Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  I gripped the armrest, trying to hide my anxiety. I wasn’t necessarily afraid of flying, but it was my first time. I didn’t know what to expect beyond movies and books. It seemed like we were zooming down the tarmac forever, and then suddenly we took off. I looked out the window just as the plane lifted then quickly looked away with a big exhale.

  I was flying.

  “Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking,” a voice came over the speakers. “I’d like to welcome you onboard. We can expect a fairly smooth flight this evening.” I leaned back to listen to the captain when, “Champagne?” was asked right into my ear.

  I jumped at the very feminine-sounding voice. Clearly unfazed by my outburst, a woman in a tight skirt and too-tight blouse leaned over me, green glass bottle in her hand and smile on her face. Where the fuck had she come from? My own face contorted in an amalgam of indignation and bewilderment, and she held her pose for another minute before pulling the bottle back, smile never wavering.

  Truth be told, I’d never had champagne before. If we’re getting real honest here, I’d never really had much to drink at all. Part of me really wanted to take the champagne, to indulge, and give myself over to the fantasy that the man I’d given myself to was the kind who would open me up to the world. I wanted to believe that he was the kind of man who would bring my pictures to life, not give me bruises.

  But that was just fantasy.

  “You treat your prisoners nicely,” I mused, watching with incredulous awe as she walked to the opposite side of the plane and offered my captor a drink.

  “You’re not a prisoner,” the man said. He took a glass, eyes still trained on his computer. For a brief, fleeting second I had hope. Then he said, “You’re nothing.” And that balloon popped just as quickly as it inflated. I could practically hear the high-pitched squee it was making as it flew around in my mind before landing all rubbery, dead, and deflated.

  “Oh gee, thanks.” I turned to the window, placing a finger on the glass. Night had fallen fast and stealthily. My finger melted the condensation, painting lines in black where I revealed the darkness. “You didn’t let me say goodbye.” I said it as a whisper, meant only to be heard by me. Drawing another line down the window, I separated the condensation with the heat from my finger.

  “Maybe you should have considered that before trading your life,” he replied. I scoffed, removing my hand from the window. “You should know I’m giving you until New York, Frankie,” he said. I flinched at his voice. There was nothing overtly terrible about it, nothing like when Papa yelled after drinking too much. It was something hidden in the calmness, like a monster beneath still waters, that disturbed me. “As a courtesy.”

  My eyes darted briefly to his. “What the fuck does that mean?” He ceased his typing, fingers curling up into a clench. I rolled my lips, making them tight against my face as if I could shut myself up, but I knew it was a lost cause. Since getting sick, I’d developed a defense mechanism: sarcasm. I couldn’t control the needles and the frequent hospital visits. I couldn’t control the fact that I had no friends and had to spend all day every day in my room feeling like death, but I could control my perspective. So my perspective became a skewed, acerbic, dripping and dark thing. I became the type of person who would crack jokes at a funeral.

  It really helped me make friends.

  “I don’t know if you understand the magnitude of what you’ve done,” he said. Slowly his fingers uncurled and he continued typing. “But you will soon, so take this moment to mourn your previous life, because when we arrive, Frankie Notte is dead. You traded your life, and soon I will take what is left.”

  “Francesca,” I mumbled, folding my arms. Shut up, idiot. For the love of God, stop goading him.

  “I didn’t catch that.” He took a sip of champagne, eyes not straying from whatever work was so important on his computer. Bitterly, I wondered what kind of mafia guy has so much work on a computer. Wasn’t it all kneecap breaking and little black books?

  “Francesca,” I repeated, raising my voice. Oh God, I thought. I’m going to die. If I wasn’t before, I certainly was now. He looked over, catching my stare for the first time since we’d taken off. I tried to keep my cool, tried to match his harsh gaze. I swallowed, feeling like his stare was putting physical pressure on me. That thing in my belly happened, that tingly thing. I clenched my thighs. It was uncomfortable but a part of me…

  Craved it.

  I quickly added, “Only…” I swallowed. “Only my friends call me Frankie.” Really, I hadn’t had many friends since the one that left in high school. It was hard to make them, being sick and with Papa…well, Papa was a full-time job. After high school, I’d hoped a few guys wanted to be friends, but it turned out they only wanted sex.

  Probably just wanted to fuck the weird girl.

  Technically my mother was the one who called me Frankie, and the nickname had stuck. One of the few times Papa talked about her, he said she thought I had too much spunk to be called Francesca.

  He clenched his jaw. “Listen to me, Frankie.”

  “Francesca,” I repeated. I could practically hear my inner voice sighing in defeat. People might think I was insane, talking to a man like him that way. The thing is, right then you would be witnessing the swan song of my old self before I tumbled down into the darkness.

  “Frankie,” he said pointedly. He rolled my name over his tongue as if he were licking it. I shivered and folded my arms. Shutting his laptop, he continued, “When this plane lands, everything you were vanishes. Your emotions disappear. Your name becomes nothing more than a sound passing from my lips. You become nothing.”

  My breath hitched in my throat. “I should just jump out of the plane then…”

  “You could, but if you die before I’m done with you, I will kill your father.” He sipped his drink casually. “Also, we’re nearly done with our descent, so you’d probably just break an ankle.”

  “Well, what can I call you then?” I asked, sarcasm bitter on my tongue. “Prince of everything?” King Asshat, maybe.

  “You can call me Beast.”

  I scoffed. “That’s not a name.”

  “You asked what to call me, not my name.” He looked away, signaling he was done talking with me—which was good, because instantly my eyes rolled back in their sockets at his response. I had this feeling in my gut, not the tingling I refused to acknowledge, but a bitter, dreadful feeling. It curled in my organs and I knew it was an omen. I wasn’t going to survive if I continued to roll my eyes and snipe. The more I expressed contempt, the tighter I tied my noose.

  But how do you just turn off? How do you just stop being who you are? Rationally I knew that a man like him, who bled menace and called himself Beast, would not respond kindly to sarcasm. Sarcasm was how I’d survived the world thus far, though. It was how I responded to threats.

  And he was threat number one.

  With a sigh, I looked out the plane window. We were almost on the ground. I could see the airport getting closer and closer. When the plane landed, it was still snowing outside. I usually lived for nights like these; the bright white snow against the chilly moonlit sky mesmerized me. Now it just made me sad, because the Beast’s words echoed inside me. What would happen to the nights when I became nothing? Would they still dazzle me?

  I briefly registered the sound of the captain, the stewardess, and the Beast. Sounds of turning off, turning on, and urgency, but I was stuck for a moment in my funeral, staring outside at the snow.

  “Are you dumb?” The Beast grabbed me by my collar, forcing me away from the window. “I didn’t trade that debt to get a lame horse.” He looked into my eyes as if searching for the answer.

  I pushed him off. “I’m not dumb, asshole. Quiet doesn’t mean stupid.” I had about a half second to regret calling him an asshole before he pulled me up by the collar and ripped me out of the seat.

  “It isn’t your tacit nature that concerns me. Come now.”

  I followed, n
early tripping down the slippery steps wet with snow. When I reached the bottom, I sucked in my breath and prepared, closing my eyes for a moment.

  I just couldn’t face my death.

  I hadn’t even thought of it before that day—not seriously. It was always so faraway, a concept I couldn’t even start to comprehend. With my eyes pressed shut and the snow dusting my hair, I waited. And waited. And waited. Then I opened one eye. No one was around me.

  The Beast was a few feet away waiting by a black car, annoyance tingeing his apathetic face. Slowly I walked toward him, as if the tarmac was laced with mines and I was going to step on one, blow up, and the angels would greet me with, “Ha! Got you! You thought you were going to live—classic!”

  When I finally reached the town car—sans landmine death—I looked from Beast to the car then back to the Beast. “I thought I was dead at the end of the flight?” I asked, confused. It wasn’t that I wanted to die, but I wanted to know if we were heading to my execution. How much longer did I have to live in limbo? A slight sound was heard from him—was that a growl?—and then he pushed me inside. I bumped my head on the way in.

  “Ow, shit.” I rubbed my skull. The pain meant I wasn’t dead, at least. My hurt was soon forgotten as a scream sounded. It was a voice of complete hopelessness, of the kind of fear and begging that immediately puts a chill in your spine. It was the kind of emotion an actor could only hope to portray a tenth of in a movie. It was also a voice I recognized—the stewardess.

  “Wait, wait!” she begged. I snapped my head back to the tarmac to see the stewardess, smile broken, tears streaming down her eyes. She was running straight toward the car. The pilot came out of the plane and started after her. Beast was acting as if he couldn’t see or hear her. He settled back into his seat and pulled out his phone.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll serve you champagne first next time!” she screamed. “Please, Boss, I won’t do it again. I’m so sorry—” Navy blue arms wrapped around her body and she was dragged backward, arms reaching out. Her heels scraped lines into the snow just as my door was slammed shut. I put my palm to the window as the car pulled out of the airport.

  Had I just witnessed a woman’s last words? Over what? The fact that she’d served me champagne first? Slowly I brought my palm to my lap. If he could kill someone over that, what was in store for me? I focused on him, hoping his expression would shed some light, but that was a miserable failure. Nothing about his demeanor said he’d just ordered someone’s death. He looked at his phone with the same bored expression.

  I sat back, feeling hollow. Sick. Her cries were imprinted on my eardrums. I could see her tears in my mind’s eye, a ghost stuck on a loop, the look of abject fear as she tried to run after us but was pulled away. I turned my gaze away, focusing on the outside. Everywhere my eyes traveled, stores were decorated in brightly colored lights, twinkling like stars. I could almost forget the reason I was there.

  Until the car came to a stop.

  “You’re really not going to kill me?” I asked, surveying the room.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Not exactly reassuring, but at least I wasn’t dead.

  Later I would learn I should have wished for death.

  Arms folded, he pressed the foot behind him against a creamy white wall, watching me take in the room. He wasn’t glaring, but he wasn’t smiling either, his expression somehow doing both, all at once menacing and cocksure. He was beyond handsome, a dangerous beauty. If I’d seen him on the streets, I would have been too chickenshit to look at him, instead praying he’d look at me. Now I prayed he would look away, his intense, soul-sucking stare too much as I inspected my jail.

  Jail—right.

  The room had floor-to-ceiling windows and opened onto a balcony. A freaking balcony. The walls were white with clean lines and gorgeous molding, the windows all French. There was a plush king-sized bed that practically begged me to snuggle in it. I’d briefly swallowed in the house while walking inside and this room was very different, decidedly warm and feminine. It was my dream bedroom, honestly, complete with flowers and chic vintage decor.

  I looked back to Beast, waiting for him to drop the other shoe.

  I’d gone from sleeping in a closet-turned-bedroom in New Jersey like Harry freaking Potter, living with a father who legitimately thought spraying air freshener on a pile of trash solved the problem, and what I assumed to be certain death, to this, a Tribeca penthouse with a psychopath.

  I had no comment.

  He smiled a crooked, cruel smile that made me want to hide in the closet with a baseball bat and said, “I have other plans for you, Frankie.” When he said my name my heart pounded and that thing in my tummy twisted and ached. I’d never yearned to hear something while simultaneously hating it than when Beast said my name.

  He left moments later, saying nothing else. I stared at the door he’d just closed, wondering if I should feel relief. Was I going to be able to spend the night Beast-free? It seemed like a possibility, but minutes later there was a knock at the door. I waited, breath stuck in my body, for the Beast to reappear. Instead, a head of graying blond hair peeked through. When the full body appeared, I knew immediately who it was.

  I mean, I didn’t know, but I knew what type of person it was: a doctor. When you’re sick for the better part of your life, you just pick up on the aura of a doctor. He had that smile, that doctor-ly smile that attempted to be disarming but instead came off patronizing.

  I just had no idea why Beast would send a doctor to me.

  Did he know I used to be sick? Was he worried I was damaged goods?

  “Hello, Frankie,” the doctor said, that smile on his face. “I’m Doctor Wyatt.” Fucking bingo. I wasn’t surprised he knew my name even though I didn’t know him. I waited for him to tell me his business; when he didn’t, I gave him a begrudging hello. “May I sit on the bed?” he asked, gesturing to the plush king.

  Still standing, I shifted. “Go for it.” He opened up his briefcase and I saw what appeared to be a fancier version of a hospital johnny. My stomach dropped but then I steeled myself. You don’t get poked and prodded for years without numbing yourself to it. I tugged at the collar of my t-shirt.

  “Will you tell me a bit about yourself, Frankie?” he asked.

  Eyeing the folded fabric in his briefcase, I said, “Not much to tell.”

  “I don’t believe that,” he responded, voice saccharine. “You’re young. You’re very beautiful.” I shrugged, still staring at the johnny. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for talking. Dr. Wyatt followed my line of sight, and then with a slight wrinkle of his brow, closed the briefcase. I blinked, looking back at him.

  “How old are you?” he asked. Dr. Wyatt was how I imagined a stereotypical polo player would age. He had the classic all-American features, just wrinkled and fattened a bit. He was handsome enough, and he hadn’t done anything that made me not trust him—besides his obvious connection to the Beast. He sensed my discomfort about the johnny, but I couldn’t help but think that was less to do with my feelings and more to do with the fact that I wasn’t talking. His smile was also too sweet, like the witch in Hansel and Gretel.

  I was sure I was being lured into something, but what I didn’t know. I shook the thought and reluctantly said, “Twenty.” I rubbed my arm, despite the warmth in the room.

  “Can you tell me how many sexual partners you’ve had?” The question seemed innocuous, but goose bumps broke out along my skin the minute he asked it. Still, his smile was unwavering, making me feel like I was the weird one for not wanting to give such intimate information to a complete stranger.

  “I…” I trailed off. His smile felt slimy against my skin. I didn’t tell anyone that kind of thing. The most a doctor had ever asked was if I was active and I could easily, hurriedly say no. “I don’t see why you need to know that,” I eventually said.

  He shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me.” It didn’t sound like reassurance, but a threat. The implication was clear: I might not
tell him, but he was going to find out some way or another. There was a sharpness in his eyes that reminded me of the edge of a blade.

  “Um…” I rubbed my arm again. “I haven’t had any.” There was a pause, a long stagnant thing wherein the weight of his stare was like tiny needles on my skin. Maybe he thought I was lying. I wished I was lying, wished there were memories of boys in my past that I could transport myself to right then, but there weren’t any. I’d never been loved. I’d only been kissed one time, in junior high, right before I got sick. It was unskilled and quick.

  “Would you mind if I validated your claims?” he asked. His tone was still so sweet and syrupy. I hated it. I saw beyond the sugar to the diabetes.

  “My claims?” I asked. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes,” he responded.

  “How will you validate that?” My voice sounded small, so unlike me.

  He stood up, smiling. “I see you’re uncomfortable with the johnny. Remove your pants and get under the blanket and I’ll just do a quick virginity test.” This was the moment when I should have screamed, because this was the exact moment of no return, when everything got real.

  But instead of screaming, I said, “You can’t check for that. That’s not something you can check.” My voice became hurried and quick. What kind of doctor are you? I wanted to add. “There’s no such thing as a virginity test,” I continued as if I might save myself by pointing that out to him. There was a split-second flash across his face, brutal and violent like lightning hitting a tree. I nearly gasped. His smile vanished and that sweetness he’d been radiating turned sour and rotten.

  “Perhaps not,” he said, smile returning. “But it’s the best we’ve got—the best you’ve got.” My eyes widened. What did he mean by that? I shifted, my sneakers making indentations on the fancy rug. It was some kind of white fur-looking thing and my shoes were getting it all dirty.

  I looked back up. Dr. Wyatt was still looking at me, sickly sweet smile plastered on his face.

  I knew I didn’t have a choice.