Beast: An Anthology

by Amanda Richardson

  I swallow hard.

  “A roof caved in on me.”

  His face tilts up at my words.

  “I’m a firefighter,” I explain. “Was a firefighter.” I stretch out the good side of my neck out, tension growing as questions about my professional future still loom over me. “I thought I had the fire beat. But the flames were in the walls. Hiding. Waiting…”

  I stop short of the details when I remember that I’m speaking to a kid, and that I should probably watch how detailed I get. Especially since he’s been beaten by the flames as well. But Gus doesn’t seem frightened or upset by my story. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. His eyes widen with interest, nearly begging to hear more.

  “That sounds so cool,” he says with full honesty. I want to tell him he’s wrong. That it’s not cool. That a roof caving in on me ruined my life.

  Ruined…everything.

  “I was in a car accident,” he shares, not missing a beat. “Doctors say I’m a miracle which I guess is pretty cool. Not firefighter cool but...”

  His expression falters, disappointed he doesn’t have a cooler story to tell about how he got his scars. As if having a better story would make having the burns…worth it.

  “I think being a miracle is pretty cool,” I say out of nowhere.

  “Really?” his eyes brighten.

  I nod. “Sure.”

  I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know why I felt the need to say anything at all. Maybe because I wish someone looked at me with the same amazement at what I survived instead of the pity and horror I received. Maybe because this kid is too young to have to deal with the stares and not have the self-confidence to get through it. To have a chance at a normal life. To move forward without always looking back at what was. But then I’m reminded that I’m also here for that very reason. That I need to focus on my own recovery. Achieve my own goals—whatever they may be. I’m not here to be some kid’s cheerleader. I don’t have time for it. I sit up straighter in my chair, elongating my back and broadening my shoulders, ready to pick up my bag and move along—alone.

  “Look, kid,” I start but am interrupted by the sound of the office door across the room opening. Louis comes out first, holding the door open behind him. Relief comes over me that Gus and I are no longer alone and I can now make my escape without having to be harsh to the kid.

  I bend down to pick up my bag but freeze at the sound of hearing her voice. It’s soft while sputtering strong words. Smooth but laced with clipped edges as it fills the air in the room. Never has the sound of a voice stopped me cold. At work, shrieks and cries would only spur me faster into action. At home, screams and moans would only fuel my every movement. But this? This voice renders me motionless.

  And the best part? She speaks with an accent.

  I finally manage to straighten, standing tall while I seek out the lips that own that voice.

  “Gaston,” her eyes fall from Gus to me.

  Gaston?

  A French accent?

  I glance back at Gus for a fleeting moment, just long enough to see his ears turn red.

  “Mom, we talked about this,” he says through clenched teeth.

  How could this woman be his Mom? She’s so…beautiful. And young.

  Long auburn hair pulled up, off her face, showcasing her long neck. Her skin is without flaw, which isn’t something you see much of around here. The paleness of her skin is only emphasized by the deep red of the rose petals printed on her blouse, her collar slightly open—hypnotizing me. Her brown eyes pop, eyelashes so long I notice them from where I stand. And I never notice that kind of stuff. Usually my eyes move south fairly quickly, but with her, they can’t seem to leave her face.

  “Sorry,” she does her best to hide her smile, looking down at her son. She knows she’s somehow embarrassed him.

  Her voice is silk. Just that one word has my mind reeling, wondering what other words would sound like coming from her lips. Her eyes flick up to me, one brow rising slightly—as though she’s silently questioning who I am.

  I wish I had the answer.

  My mouth opens, hoping to at least have the chance to give my name, but Gus has other plans. His loud, humiliated exhale fills the room, bringing all eyes, including hers, back to him.

  “Let’s go,” he says, picking up his small gym bag. He doesn’t even look back as he walks towards the door, ignoring everyone he passes.

  Guilt over embarrassing her son washes over her face. And for what? Calling him by his real name? So what if it is French and a little out of place for Middle America—it’s the name she chose for him.

  My vision falls south for the first time but not for the reasons you’d think. She’s uncomfortably shifting around at least four books and a ridiculous amount of pamphlets from one arm to the other, trying to balance as much as she can while she roots through her purse.

  “Hey, kid,” I call out to Gus.

  He stops and turns, just as he’s about to walk through the front door.

  I point toward his mother, to the books and pamphlets she’s juggling in her arms. “Don’t you think you should help your Mom carry some of those?”

  I’d like nothing more than to go up to her and take some of that weight literally off her hands. To feel like a man again—chivalrous and proud. To have an excuse to get closer, experience seeing this…beauty from only inches away. I haven’t felt that kind of want in months. Everything inside of me is pushing me to go be that man, to be that hero.

  But something stops me. Something stronger than my own want. Something that tells me this had to be Gus’ job…at least for this time.

  Gus’ eyes move from me then to his mother before he slowly makes his way over to her.

  “Be a man,” I say, urging—guiding him.

  He takes some of the pamphlets from her, leaving the heavier books. But both she and I know it’s not how much he took that matters. It’s that he took anything at all that counts.

  “Later, Gus,” I say as he walks back toward the door.

  “Bye,” he says, standing a little taller.

  I watch for another moment before my gaze returns back inside. Back to…her.

  Her lips curl into the most beautiful smile, one corner coming higher up than the other.

  Before I can even say a word, she turns and follows Gus out the door.

  Behind me, I hear the clearing of a throat, reminding me that I haven’t been left alone.

  “Could that be the sound of a beating heart?” Louis asks, smirking.

  My head whips back in his direction, my scaled neck not very appreciative of the fast movement.

  “It’s always a sight to see when one remembers they are human and not the monsters they’ve made themselves out to be,” he says.

  “What the fuck are you talking about,” I scoff, grabbing my bag from the floor.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Adam,” his tone even. He turns and begins walking toward the workout room, knowing I have no choice but to follow. “Feel that heartbeat. Feel the blood run through your veins. Revel in that feeling!”

  “Again,” I say, “what the fuck are you talking about?”

  He opens the door for me, grinning from ear to fucking ear as I pass. “Today you remembered parts of who you are. Parts of the man you thought were lost.”

  “Whatever,” I say leaving him behind, ignoring the steady, continuous pounding drum beneath my ribs.

  But Louis isn’t finished yet.

  “And now that you’ve remembered, I’m going to push that man to limits he thought were out of reach. Get ready,” he pauses, stepping back in front of me. “Now it’s my turn to work the beast out of you.”

  THE NEXT WEEK, I get to physio early. I tell myself the harder I push myself, the more I’ll succeed and the faster I can get back to…whatever is left waiting for me. But I know it’s not the only reason. Last week, after my workout from hell, I glanced at the calendar screen to see when Gus’s next appointment was. I sched
uled mine for right after.

  I’m such a fucking hypocrite.

  I immediately find him sitting in the same seat as last time. Today, I set myself down right beside him.

  “What’s up, Gus?” I say, dropping my bag beside me.

  “Nothing. Just waiting. Mom’s in with Louis again,” he nods towards the closed office door.

  My eyes dart in that direction, willing them to see through wood of the door. After a few seconds, Gus speaks again.

  “No one calls me that.”

  “Huh?” my head tilts, but my eyes are unwavering.

  “Gaston,” he replies. “No one calls me that. I don’t know why she does. She knows my name is Gus. She knows that’s what people to call me.”

  “What’s wrong with Gaston?” I ask, narrowing my eyes on that door.

  When he doesn’t answer right away, I drag my focus away and bring it to him.

  He shrugs his shoulders.

  “You don’t like your name?” I ask.

  He takes a deep breath, shrugging his shoulders. “I used to. It’s my grand-father’s name. Mom says it’s her way of having a bit of home through me. She used to live in France.”

  French accent—nailed it.

  “Yeah, I noticed the accent,” I say, keeping my lips sealed about all the other things I noticed about her.

  “What accent?” he asks.

  My brow rises in question. “Your mother’s.” His expression has me questioning myself. “She does have an accent,” I say, more confidently.

  “She does?”

  “Yes,” I nod once.

  “Oh,” he pauses. “Weird.”

  I guess I never realized the types of things kids tend to notice or not. I’m not around them very much. When he doesn’t continue on with stories about him Mom, I’m introduced to the small attention span kids, or at least Gus, seem to have.

  “So your Mom’s from France?” I ask, as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Yeah,” he nods. “We were supposed to go and visit this summer.”

  He doesn’t need to explain further. It’s quite clear what’s keeping them from being able to go…anywhere.

  “Maybe once you’ve finished healing,” I offer, extending some hope to the kid.

  “I doubt it. My mom’s kind of going crazy over my next surgery. Won’t stop reading about it.”

  “Well,” I start. “Moms are like that. They worry.”

  But something tells me Gus’ Mom is worried for many other reasons. Unlike my Mom who only seems concerned with how my scars affect her. Not the other way around.

  “I know,” he replies. “Sometimes I hear her crying when she’s on the phone.”

  I swallow back a lump in my throat at hearing that.

  “She doesn’t know I can hear her but I can’t help it. And sometimes the things she says don’t make any sense.”

  “They don’t?” I clear my throat.

  He shakes his head. “One time I heard her talking about my prom. That she’s worried someone will never want to go with me.”

  I hate that I’m now wondering the same thing. Growing up, I remember how cruel kids could be. How cruel I used to be. How I was one of those bully’s Gus’ Mom is worried he’ll have to someday encounter.

  “Adam?”

  I focus back on Gus. “Yeah?”

  “What’s prom?”

  His question surprises me. It even makes me smile a bit. “Well, it’s a big dance you go to in high school. Guys get dressed up in suits and girls wear pretty dresses. It’s like a fancy date.”

  “A dance?” he face shows just how unimpressed he is with the idea.

  “Yeah,” I nod.

  “Mom’s worried that I won’t go to a dance?”

  “Well, I’m sure she just thinking about—”

  But Gus doesn’t let me finish. “Who cares about a stupid dance?” he nearly shrieks. “Baseball season starts soon and that’s what she should be worried about. We’re in Division 2 this year,” he says as though I should understand what that means.

  “Wow,” I feign understanding. “Division 2?”

  “Yes! Only the best play in Division 2,” he states.

  I continue to nod, pretending to be impressed.

  I think back to when I was a kid and how the only thing that mattered to me was Lacrosse. Sports and being with my friends were my only concerns, so I can understand where Gus is coming from. But I’m not a kid anymore so I can kind of understand his Mom worries about his future—even if it is about something like prom. Gus is still too young to see the big picture. People like me and his mother have no choice but to face that picture. One day he’ll understand. One day he’ll understand the worries his Mom is having. He’ll grow up and one day, without realizing it, one thing will grab his attention faster than sports or friends or Division 2.

  Girls.

  And when that moment happens, his Mom’s worries over prom will finally make sense. They’ll become his worries. Will he have the same experiences as all the other guys his age? Will girls notice him the same way others get noticed? Will he be let down? Will he see prom the same way other teenager do? The way I did? See the possibilities and probabilities. The expectation.

  I think back to my own prom. To Tiffany Whitmore…

  And just as my mind begins to wander about my own prom night, Louis’ office door opens and out she comes. Today her hair is down, covering her shoulders, landing just below her breasts. She’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, much more casual than the first time I saw her. But just as beautiful.

  Her brown eyes immediately find mine as she walks towards us, stopping in the middle of the room.

  “Hello again,” she says.

  Fuck.

  That accent.

  “Hi,” I say taking a step forward.

  She looks over to Gus before turning her gaze back at me. “I hope Gus hasn’t been keeping you.”

  Just the opposite, I think to myself. I’ve been keeping him in hopes of seeing you.

  “Not at all,” I answer as smooth as possible.

  We continue to stand as we are, neither of us moving or looking away.

  “Gus,” Louis’ voice comes out of nowhere. “Come with me. I want to show you some of the new machines we just got in.”

  “Do I have to?” he asks his mom, clearly uninterested.

  Louis quickly glances in my direction before turning back to Gus, answering for his mother. “Yes.”

  We both watch Gus and Louis disappear into the weight room, leaving me and…fucking hell, I don’t even know this woman’s name.

  “I’m Adam,” I blurt out, like an idiot.

  She turns back in my direction. “I know,” she responds with a half-smile before realizing she’s given herself away. “Amelie,” she says, her cheeks turning pink.

  And for the first time in a long time, my ego inflates at the sight of her freshly tinted skin.

  “Nice to meet you, Emily,” I say, my lips curling into a cocky smirk. Fuck, it feels good to do that again.

  She lets out the smallest of laughs. “No,” she corrects, taking a step closer. “Amelie. With an A.”

  “Amelie,” I repeat, liking that way it sounds even more rolling off my tongue.

  “Gaston—Gus…he speaks of you often. At first I thought you were a therapist with how much he spoke of you—”

  Her eyes shift slowly to my neck and once more, embarrassment reveals itself on her face.

  “I’m sorry—” she begins.

  I wave her off. “Don’t be. It’s no secret why I’m here.”

  Her eyes briefly gaze at my neck once more before slowly moving down my body. I don’t think she even notices she’s doing it. But I do. Only this time, I don’t shutter or get angry. I let her examine me. I let her explore the rough ripples that now mark my skin.

  “A roof caved in on me,” I explain.

  She nods. “Gus told me,” she answers, looking me squarely in the eyes. But instead of pity, her eyes shine.
“He idolizes you, you know.”

  My eyes squint in misunderstanding. “Who?”

  “Gus,” she smiles.

  “He does?”

  “Yes,” she begins. “After you told him about your accident, he said that’s the story he was going to tell people when asked what happened to him. That a roof collapsed on him while he was fighting the fire. He wants to be just like you.”

  “He barely knows me,” I say, in disbelief.

  “Not true. He’s watched you for weeks. When you finally spoke to him last week, it was all he could talk about at home. ‘Adam said this’…’Adam said that…’”

  She takes another step closer. Close enough that I can make out the few freckles that spray across her nose and one that sits dangerously close to the corner of her lip. I swallow down the urge to brush my fingers over that spot.

  “I had no idea,” I manage to breathe out.

  And I didn’t. But I can hardly focus on Gus right now when Amelie’s scent is making me dizzy in the most fantastic fucking way. She smells like…snow. If that’s even possible considering it’s the middle of May. Fresh and clean, like a dose of cold crisp air flushing against my burning hot skin.

  “You’re his hero,” she almost whispers.

  My heart pounds, beating against every rib, every muscle, every barrier that stand between it and my skin.

  I swallow, unable to do anything else.

  “Thank you,” she says, gratefully. “You gave him something I couldn’t.”

  “What’s that,” my voice sounding thick, uneven.

  “The aspiration of the man he can still become.”

  Her words lift the fog she wrapped around me.

  Aspiration?

  From me? How can that be? I’m nobody someone should want to be like. Ask anyone who knows me—knows me as I am today. I am not the hero Gus thinks I am. The hero Amelie thinks I am. I should tell her right now how wrong she is. How wrong both she and Gus are about me. Like Louis said, Gus is still so full of light and life while I’ve been living in the dark for months. Angry and alone. I’m not who they think I am. I’m not what Gus should stride to become. I should warn her—warn them both of who I really am.

  What I really am.

  I step closer. So close we’re nearly touching.