by J. M. Snyder
He located the lamp on his nightstand and pulled the chain to illuminate it, flooding the room with warm yellow light. He sat down on his bed, tired again, the newly discovered bruises on his face and body aching like bad memories.
From the bed, he scanned the room once more and was depressed at what he didn’t see—anywhere. None of his clothes. His art supplies, if they were here anywhere, were nowhere in sight.
All it seemed he had was this clean white T-shirt and these pale blue boxers with a repeating design of navy ducks on the cotton.
Had his mystery man beaten him in order to kidnap him, to keep him a prisoner? Were unimaginable sex games planned for when the bruises subsided? Panicked, Beau sprung from the bed and hurried to the door through which he had seen the wolf-masked man enter, certain he would find it locked from the outside, but the door opened easily.
Beau peered up and down the length of a hallway with the same black hardwood floors as his bedroom, covered with long, tasseled Oriental rugs. Candles burned in wall sconces, dispelling the gloom, but causing the ends of the hallway to vanish into shadow. All up and down the corridor were doors similar to his, all closed.
Did they also hold young men, also showing recent signs of abuse?
Beau retreated back into the relative safety of what he now thought of as his bedroom, shutting the door once more. He was not ready to explore the house further, especially not clad so vulnerably. He went to the windows and opened the plantation shutters farther.
The twilight outside, shades of navy and deep purple, pressed against the glass like heavy velvet. The darkness was so complete Beau could find no clues to his whereabouts. All he could discern was that he was no longer in the city. There was no ambient light from building and streetlights; no sound penetrated the windowpanes. All Beau could see was a constellation of stars, so bright, dazzling, and crowded, it confirmed his belief he was now far outside Seattle.
“Tomorrow perhaps you can admire the view.”
The voice startled Beau, coming from behind him. It was deep and somewhat raspy. The man stood there, holding yet another tray. He was attired the same—in his funereal clothes, topped with the wolf’s head mask—that made Beau both want to laugh and shriek at the same time.
But at least now he had spoken.
Beau could ask him some questions. Beau turned to him and took the tray from his hands, glancing down at the silver-covered plates and cutlery. The smell of something rich and savory wafted up to his nose, igniting his hunger.
He set the tray down on the bedside table (its predecessor, he noted, had been taken away while he slept), then sat down himself on the bed. He would have preferred to stand, but his legs still felt weak, his mind still muddled, and the fear nipping at the edges of his consciousness was easier to keep at bay if he sat.
He looked up at the beast—he had never thought of him this way before, but what else do you call someone built like a linebacker and wearing the menacing face of a wolf?
The beast had started to turn away. Beau surmised that since he had made his delivery, his services were no longer required.
Well, he was wrong about that. Beau needed answers and he had waited long enough for them, even if he was not entirely certain just how long “long enough” had been.
“Wait a minute,” Beau said, his voice coming out tentative, soft. He would need to remedy that. If he was being held here against his will, if he had, in fact, been beaten and abducted, he would have to play his cards carefully—and the most important card to play was the one that told him not to show any fear, to be strong.
“Hold it.” Beau’s voice was stronger now, clearer; he put some breath and bass behind his words.
The monster, beast, whatever he should be called, stopped in his tracks, but he didn’t turn around. He remained facing away from Beau, but Beau could tell from his body language that he had captured the man’s attention.
“Can you just come back here and talk to me? Why the silent treatment? I need some answers.” Even though it was a betrayal of his idea not to show fear, Beau said, “I’m afraid.” That was honest—and maybe it would appeal to his captor/savior’s sense of right.
The man turned and came back. Beau was surprised when he sat down on the bed next to him, leaving a space of about a foot or so between them.
“I wanted to let you rest,” the man began. “That’s why the ‘silent treatment.’ I thought you would talk when you were ready. It appears you’re ready.” The man’s voice was deep, mellifluous, like honey with a hint of grit. It was a very manly, calming voice.
“Will you take that stupid mask off?” Beau asked, impatiently.
“Not yet.”
Beau sighed. “Well, at least give me my back story, because I am not remembering much. Most of all how I got here.”
The man let out a long exhalation through the mask. “You were lucky I found you. I do not go into the city more than a few times a year and I only go when I need to stock up my reserves of food. I had just finished a shopping trip when I spotted you at the mouth of an alley. You were covered in blood, groaning, and it was obvious someone had beaten you horribly.”
“So you brought me here? Where is here, anyway? And why didn’t you just take me to a hospital?”
“One question at a time.” The man paused, as though he were pondering which question to answer first, prioritizing them. “I thought about taking you to a hospital, but I don’t like to have much contact with other people. It’s a long story, but let’s just say I don’t have healthy memories of my time among them. I did, however, examine you, right there in the street, checking to see how severe your cuts and bumps were. I was able to determine, best I could, that while you looked like hell, nothing had happened to you that couldn’t be fixed with time and care.”
The wolf’s face turned to Beau and he could feel the man’s gaze upon him. “I still don’t know if I made the right choice. Your admission that you don’t remember what happened to you concerns me; perhaps I need to reconsider.
“In any event, I checked you over and determined that you needed help, so I brought you here, to my home. We are in a remote area east of Seattle, in the foothills of the Cascades. I had this house built for me to meet my need for solitude. I did not bring you here to keep you against your will; let me make that clear. You are free to leave whenever you like.”
Beau looked around him. He had never, in his whole life, been ensconced in such comforting and comfortable surroundings. Still, this was weird. “My things? Where are my things?”
The man put a gentle hand on Beau’s knee. “You had nothing, just the clothes on your back and those were torn and bloody.” He paused. “I had to throw them away. We’ll see that you get some new ones when you want to go.”
The man said nothing for several moments, and then went on. “I think you should stay with me for a few more days. Get yourself more properly healed and then, when you’re ready, I will not only see that you are clothed, but that you have safe transport back to Seattle. And if you need, we can also get you to a doctor. I suspect, though, you’re still in a bit of shock and that’s affected your memory.”
“Why would you do this?” Beau wondered.
“Why wouldn’t I? What kind of beast would I be if I left you all alone, bleeding and hurt, in that alley? I only did what I would want someone to do for me if the tables were turned.”
“But all of this….” Beau gestured to the room with his hand. “All of this seems above and beyond the call.”
“Perhaps for some. I suppose I could have left you at an emergency room and washed my hands of you. But that’s not me. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty to bring you here.”
“I don’t know what to think. I wish I could remember what happened.” But Beau wasn’t so sure he wanted that wish granted. Already, shadowy images were swirling around in his memory, hooded figures, cold—and they filled him with dread.
“You will.” The man stood. “Now, I think you
should eat before everything gets totally cold. There’s roast chicken there….” He took a few steps toward the door. “In the morning, I’ll bring you some clothes and we can go outside, if you feel up to it.”
The man was closing the door behind him.
“Wait!” Beau called after him. “Who are you? You haven’t told me who you are.”
The man turned slightly and gestured toward the mask. “Just call me Beast.” He chuckled, but the sound carried no mirth, only despair. “It’s what I am, anyway.”
Before Beau could say anything else, Beast had closed the door.
Chapter 4
The next day, Beast awakened Beau early, bearing another tray of food. Beau sat up in bed, feeling much better than he had. His sleep had been heavy and dreamless, reparative. He smiled. “You, sir, are going to spoil me.”
Beast set the tray of food—oatmeal with blueberries and maple syrup, a pot of tea, a sectioned grapefruit—on the bedside table. “The pleasure is mine. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to care for.”
Beau could not see behind Beast’s mask, but he wondered why he stopped speaking so abruptly, wondered if it was emotion choking him.
“Did you once?”
Beast’s voice emerged, soft, choked…and Beau knew. “Did I what?”
“Have someone to care for?”
“Eat up your breakfast. Take a shower. I was able to find you some clothes and thought maybe you’d like to go outside. It’s a rare clear and sunny day out there and the mountains look gorgeous.” Beast hurried from the room.
Beau watched after him. Now, in addition to wondering what had happened to his own self, he wondered what had happened to Beast as well. Although he couldn’t see the man’s face, he could feel his pain.
Beau picked up the tray and set it on his lap.
* * * *
When Beast returned an hour or so later, Beau was waiting for him, showered and smelling of shampoo. Just getting clean somehow made everything hurt less. He didn’t know how, but it was true. The warm spray of water had energized him, making him feel more alive than when he had first waked in this strange place.
Beast held out a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of athletic socks, and a gray hoodie with a purple University of Washington insignia embroidered across its front. There was even a pair of beat-up, but serviceable, running shoes placed on top of the clothes.
“These will never fit me,” Beau said, taking the clothes from Beast’s outstretched hands and sizing the man up again. Where Beau was slight, Beast was a giant. “Not if they’re yours.”
“They’re not mine.” Before Beau had a chance to ask any questions, Beast was hurrying from the room, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Beau slipped into the T-shirt, jeans, and sweatshirt and found they all fit his thin, wiry frame perfectly. Even the shoes, half a size too small, were not so tight as to impede his wearing them.
There’s no way these clothes could belong to the Beast. So whose were they? Was there someone else in the house? Had there been someone else in the house?
Beau stood, testing his balance in the shoes, and wondered if Beast would answer his questions. If Beau couldn’t be privy to his own background, he could at least know about Beast’s.
Beast opened the door. “Feel up for a little walk?”
Outside, the air was crisp and cold. Beau was grateful. The mountain air was invigorating and had a sweet cleanliness to it that didn’t exist in Seattle. Breathing in deep, surrounded by pines and snow-capped mountain peaks, Beau immediately felt stronger, more whole, as if the air itself was cleaning and healing him from the inside out.
They walked for almost an hour and Beau felt he could have gone further, but Beast said, “We don’t want you to overdo things on your first time up and around. Let’s head back.” Gently, he took Beau’s hand. Beast’s hand was so large, Beau’s own felt lost in the warmth of it.
He also felt safe.
Beau’s hopes to find out more about Beast were dashed as they walked along the trails, the pine trees towering over them, making the air nippy, revealing slashes of sunlight and shadow and glimpses of blue skies and clouds, up high, moving fast.
Beau felt as though he was in another world. And, in a way, he was.
Once back at the house, Beau removed the down jacket Beast had given him, hanging it on a hook in the great, walnut-paneled foyer. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me a little bit more about you? Like where these clothes came from? They’re certainly not yours.”
Beast sighed. They were silent for a very long time and Beau began to wonder if he had crossed a line, if Beast would retreat into back into the silence with which he had originally given him.
When the prolonged quiet grew awkward, Beau felt he had indeed made a mistake in pressing Beast for more. He turned toward the curving staircase and started to ascend, head and heart heavy, such a reversal after the freedom and closeness he had felt on their walk through the mountain woodland.
“Wait,” Beast called after him. “Come back,” he said softly, as Beau turned on the landing.
Beast disappeared into the room off the foyer and Beau followed. The room was what, in a gothic romance novel, would be called a drawing room, filled with antique furniture, high beams, a fieldstone fireplace, all lit warmly by sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows, a pair of each on all four walls.
Beast stood by the fireplace. Beau, nervous, sat down on the edge of a red velvet settee, waiting.
Beast reached up with both hands and began to tug on the base of the mask, pulling it over his head. Beau stared in wonder, breath suspended.
When at last the mask came off, it was Beau’s turn to be at a loss for words. All he could do was suck in a gasp and turn away.
When he turned back to Beast, Beau’s eyes glistened with tears.
“I’m so sorry,” was all Beau could manage to say, barely able to find enough breath to put behind the words.
Beast had moved toward the window, staring outside at the sunlight, the craggy peaks of the mountains, the snow, and pines. His shoulders heaved. “Just go away,” he said so softly Beau was not sure he heard right.
Beast repeated, “Just go away.”
And Beau did.
Chapter 5
Beau sat alone in his room for many hours. At first, he listened for Beast’s footfalls outside his door, but the house seemed even more silent than usual, as though Beau were entombed in it, totally alone.
He had pulled a chair up to a window, opening the plantation shutters, and quietly watched the day descend into darkness. At one point, the mountains became brilliant, almost glowing tangerine, painted by the dying sun opposite their peaks.
It was hard to absorb what he had seen, what Beast had revealed. Beau ached to ask him what his real name was. The moniker, Beast, had seemed mysterious and playful—a reference to the man’s size.
Now, with what Beau had witnessed, Beast seemed jarringly cruel, all the more poignant because it seemed Beast himself had come up with the name.
Beau almost wished he could go back to remembering the big, hearty body and its broad shoulders, topped with a wolf’s head, but he couldn’t.
Beast had revealed a face monstrous, horrific—yet the horror was undermined by the kindness in his pale green eyes, by the terror he knew his revelation must have inspired.
What had happened to him? Beau knew he must have been burned. Beast’s face bore the twisted skin, the thick, leathery scarring of a burn victim, deep red in color, the kind of trauma he wouldn’t blame anyone for wanting to hide behind a mask.
Had he been trapped in a burning building? Had someone done this to him?
Beau wanted to understand, not to satisfy curiosity, but to see if he could help this gentle man who had become, in a way, his savior.
As the twilight at last descended and Beast had not arrived with a tray, Beau decided he needed to go to him. For one thing, he wa
nted to demonstrate that he was not repulsed by Beast’s true face. He wanted Beast to understand he could see beyond the surface—in fact that’s what he always did as an artist, when he captured people’s likenesses in their portraits. He wanted them—when they looked at what he had created—to see something beyond just the physical. Beast needed to know Beau could see—and appreciate—his kindness, his gentle demeanor.
For another, he wanted Beast to feel free to unburden himself to Beau. Maybe if he knew Beast’s story, he would recall his own.
Even now, it seemed as though the memory, locked away by shock and trauma, his own fragile mind protecting him, was beginning to arise and come to life in snatches that were only foreboding images.
There was a dark alley, its bricks slick with rain.
There was a nauseous panicky feeling in his gut, bordering on terror, when he recalled the alley. There was the feel of someone following and gaining on him.
There were hooded figures that meant to cause him harm.
When Beau tried to recall their faces—or what they had actually done to him—his mind shut down. He knew, though, that in order to heal, he needed to remember what had happened, so he could reclaim his place in the world.
Did Beast remember what had happened to him? Was it what caused him to be living here in the mountains like some kind of hermit?
Beast. Beast. Beast. My heart aches for you. You and your ravaged face….
Beau stood and crossed to the doorway. Now it was his turn to offer aid and solace, to see if he could help with the healing and to show Beast he was no Beast at all, at least to Beau.
He walked down the hallway, listening for a clue as to where Beast might be. He descended the stairs, hoping that his footsteps, the creak of a floorboard here and there, might rouse Beast and make him come to Beau.
But the house stayed still, silent.
Beau entered the drawing room and saw at once the wolf mask, lying on the floor where the Beast had left it. It looked like nothing more than exactly what it was: a rubber shell, lifeless.
