The Beast In Me (The Beast And Me Book 2)

by D. S. Wrights

  But after all, it’s your diary we’re talking about. This is much more a piece of you than a shirt, you haven’t bought for yourself. I know, you didn’t get that diary on your own either, but I think you understand what I mean.

  Those are your lines, your thoughts, your memories. It’s even more precious than a picture of you. So giving it back, it is like giving a part of you away.

  And the more reluctance I show, the better I guess.

  At least I think White had his own thoughts about it.

  “Dr. Severin”, I spoke first, and I guess he could hear my puzzlement about the change of schedule.

  Maybe he was aware of the fact that I knew that he usually wouldn’t dare to get that close to me without hard metal separating us. But there he was, standing tall and smugly, even though he still had to look up a bit, and with his hands behind his back, as if I was everything else but a monster.

  And it had been him calling me that, several times.

  I hadn’t realized how long the pause between my words and his response was until I heard him speak.

  “Lieutenant Flynn”, he returned with a slight nod and a smirk playing ‘hide and seek’ at the corners of his mouth, because he knew how I would react to that.

  Ever since I had come here, ever since I had woken up here, being alive and furious, everyone had called me ‘Ten’. Only Peter had used it as some kind of mockery.

  He tensed, hearing his worshipped brother calling me by my rank and family name, sounding pretty serious.

  “Let’s walk together to your next appointment, shall we?” Dr. Severin added and it was me, who gave a brief nod now.

  It was rather instinct that I turned around and walked back to my mattress, so I could get your diary.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have done that – not obeying him instantly when he all of a sudden recognized my humanity – however, I had a task of my own and I intended to comply with it before I chickened out.

  I earned a cocked brow in return, but I didn’t react to it, and I think, with every action of mine from that point on, he noticed that something inside me had changed.

  Maybe it had happened before that, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  I usually am the last one to catch up with myself. My Mom knew I would enlist even before I did.

  So probably, I had already been getting my shit together before I wrote down that I wanted to do so.

  At least my Mom wouldn’t be surprised.

  However, White kept looking at your diary the moment we started walking down the corridor.

  Needless to say that I would have found the way blindfolded. I was even able to ignore Peter following us without being irritated by him.

  All of this was more or less normal, apart from the fact that our tormentor was walking beside me, that I had the chance at that very moment, to rip out his throat.

  But what would it change? What would it help us?

  Apart from knowing that it wouldn’t have been satisfactory, at all, because this man deserved to suffer much, much more, in the end they probably would kill me and you.

  So I settled for the next best thing: thinking about it, imagining movement by movement, how my claws would tear through the thin skin of his neck, sever the sinews and slash arteries. I mused about how the blood would dance through the air, how far it would go, and how those naked walls would look being spattered with it: a fresh, red color.

  Probably, I would be forced to kill Peter, if he was dumb enough to try to kill me. You know, I wouldn’t mind, not after what he has done, and tried to do.

  However, strong the urge was, I didn’t give in to it, and somehow I managed to not let it show either, because White stayed calm and overbearing like he always did.

  But with him not stopping to look at your diary in curiosity, I knew that keeping silent about the elephant in the room sooner or later would make him suspicious about my intentions, about my behavior of the last weeks and everything. I didn’t want to jeopardize whatever I had gained, whether it was trust, or he believing that I was about to become the loyal dog soldier he was hoping for.

  “I wanted to return this”, I eventually said and White stopped walking, forcing me to do the same, much like Peter, whose confusion I could sense from the distance. “It’s not mine to read, Sir.”

  Addressing him like that was easier than I had expected. Maybe acting as if I was ‘turned’, or ‘tamed’ or whatever he would call it, won’t be as hard for me as I have feared.

  And now that I think about it, I had superiors I didn’t like and they never really seemed to act like they knew about it.

  Maybe I could just pretend the same with him. Or maybe, I’ll just do what I’m told in order to make your life more bearable, to get you out of here.

  White gave me a long, mustering glance, as if he was waging the possibilities, or his own words, something, at least that I knew for sure. After that uncomfortable moment he held out his hand and I placed your diary in it without hesitation.

  “You haven’t read it?” he inquired.

  “Only what you have told me to read, Sir”, I assured and my own voice sounded strange to me because it was awfully familiar: it belonged to the soldier I had once been.

  His answer was to take your diary out of my hand and I was instantly filled with regret, loss, and worry.

  Before I knew what I was doing I looked back at Peter while wondering if White was going to give it to him, if he had had it during the days I hadn’t.

  “He’s not going to get it”, White read my mind.

  I would have expected him to speak more lowly, or not look at his half-brother while saying that.

  But I was wrong, like I have been so often when it came to this man.

  The way Peter’s expression changed, it was obvious that he had heard it. Yet the words weren’t as bad as the complete depreciation.

  I wonder if White is aware of his brother’s feelings or if he’s just oblivious.

  But maybe he’s not capable of feeling anything himself.

  It would make sense, wouldn’t it?

  He knows the theory how humans react under specific circumstances, but is he really able to sympathize?

  I doubt that he can even fathom the emotion of remorse. He’s the real monster here, naturally ‘gifted’ with the lack of human emotion.

  When I think of the look on Peter’s face, he still can’t believe that his big brother will not change. There is something in his expression that mirrors in his behavior.

  I am not good at these things, but I know that you are. Even though you have the capability of being so rational, it’s like you are able to sense what people around you feel. It seems to be your instinct, a rare talent, something that White had to study hard for, I guess, not being able to feel them himself.

  I don’t know how you do it, but I’m not sure that you are right about Peter, when he's concerned.

  I don’t want to go there.

  I don’t want to remember his stench on you again.

  Maybe it was because you didn’t know him as well as I do. Maybe your instinct was right about him, but you wanted to be wrong about him so bad, you wanted to believe him, because who wouldn’t want to have someone normal, caring, and sympathetic in a hellhole like this?

  But Peter is so consumed by the need of gaining his brother’s approval, his acceptance, his love, that he is completely blind to the fact that even if White would be able to feel those things, he still probably wouldn’t give it to him. White treats Peter with less respect than me now.

  I am not even sure if Peter is even capable of feeling anything more than the need to be accepted, to belong somewhere.

  I don’t want to make you believe that what I think is the truth, but I can imagine that when he saw that you were capable of accepting me, he thought that you would definitely accept him as well.

  However, I had no response to White openly stating that even though he had violated your diary and given it to me; he would completely ignore
his own brother’s affection.

  I am sure, that Peter is capable of hating someone with the fury of a mortified teenager. And as always I was the object of his rage of negative emotions, while – I believe – you are of the positive ones.

  At least I hope so.

  But I doubt that Peter has the guts to ever openly give in to his emotions.

  I thought that was my problem, but the Beast fixed that for me. I realized that giving in, allowing myself to feel certain things, imagining them coming true, actually does help, it seems to weaken the Beast’s desire to break out.

  I wonder if that’s Peter’s method.

  Yet once more, I’m about to lose the thread.

  Since I didn’t respond, White started walking again and I instantly followed, sensing Peter’s glare warming up my back. I wonder what he was imagining at that moment.

  I can’t help but imagine challenging him to show me.

  “I am honestly a little bit surprised how much progress you have made lately”, White started as if that had been the topic of our conversation right from the start.

  Him using your diary with his gestures made me feel uncomfortable, and instant regret washed through my veins like cold electricity as I tried to keep my eyes and hands away from what belongs to you.

  “And I am impressed that you haven’t read her diary”, he continued, almost waving it around so that Peter could see it, yet I doubt that was the motivation behind that. “However, that is not why I came to talk to you.”

  My eyes jumped between his face and your diary, lingering longer on the latter. I couldn’t stop myself, and he knew. Watching the book travel from his right hand into his left, I could see the now free hand move slowly.

  I tensed in anticipation and disbelief as White placed it on my shoulder. This had to be a very wicked nightmare of mine. Now my eyes were glued to his hand before I tore them away to stare at him while he smiled at me like I was his favorite... whatever.

  “I wanted to tell you before you get to see her”, he continued, speaking in a tone I had never heard him before, almost fatherly, leaving me even more confused.

  “So that you can prepare yourself.”

  Instantly my mind sped up, but there was only one thought in my head: they are going to wake you up. I could almost hear his voice telling me this.

  I forced myself to relax.

  “We’re going to move you”, White said with an expression on his face that demanded of me to be happy, excited and grateful, as if that would be my greatest wish of all the things; and not getting you back.

  “I’m... honored”, I managed to say and he seemed to be satisfied with my answer.

  I wasn’t.

  Disappointment was an acid slicing through my stomach, climbing up my gullet, and I felt like I was about to spit fire.

  “You’ll be brought there after the tests”, White explained and the acid transformed into rocks, as I immediately thought of your shirt, hidden in the basin.

  If I wouldn’t return to my cell, there was no way to retrieve it. If I told them that I had to get back to a place where there was no personal belonging apart from my diary, which they would move for me, they would become suspicious. And maybe, just maybe, they would find it on their own. If not today, then maybe later.

  What would White think?

  What would be the consequences?

  I was trying to figure out the right move.

  Should I tell him about it?

  Should I pretend that he knew about the shirt and just assume that they would move it as well?

  Or should I stay silent, hoping for the best.

  While I tried to process the news White just looked at me, as if he could read my thoughts from studying my face, and as I noticed it made me feel sick, even though I should be used to that eerie feeling.

  “Thank you, Sir”, I added in an attempt to make him move on with the conversation.

  “No need to thank me for your formidable performance, Lieutenant”, was his response and again this strange feeling overcame me as if I was having a nightmare.

  It’s strange that I consider this being a nightmare, when my life has been one for far too long. This should be a daydream for me, but you wouldn’t trust this either, would you?

  * * *

  So, now, I’m sitting here in my room that resembles yours a lot. Maybe it’s just how these rooms are furnished maybe it’s intentional. Most certainly, I don’t want to think about it because it makes no difference. The only outcome of me thinking about everything too much is spinning the downward spiral of doom and self-loathing and I can’t have that. I need to be sharp, aware, and alerted.

  For you.

  For us.

  Day 130

  The conversation after our walk to the lab, talking about the usual while watching over you, was not worth mentioning. It’s his usual questioning, apart from inquiring whether or not I like my new room.

  I already wrote that it resembles yours, as far as I can tell. I have a bed, a table with two chairs, my own bathroom with a shower, no tub; I have a board installed on the wall, without any books, and no paintings. It’s not your room, it doesn’t have a scent.

  I have a room of my own. It feels strange. It feels wrong. It feels like something is going to happen soon that will stain this sanguine experience for me.

  Yes, that one might be a self-fulfilling prophecy, but you would agree, wouldn’t you. It’s always like that with White.

  When you wake up and they tell you about me being moved, remember when exactly it happened: 40 days after they took you from me, after they put you in a coma.

  I didn’t do anything to you that this was a necessary action of theirs. I can’t recall any incident that needed this. And why would they do this to you if you really were pregnant? Because the first three months are the most dangerous ones?

  Or... did something really happen to you. Something that wasn’t me? Did they send you to anyone else?

  Here I am, being paranoid again.

  I can’t wait, but talk to the others. I need them to pull their asses together and learn to think again, all of them. I need to find out if any of them know you, as in from face to face interaction and not from me or Peter talking about you. I need to know if they have seen you, talked to you.

  Why didn’t I think of that earlier?

  When I hurt you, you weren’t out that long. It has been almost six weeks now and seeing you every day being in a coma. It doesn’t soothe me anymore. It drives me insane.

  * * *

  It’s still there, you know, that feeling that something is going to happen. It’s like the Beast in me knows something I don’t, as if it has a sixth sense, just like animals have before an earthquake or a storm.

  Apart from my living more like a human now than I ever have in this compound, I almost feel like it.

  They turn me into a traitor, don’t they?

  No, it’s more like they want to show the others what happens if they follow in my footsteps. But how could they? They don’t have you.

  They don’t have someone who forgives them, who sympathizes with them, who loves them, like you did for me. I cannot imagine that being their ‘leader’ will be enough.

  Day 131

  They are going to wake you up tomorrow.

  I don’t know what to think, even less how to feel. I am scared, and afraid, and worried. I don’t know what to expect. Will you remember everything? Or will the memories of the last months be wiped away, erased?

  Will the first thing you ask for be me?

  Will you worry?

  Will your feelings be the same? Or not?

  * * *

  You said it to me once. It was the last day we had together. And that was 41 days ago. I can still hear your whisper loud as a horn in my ears, when you told me that you love me. This memory is so clear in my head, as if it were yesterday. Even though I am not sure how to describe your voice, how it sounds, these three words you said. I know. And I have to trust the
m.

  I have to remind myself that they are true, that you meant what you said and that it will not change, no matter what happens. Because you trusted that I would never hurt you, never harm you, no matter how I appeared or acted.

  I have to trust that you will remember that as well.

  * * *

  When White joined me today, watching over you, the Beast in me tensed, shifted, stirred, and I was alarmed alongside with it.

  Somehow it knew that something was up.

  I can’t actually tell how, but it seems that I haven’t just learned to get used to its obvious talents. I have caught up to its instincts as well. There aren’t only the obvious senses like scent, taste, touch, hearing and sight. It’s a different way of perception.

  As you were naturally able to sense how I felt, I feel like this is something the Beast has ‘taught’ me in a way.

  There was something different about White.

  Of course he is always careful around me, although he behaves like he isn’t, trying to show me that he is superior to me. And I have to admit that I fell for it, simply because he can have you and me killed just like that, because even if I kill him, I know I’d be dead anyhow.

  Still, I am able so smell his unease and there is a tiny hint of fear as well. It has grown weaker and weaker. I know that now because today it was stronger again.

  White was nervous. There is no other explanation.

  Others have been nervous around me, many still are. Apart from Peter.

  Maybe because he simply doesn’t care if I decide to attack him, or not. He’s just nervous around his brother.

  However, maybe White decided that I felt too comfortable in my own skin, maybe I have progressed too far, too quickly.

  He dropped the bomb without preparing me.

  “We’re going to wake up Meghan tomorrow.”

  I can’t really recall for how long I stood there, staring through that window, not seeing everything, not really processing the words I had just heard. It sounded like a language I had once known, before the time memories were conscious.