets a girl going like the idea of a man throwing her over his shoulder. I used to love the attention women gave me—and they loved the attention I gave them. It’s one of the reasons I never thought about settling down. And why would I? I still had too many to experience, touch, taste.

  But those memories are now soured by the first and only time I went out after the accident. By the stares and pitying looks. That night left me with nothing but a sick feeling in my stomach. I became an exhibit. An ugly display that couldn’t be ignored among a sea of pretty people. The fleeting glances, the pointed fingers. Maybe they thought I wouldn’t notice under the dim lights of the club, but I did. I noticed. I felt the stares, heard the burning questions they all wanted to ask.

  What happened to you?

  Will that heal?

  Is that how you’ll always look now?

  Girls? Forget it.

  I guess I couldn’t blame them. If the dim lights couldn’t hide what I had become, the morning lights definitely weren’t going to do the trick.

  “You don’t need me,” I say, keeping my answer short. Stix and I are close but I draw the line at confessing my feelings and self-confidence issues like a teenage girl. “Call Rob,” I suggest.

  Rob is Stix’s coworker and always too happy to tag along.

  “You’re seriously going to leave me alone with Rob all night? He couldn’t reel in a chick if he was giving away Tiffany gift cards,” he says, his voice pleading.

  “Sorry man. My night is planned.”

  I look around my apartment, to the framed pictures of the old me scattered around to my fighter gear sitting in the corner, untouched for months. None of those things reflective of my life today. My eyes fall to Max who is staring at me as though he’s annoyed I’m invading his space. I glare at him, reminding him this is my apartment and I can be here all I want.

  “You fucking suck, you know that?”

  “I do,” I answer, falling down on the couch. Max hisses.

  “Fuck you,” he says, but finishes our conversation as he always does. “Call you tomorrow asshat.”

  I drop my phone down beside me and grab the remote, channel surfing until something, anything shifts my focus from the reminders found in my apartment of how things used to be. And hopefully keep me too engaged to be reminded of how things are now.

  NEXT WEEK WHEN I get to physio, Gus is sitting by himself in the waiting room. His jacket and small gym bag are on the floor beside him. Today, I get a good look at him and I see everything I missed last week.

  Beyond the obvious burns on his arms and neck, his face is pretty much unharmed except for a patch near his hair line where hair has yet to grow back—if ever. But he has so much of it, dark brown nearing black, wavy nearing curly, it almost camouflages the injured area. But there is no camouflaging the arms. They’ll be marked forever. Just like my neck and shoulder.

  I look around the reception area, empty except for the cleaner spraying and wiping the glass windows. For a moment, I wonder why Gus is here alone—without Louis or his parents. Shouldn’t someone be supervising him? What if he needs to go to the bathroom or something? I take a seat across and away from him and unzip my bag, sorting through my workout clothes and some of the creams I need to apply before my workout begins.

  “Hi,” I hear from across the floor. My eyes shoot up but the rest stays immobile.

  He’s moving chairs one by one before settling on the one directly in front of me. I take another look around the room, wondering if maybe I’ve misheard, maybe he isn’t speaking to me. But the way he’s staring clearly indicates he is speaking to me.

  “Hey,” I answer warily.

  “I’m Gus,” he says, introducing himself.

  I sit up, unsure of what to say or even if I should say anything. Wasn’t this kid taught not to speak to strangers?

  “And your Adam,” he adds.

  My brows furrow a touch. How does this kid know my name?

  “That’s me,” I say, uncomfortableness creeping up my spine. “You here alone?”

  He shakes his head. “My mom’s in there,” he cocks his head towards Louis’ closed office door in the corner.

  I press my lips together and nod once. He continues to stare at me for another long minute, kicking his legs back and forth in his chair. And then he reopens his mouth, ready to talk once more. Only this time, he doesn’t stop.

  “She’s talking to Louis about my workouts. And probably my surgery. She has a ton of questions. Like a thousand. And they aren’t easy questions either. And if you don’t answer her with the truth, she knows. Like this one time, I broke her favorite teacup. Left a big chip in it. I told her it wasn’t me. But she knew I was lying. She said she could see it in my eyes, whatever that means. I wasn’t allowed to watch TV after school for a week. Not for breaking the cup, but for lying. So I hope Louis isn’t lying to her. It’s sucked not being able to watch TV.”

  I’m completely unprepared for the overload of information this kid just unleashed on me. Everything from his mother’s questions to the chipped cup to being unable to watch TV fills my head.

  “Kid,” I begin. “Didn’t your mom teach not to talk to strangers?”

  “You’re not a stranger,” he answers simply. “I see you here all the time.”

  He has? When? I only just noticed him for the first time last week.

  “That still makes me a stranger,” I state.

  Gus stands and moves into the chair next to mine, extending his hand out to me. I stare at it for a minute, slightly impressed
at the balls on this kid, but also because it gives me a chance to see his scars up close. Slowly, tentatively, I reach out and take his hand, a smile instantly bursting on his face.

  “Now we aren’t strangers,” he says, obviously pleased with himself.

  “I guess not.”

  For what feels like the hundredth time, I look around the clinic wondering where everyone is and how much longer I’ll be left alone with this kid.

  “What happened to you?” he asks unapologetically, pointing to my neck.

  I choke out a small laugh, once again surprised at audacity of this kid. Except for Stix and maybe Louis, most people walk on eggshells around me, minding every fucking gesture, watching every fucking word, careful not to unleash the beast behind the scars.

  “You don’t have much of a filter do you?” I ask, a little amazed.

  “I’m not sure,” he pauses to think it over. “Mom does say I should think more before I speak.”

  “Maybe you should listen to your Mom, kid,” I advise.

  A small look of disappointment flashes across his face. “I listen to her all the time. I have no choice. She’s sorta the boss.”

  My eyes fall to where I see him lightly massaging the skin on his forearm with his tiny fingers. I remember the constant itch and stretch of the skin while it tried to heal. I still experience from time to time. Months ago, one of my doctors told me I was fortunate I didn’t have to worry about my skin still growing. Already being a grown man meant it was one less complication we had to worry about.

  We.

  As though he was living through this with me.

  Back then, one less complication meant nothing to me. I was still injured. Still immobile. Still scarred. But watching Gus as he tries to heal while still growing, still to face spurts that will inevitably cause even more discomfort, watching him living through my one less complication…