How to Love a Monster

by Lyssa Dering

  I clear my throat, trying to tamp down the emotion putting pressure under my tongue. Wish never really treated me like a dog; he just didn’t give me what I wanted.

  “Do you know where Wish is? Whether they captured him, or…” I imagine him outside on a brisk morning, sticking out his arms willingly for the goons’ cuffs, a serene smile on his face. It’s in-character for Wish, it is, but it makes me ill.

  Fiend shakes his head, frowning. “Sorry. I wish I could tell you more.”

  Behind the mannequin stand cubby holes with worn jeans in them and a rack with more shirts. I come closer, fingering one of the sleeves. This shirt is identical to the first shirt. In fact, all of them are the same. The entirety of this closet is Wish’s favorite outfit, over and over again.

  My heart beats frantically, and I stumble backward.

  Fiend grabs my hand. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize this would upset you.”

  I let Fiend pull me away from the row of repeating shirts. He flicks off the light, tugs me into the bedroom, and closes the closet door behind us.

  I take my fingers from Fiend’s grasp. They are pale and shaky. “Is—Isn’t the food here yet? It’s been a while.” Probably my blood sugar is low. I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing at the goose pimples that have sprouted on my upper arms. I suddenly long for a shirt—one that doesn’t look anything like the ones Wish used to wear.

  Fiend gets out his phone, looking at the screen. He leads me out of the master bedroom at a slow, distracted pace, and I look longingly back at the bed, part of me wishing to hide under that fur blanket and wallow in my memories. Maybe Fiend would let me, but the rational side of my brain prevents me from bringing it up.

  The past is the past, and it’s all bullshit.

  Walking back into the main part of the house makes me feel lighter, even with the oppressiveness of the windowless walls and the fact that it’s still my prison. It’s like the outright fantastical elements of the house are in the recesses, hiding like serpents in the dark.

  Fiend says, “There was one more thing I wanted to show you, but…maybe not yet.”

  “What?” I ask.

  Fiend doesn’t answer. He sits down on the big brown couch that looks eerily similar to the couch Wish had in the hideout, except not with stuffing coming out of jagged tears and missing buttons on the back cushions.

  “What did you want to show me?” I ask, hovering near the couch’s arm.

  Fiend fidgets with his phone, turning it over and over in his hands. “A closet with more of Wish’s things. Um…sexual supplies.”

  My brows shoot up. “Really?”

  Fiend nods. Then he looks up at me from the tops of his lashless eyes, his shoulders sagged, color dusting his cheeks. It’s a bedroom look if I ever saw one, and it stirs something in me beneath the pervasive off feeling under my skin—despite the fact that I’m not usually into guys rolling over for me.

  I pick at the skin around one of my nails. “Stuff he’s used?”

  “No. Maybe.” Fiend scrunches up his face. “What’s in there is simply in there. Like all the rooms.”

  A torrent of memories swims in my head. I growl, holding my temples. I don’t want to remember! Not Wish and the people he took behind his curtain, and how he acted like sex with him was some kind of gift. “I’m the oldest and the most experienced. I just want to help you feel something you might not get to after they capture you.” It was the one thing I didn’t admire about him, even if I let him take me, too. I didn’t want to lose my virginity to a stranger. Then I had sex with all kinds of guys, but never with anyone in the hideout. It wasn’t worth it to make someone feel awkward around me, or worse, make them feel what I felt for Wish.

  I don’t love him anymore. But then, I’ve been saying that to myself for years.

  Feeling bitter, I sit down next to Fiend on the couch. He’s staring at me warily like I’m about to explode. Instead, I deflate, leaning against his side. If he’s going to make me think about this shit, he can cuddle me.

  “What kind of supplies are in there?” I ask.

  Fiend laughs airily. “I’m…unfamiliar with the categories.”

  “Do you think the items will upset me?”

  Fiend turns his head, meeting my eyes. I see stress there, but…affection, maybe.

  “Perhaps,” he says. “Probably. Not all of them.”

  I glance at Fiend’s mouth. His lips are thin but well-shaped. Pretty. I’d rather look at him than what’s in any of this house’s rooms, none of which so far have an obvious escape hatch. There’s the front door a few feet away, with way more deadbolts than I’ve ever seen on one door, but if there is another way out, it’s probably hidden. I’ll have to find it exploring on my own.

  Will Fiend have someone watch me in his absence? If not, are there cameras here? I haven’t seen any lurking in corners, but even on Earth, cameras could be obscured inside teddy bears and plants.

  I trail a finger down Fiend’s upper arm. His skin is completely smooth—no hair follicles or freckles—which means he probably can’t get goose bumps. But my touch makes him shiver.

  I smirk. “So that wasn’t just a one-night thing?”

  “Um.” He clears his throat. “What wasn’t?”

  I lean into him, laughing near his ear. “Me and you. I’ll be disappointed if you forgot.”

  He stiffens. “Of course I didn’t—”

  I set my hand on his thigh. “But I can remind you.”

  Fiend’s boner stretches the front of his sleep pants. I didn’t mean to get him raring to go, but it sends my heart pumping to watch him turn red and fumble with his cell phone. I catch a glimpse of white text on a black background.

  “Your food is less than five minutes away,” he says. “We don’t have time.” It’s hard to believe the nervous guy in front of me is the same one who choked me so hard last night.

  “That’s a shame.” I slide my fingers slowly and carefully across the pulled-taut fabric next to his dick. “I mean I am pretty hungry, but maybe your cum down my throat would soothe the ache.”

  Fiend rounds on me, settling his hand on my bare stomach, his eyes wide and gaze piercing. “Are you really hurting?”

  The reaction catches me so off guard that I can only blink.

  “I wish you would have a little blue juice!” says Fiend, face crumpled in distress. “There is nothing worse than being hungry.” He wiggles his fingers against my stomach in an erratic, staccato beat. “I don’t want you to hurt, my darling.”

  There are far worse things than being a little hungry, in my opinion. I’m used to it. Food was scarce in the hideout, and though they didn’t starve me in the facility, they only fed me enough to keep me alive, and sometimes even then, it was via feeding tube. Fiend’s concern is…touching, though.

  A glance at his groin tells me his boner has gone down. I should have known hunger would be a turn-off for him with all his weirdness about taste.

  I put my hand on top of his. “I’m fine. I don’t need any juice.” I smile. “I promise.”

  Fiend touches my neck. “But I can put these marks back when I get home if that’s really what’s stopping you.” He says it so earnestly; it’s obvious he’s not trying to be sexy. And yet the words are like steam against the back of my neck. I’d let him choke me every day if he wanted. I’d let him fuck me every day.

  I flick my gaze up to his, trying to look submissive and cute like he did earlier. “Do you have to leave?”

  Fiend’s cheeks pink up, and he looks away, scoffing. I can’t help but grin at his reaction.

  “Yes,” he says. “I have business to attend to.”

  “Yeah?” I stroke a hand down his chest. “What kind of business?”

  He squints slightly. Is he trying to decide what to tell me? Will he lie? “I oversee Love production for the whole city,” he says at last.

  Love. Right. That drug Fiend had his goons shoot me up with. I have to admit, that’s a little at odds with what he sa
id just now: “I don’t want you to hurt.”

  I’ve been so distracted I almost forgot Fiend has goons. Every time he says “soldiers” he might as well be talking about the men who grabbed Thisbe and me off the street. All hired hands are the same, after all. Doing whatever their bosses say for fear of ending up homeless, consoling themselves with their paychecks, turning the other cheek whenever they witness their employer doing something wrong.

  I purse my lips but don’t stop touching him. “Oversee?”

  “Yes. Everyone reports to me.” Fiend’s brow furrows. “Are you upset with me?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. I just don’t like having men sicced on me. And I’m not a huge fan of having drugs forced into my system, either.”

  “You were the only one,” Fiend mutters. “I haven’t done that to anyone else.”

  I raise my brows. Is that really how he wants to defend his actions? “Well, I haven’t forgiven you for that, even if I let you fuck me. Just so we’re clear.”

  Fiend clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and stands abruptly, the line of his back going rigid. “That was a one-time thing. But you chose to go into the Love house on your own in the first place, so you can’t put all the blame on me.”

  Indignation swells in my chest. “I chose?” Slumping against the arm of the couch, I cross my arms moodily. “Sure. Right. But only because I had no other option. I was freezing, I had no idea where I was, and that ‘house’ was the only place that looked the least bit inhabited in that gross back alley.” I’m struck with the desire that Wish was here to help. It’s a familiar feeling, but I thought I’d broken myself of it in the cold rooms of that government facility.

  I shake my head.

  Wish will be here eventually. I won’t consciously ask for his death just to bring him to Wish City sooner. Though if he’s suffering…

  “Seraphim…” Fiend sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry for dosing you. Alright? Please don’t be angry with me. I only wanted…” He hisses and turns away from me.

  “Wanted what?” I ask, exasperated.

  Fiend gestures erratically with one hand like he’s having trouble coming up with the words. “The illusion of…your desire for me.” He looks at me coyly, but there’s trepidation in his eyes. “I am not…” He hisses again, showing his teeth. “I am not kind! I do not look all the way human. And you are beautiful with your green eyes and symmetrical face. You are special with your special brain. I knew we shared a desire for men, and I wanted you to need me that way for a little while, even if you ended up spurning me later.”

  I can only stare at him for a few beats while my heart lifts at his compliments and my head spins trying to make sense of the rest. Should I be pissed off? Did he drug me to have his way with me? I mean, he didn’t. We only fooled around a little, I’m pretty sure. But I have to ask.

  “You weren’t planning to fuck me while I was high, were you?”

  Fiend gives me a wide-eyed glare. “No!” He presses a hand to his chest in what may or may not be faux innocence. “You would have disappeared into the high. I wouldn’t have mattered at all!”

  Again, his defense is selfish, utterly flawed, but it feels genuine. I scratch at a phantom itch in the crook of my elbow as I sift through the memories. Hard floor, stomach pain, Fiend’s tongue. Fiend telling me about a “specials’ heaven” and scooping me up into a bridal hold. Everything from the bathtub on was so good except for the part where he disappeared into the darkness, and I couldn’t find him or get out of the bedroom on my own.

  I chew on my bottom lip. Another thing Fiend said bothers me: apparently, he likes me for my “special brain.” In other words, the brain I don’t have anymore. He seems to like me for my looks, too, and I’ve still got those, but my brain is worse than a normal brain now. Defective. No longer special. Good enough for nothing but a headache and a nosebleed.

  I should try and get him to set me free before he finds out. I should stop arguing with him if it’s not about letting me go.

  A knock sounds. I look toward the door with its many deadbolts.

  “That’s your food,” says Fiend, and claps. He twists every deadbolt, which takes at least twenty seconds, before swinging open the door. Sunlight streams in.

  I get up mainly out of curiosity. The sounds of rustling plastic and heavy foot-falls fill the living room as a man dressed in all black comes inside carrying a bunch of grocery sacks. I peer behind him, trying to get a glimpse of the outside during full daylight, but Fiend closes the door before I can get a good look.

  “I hope it’s okay, boss,” says the man, who has dark brown skin and a fade. “I wasn’t sure what all to get him. I don’t do the shopping in my house.” He’s big and muscular, and it looks like he’s carrying about ten sacks in each hand. The sacks are white and don’t have any grocery store logo on them.

  “That’s okay, Mercer,” says Fiend. “Just take it all into the kitchen, please.”

  Mercer’s eyes fix on me for a moment as he passes by the couch, but I can’t read any emotion in his expression. I cross my arms and follow him and Fiend into the kitchen.

  Mercer drops the bags on the floor. When a jar of pasta sauce rolls out of the mouth of one, my stomach clenches with hunger.

  I pick up the jar. Its label simply reads “TOMATO SAUCE” in black block letters on a white background. No brand name or anything. I guess Wish City wouldn’t have corporations.

  “Can I help unpack the food?” I ask.

  Both Mercer and Fiend look my way.

  Fiend smiles. “Of course, Seraphim. Mercer will keep an eye on you while I get dressed.”

  I don’t have the energy to be mad about being babysat. My hunger takes priority. I dig through the nearest couple bags, looking for something I can shove into my mouth immediately. Eventually, I locate a box that reads “FRUIT AND GRAIN BARS–STRAWBERRY.” I rip open the stark white cardboard and retrieve one of the foil-wrapped bars. It’s weird not to see nutrition facts on the back of each one or even an ingredient list. The again, I haven’t shopped at a real grocery store since I was eighteen and still living with my parents.

  I tear open the foil and bite into the bar, and it tastes just like I’d imagine it would except ten times more amazing. Hunger will do that, I guess. I actually moan as the fruit filling coats my tongue.

  Mercer laughs. “Guess strawberry was the right choice, huh?”

  “Mhm,” I say with my mouth full.

  Mercer and I store the groceries on the counters and in the crevices of the refrigerator not already filled with juice boxes. There’s canned soup, eggs, butter, bread, and pasta, among other things. There’s even a couple of steaks I set out to cook immediately. In the heaviest bag, there’s a set of skillets, a saucepan, and a spatula because apparently Fiend didn’t have any of those things already.

  I grab the last remaining bag and reach inside it. It’s only got one box. It’s made of thin white cardboard like all the others, but some kind of liquid has seeped into the sides. I frown.

  Turning the box over, I spot the label: “WARNED BEE IF.” I stare at it for a couple of seconds, trying to make sense out of it, but then my blood turns to ice. I glance toward the refrigerator, where Mercer’s carefully sliding a bag of tiny carrots above a stack of juice boxes.

  I walk around the refrigerator, the box in my hands dripping red and watery liquid. I need to see the door, to make sure I’m remembering correctly what’s on it. Sure enough, the magnetic letters still spell “FEARED BIN WE.”

  “FEARED BIN WE.” “WARNED BEE IF.” Both are spelled with the same letters.

  Mercer closes the refrigerator. “Hey.” He points at the dripping box. “I don’t think I bought whatever that is.”

  I’ve got an inkling I’m not going to like what’s inside this box. But I have to know. My intuition is telling me this is a puzzle I’m meant to solve, and I have to do it before Mercer—or Fiend—tries to stop me.

  I pick open the b
ox’s top flap. I bend back the cardboard. Inside is the unmistakable ridged, fatty surface of a human brain. The red, watery liquid covering it has to be blood.

  This is real! Fuck, this looks real, and if it is, it had to have come out of a body pretty recently. Otherwise, it’d smell different. Of rot, or—or formaldehyde.

  I’m screaming. I don’t even know how long I’ve been screaming. I drop the box, sending the brain inside jiggling and the thin water-blood mixture leaking and smearing onto the white linoleum.

  Fiend

  I’m soaping up my toes in the batch when I hear the scream. My body goes hot and cold with worry. Seraphim! He must be hurt!

  I’m still half-soapy and soaking wet when I wrap the towel around my waist and head for the kitchen, leaving dark footprints on the carpet behind me. I stop short in the living room. Seraphim is on the couch, rubbing circles against his temples, looking pale.

  I advance on him, grabbing his face. He tries to wiggle out of my grasp, but I won’t have it. He’s bleeding! There’s an unmistakable red smear under his nose, though it looks like the bleeding has stopped. I examine a nostril, and Seraphim bats me away.

  Fury blazes inside me, but it is not directed at my specimen. “Mercer!” I face the kitchen with my hands in fists.

  Mercer’s got his back to me, doing something in the kitchen sink. “Boss, I—”

  “What happened?” I look from Seraphim to Mercer and back to Seraphim, who’s bouncing his knee up and down. A soft, plastic clicking accompanies the bouncing, and it looks like there’s something jagged in the pocket of his sweatpants. I can’t imagine what it might be…

  “Boss, you’d better come in here,” says Mercer.

  “Seraphim.” When Seraphim ignores me, I grip his chin and make him look at me. “Are you in pain? Are you hurt?”