The Beast

by Shantea Gauthier

  "What did you hear that night?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "It was an animal or something."

  I grabbed both of his shoulders with a desperation that eclipsed my desire. "What did you see?"

  "I should take you back to your car."

  "No," I squeezed his shoulders and pressed down with all of my force. "Tell me what you saw."

  I saw the fight in his head in his downturned eyes. Tell her, don't tell her.

  "Tell me," I said quietly. He could prove or disprove what I saw with a word. I was desperate to know that I wasn’t crazy.

  He lifted me as easily as a clawing kitten. I struggled fiercely but he carried me easily back to the truck, set me in the passenger's seat and reached across to buckle the seatbelt.

  "What did you see?" I screeched.

  "Please," he begged quietly. "Let me take you back to your car. I shouldn't have-."

  "No."

  As soon as he shut the door I threw it open and jumped out. In case he thought to leave me behind, I ran to the driver's side and reached in as if I could pull him out. He reached down and pulled me up onto his lap by my arm. He kissed me, with full force, so I could tell he wasn't holding anything back. His hands gripped tightly at my bruised ribs, my sore scalp tingled when he loosened my ponytail enough to grab a fistful of hair. When I finally calmed and the raging passion redirected itself away from anger and panic, he set me down roughly on the passenger's seat and hit the gas before I could jump out again.

  I glared out the window.

  By the time we reached my car, all the fires in me were dead.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  He opened my door.

  "Good night, Jade Greene," he said.

  "You'll call me, right?" I muttered, knowing that he wouldn't.

  He didn't say anything, just gave me a broken smile before I got into my car and watched him drive away.

  chapter 4

  I woke up to tapping on my window. Midnight. With images of vampires and werewolves and bad dates- horrible, awful, painfully bad dates- in my head, I buried myself under the covers and squeezed my eyes shut. What felt like seconds later, the alarm beeped cruelly near my head.

  "I don't wanna go to work today," I moaned. I yanked the covers up over my head again and curled up into a painful little ball. When the alarm went off a second time, I pushed myself out of bed.

  My hair, still a hopeless wreck pointed to a bruise just forming across my cheekbone. I didn’t recall getting hit in the face, but it must have been hard to take so long to surface. It was a little extra reminder in case I was planning on healing and forgetting all about it. After a shower I tried to force my hair into submission with a flat iron. It didn't work. I tried a curling iron. It was no use. It desperately needed professional help.

  As I waited in line for the time clock and again for coffee, I felt everyone staring at me. They all wanted to ask, but none of them had the guts to do it. So they just stared. When I finally sat down, my cube mate Shannon looked over her shoulder at me.

  "Your weekend was either really bad or really good," she declared.

  I mumbled something that I couldn't even understand and sat at my desk. A tiny wrapped package jutted out of the barren landscape like a tiny obelisk.

  "What's this?" I asked Shannon. I heard heavy drums from her earbuds. If she knew its secrets, she wasn’t about to give them up.

  I placed the package on my palm. It had been expertly wrapped in shining red paper, pulled tight as a drum against the surface of the box and held in place by tape. A single strip of black lace hugged all sides and sat atop the box in a four-pointed bow. There was no tag, no markings, no indication of why it landed on my desk and who put it there. I squeezed the thin cardboard walls and accidentally ripped the taut red paper.

  I looked around again in case I was being watched and opened it carefully, as though I was saving the torn paper for another tiny gift. I folded the red paper carefully before I reached for the top to open it.

  "Jade!" A sharp whisper made me jump.

  "What's up, Bob?" I lowered the hand that jumped to my chest like I could slow my heartbeat from the outside.

  Bob waved a tin sign at me, printed to look like wood with the words "I'd rather be fishing" in black paint.

  I smiled and nodded.

  "I got another one if you guys want to decorate your cube," he said. "I got another one when I was out there too, but it's N.S.F.W."

  “Cool.”

  "Not Safe For Work," he explained slowly.

  “Yup.”

  He leaned even closer in a show of secrecy, so close that I could see deep into the pores on his nose and smell his deodorant. He wasn’t going to let me go until he described his poster for me. "It's a picture of-."

  "Okay, everyone," the supervisor, Shaun, called. "Meeting room in five. We’ve got good coffee and donuts."

  "Oh! I wonder what this is about." Bob turned to save his work, his train of thought successfully derailed.

  Shannon needed a nudge when it was time to go and she nodded, put her earbuds in her pocket, and followed Bob out. I swept the little gift box into my desk drawer and filed in with all of the other sheep to a conference room where I sat in a chair that was way past its prime.

  "I'll show you pictures of the trip later," Bob promised.

  “Great.”

  Shaun, backed up by "Boy Cameron", announced that there were going to be "some major changes." The cubicle walls were coming down, for a start. Bob's face dropped like Shaun told him his dog just died. "Girl Cameron", also known as Cammie, stared lustfully up at Boy Cameron. They dated for a short while before the inevitable breakup. They could pass for brother and sister, and shared the same first name. Dating was just an expression of their shared narcissism. Cammie was pining because Boy Cameron initiated the breakup. Knowing her, she wanted to lure him back in so she could break it off this time.

  "That's not the only physical change," Shaun continued. "We are going to do some redecorating this week and try a whole new layout. We are also going to be monitoring everyone's efficiency much more closely."

  So you're going to start monitoring, I thought, picking the peeled laminate off of the last table left over from the invasion of the Huns. Hopefully the conference room would be a beneficiary of the redecorating fund.

  He blabbed through to lunch about the other "major changes" that would affect us. Nothing sounded worthy of a long meeting. As if every person with a bladder really needed to know that we were changing toilet paper brands and soap suppliers.

  "What the hell was that meeting?" Shannon asked on her way into the break room. "I'm going to have to bring my own toilet paper from now on."

  Before I could figure out if she was joking or serious, she installed her earbuds in her ears and took a seat on one of the couches, phone in hand.

  I pulled my buffalo burger out of the fridge and ate it cold, tasting the shame of my behavior the night before all over again. It was delicious, even cold and spiced with shame, which somehow just shamed me further.

  After lunch, Shaun called me in for an individual meeting where he informed me that I was "behind" for the day and asked if I wasn't able to keep up with the pace of workflow. I bit back a scream of protest that the stupid meeting had lasted all stupid morning, and instead said blandly, "Next time I'll bring my computer into the meeting so I can keep up."

  After an accusation of not being a "team player" and being informed that everyone is replaceable in "this economy", I was sent back to work.

  On the way back to my desk I heard someone shouting defensively, "The meeting took all morning, of course I'm behind for the day!"

  "What the hell were those reviews?" Shannon asked, shaking her head. "This place sucks."

  It helped to hear it laid out so simply. She couldn't have been more than nineteen, wearing an obviously eighties hand-me-down suit, complete with monstrous shoulder pads. She probably wore rocker tees and skinny jeans when she wasn't
entering data. She might have been wearing them under the suit she swam in and no one would be the wiser. She might have been wearing a headless mascot costume under there and no one would be the wiser.

  I reached into my desk to get the mandatory date stamp and my hand brushed the box. It was infinitely more interesting than whatever data needed to be entered.

  I opened it.

  Two delicate cookies held together with cream greeted me. The lavender colored cookie sandwich said "eat me" in sparkling sugar on both sides. Along with that, taped to one side of the box, presumably so it wouldn't crush the cookie, clung a little vial. It looked like a fancy perfume bottle, maybe three inches high, with a silver and rubber stopper. "Drink me," a tag demanded.

  I've lost it. It's official.

  With the meetings over and only two hours left in the work day, the supervisors started patrolling. I carefully crammed everything, including the folded paper and lace ribbon into the box, grabbed a stack of folders and started typing.

  After work, I tried again to get a new phone. I was told again that my only option to get a new phone was to pay full price, which wasn’t an option according to my wallet and bank account, so I headed to the grocery store to pick up food for dinner. The only items in my pantry were dried beans, dry pasta, and a box of lemon cake mix. I bought marinara sauce and a loaf of hot garlic bread. Then I did something I never thought I would have to do. I went for a haircut.

  I had only gotten two professional haircuts in my life. The first was when I was twelve and my parents made good on their threat that "If you don't take care of it, we're cutting it all off." The other was a trim at a bachelorette party spa day when my oldest cousin got married.

  The salon boasted pictures of haircuts that were stylish in the early 90s and a man who looked like pre-"formerly known as" Prince tut-tutted at my ponytail.

  "Girl, I can see I have my work cut out for me."

  I sat in the chair and pulled the elastic band out of my hair. He gasped and recoiled.

  "That bad, huh?" I asked.

  "Ooh, what happened?" He leaned forward to look into my face in the mirror.

  "Machining accident," I said.

  "Damn, girl, it's gonna be more work than I thought. But don't worry, we'll get you a cute-ass cut to match that cute-ass face." He shook his hips when he talked and squeezed my shoulders reassuringly. "But we’ll stay away from the color until all that mess is healed."

  All around, stylists and manicurists cried out the injustice of cutting my long hair. Some even stopped to stroke it and say goodbye before I went under the knife. I chose not to watch.

  The stylist, Sergio according to his name badge, started with a razor. I wondered if Sergio was his real name or just part of the persona, but I would be the world's most horrible hypocrite if I allowed myself to ask if that was his real name.

  I forgot all about the troubles of the world while my long, dark brown locks hit the floor. I thought only about the hair falling rhythmically to the floor. Too late to turn back. I stared at the out-of-date styles on the posters on the walls. I wanted to take it back.

  "You must have been terrified," Sergio said. An exaggerated shiver of fear sent light flashing off of his gold shirt. "This looks bad.”

  "Yeah, it was pretty terrifying."

  “Girl, I had a situation last month. Ooh, I thought my life would never be the same. My favorite store, that little hipster boutique across the street, they stopped selling plum colored pants. Eggplant, yes. Royal purple, yes. Lime green, magenta, char-freaking-truce. No plum. I thought that my life was o-ver. I was just despondent for days. But then I found this new store that’s just up the street that has plum. And they have the most delicious selection of vintage scarves, too. So it all worked out in the end.”

  I smiled, unsure if the story was supposed to calm me, inspire me, or just prevent me from having an anxiety attack. I couldn’t help sneaking a peek at his plum colored pants. He laughed.

  He disappeared for a minute and returned with a bowl of white goo and black disposable gloves.

  "Just because we aren't coloring doesn’t mean you can't get the royal treatment." His head bobbed side to side when he said "royal treatment".

  "What is it?"

  "Oh honey, it’s the stuff of gods! Put here on this earth to preserve the health and beauty of us mere mortals."

  I leaned to get a better look at it. "But what's it made of?"

  He smiled and tapped my shoulder playfully. "Don't you worry, honey, it's just coconut oil. The ultimate deep conditioner."

  He delicately slathered the goo all over my head and hair and I wondered how bad my scalp looked.

  He wrapped a hot towel around my head and hair, brushed my shoulders off and started to rub them.

  "After something like that, a girl needs some pampering," he said. "So you just close your eyes and let your sweetheart Serge take care of you. You're going to let go of all that tension and when you open your eyes, everything will be all okay again. Don't you worry, honey, forget all that man drama, and all that work drama. This is a drama free zone."

  He kept saying his ‘sweet nothings’ until I felt like my muscles melted under his grasp and I believed everything he said. A timer let out a barely audible beep and he tapped my shoulder gently.

  "Okay," he said. "Time to wash this all out and put on your finishing touches."

  I went to the sink bowl and felt the alarming lightness of my head. My hair. It was gone. I reached up to touch it, but my “sweetheart Serge” gave my hand a playful smack.

  Back at the chair, a blow dryer and a big round brush did the rest of the work. A few quick snips, and just as he was about to swing the chair around, he blurted out, "Oh my god, please let me do your eyebrows."

  I smiled. "That bad, huh?"

  After a couple rounds of waxing, tweezing, and wiping, he grabbed the chair and opened his mouth to say something else.

  "I can't take it anymore, I want to see it!" I blurted.

  He laughed, clapped his hands and spun me around.

  It’s so short.

  My hair had gone from a long chestnut mane to a short, almost spiky, stylish hairstyle. It was an actual style. The long bangs across my forehead made me look more feminine and the eyebrows made me looked groomed and polished.

  “I look like a girl!” I almost shouted.

  Sergio smiled. “You look like a woman, honey. Too many people think that having long hair is more feminine, but they're just lazy and blind. It’s all about how you work it!”

  He snapped his fingers over his shoulder and held up a hand mirror.

  “You know what the back looked like before, right?”

  No. "Yes."

  The mirror showed the styled hair in the back of my head. I don’t know what I should have expected. “Nice.”

  “When all that grows back you can use an iron to smooth your hair and it’ll be a cute little bob, but for now flipping it up like this hides all those little scrapes.” He practically whispered the end of the sentence and gave my shoulder a slow little fingertip slap.

  I stared at myself, dazzled at the transformation. The bruise on my cheek and the bags under my eyes looked less noticeable, even without makeup. “You’re a genius.”

  “Don’t I know it, honey!” Serge laughed and snapped, spun me around and whipped the cape off. “Regina, get her some product and a brush if she needs it. On me. The eyebrows too! Charging for that is like charging a dying man for water in the desert.”

  Ouch.

  I could only imagine what the bill would have looked like if I had been charged for everything.

  Double ouch.

  I signed the credit card slip and listened to Regina explain how to use the product and brush, already feeling the sting of my future credit card bill.

  I admired myself in every surface that I passed by and by the time I got home I wasn’t even hungry. Maybe it was the extravagant cost of the haircut that made me sick, or my body needing to heal i
ts wounds, but all I wanted to do was sleep.

  The wind outside, the dogs running, the children playing, the adults yelling all conspired to keep me awake. The fact that it was still light out didn’t help, either. My new hairstyle begged to be seen, but… I couldn't. I wanted to stay in my apartment, under the map of the world I refused to face.

  I plodded reluctantly to the living room when it was clear I would not be sleeping. I flipped my old TV on to a show about travel and started a pot of water for the pasta. I set the oven on low for garlic bread and poured a glass of water. I was never great at cooking. Sandra was always trying to teach me how to love the kitchen but I never had the patience. I forgot about the pasta once it was in until the water boiled over. I salvaged my soggy pasta and my loaf-sized crouton by pouring sauce and butter on everything. I watched three hours of TV before I finally went into my bedroom, moved a heart on my map from India to Madagascar, and went to bed.

  Something tapping at my window woke me up. I rolled over and tried to ignore it, but it persisted very intentionally.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  It was impossible for someone to be tapping at my third story window. I pulled a pillow up over my head, thinking of all the cartoons I'd watched where the scary monster at the window was just a tree branch.

  The real monster was always under the bed or in the closet.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  There were no trees outside my window. Something must have gotten caught as it was blowing by and was being knocked around by the wind. A bag from the dollar store, with a small toy or something in it, that's all.

  Taptaptap.

  Feeling ridiculous, I decided to check the window. Just as I pulled the covers down, the tapping startled me back under. Annoyed at my own stupidity, I pushed the blankets onto the floor and got up. I jerked the blinds open.

  A long pale fingertip, at the end of a long pale hand, attached to a long pale man, reached toward me.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  chapter 5

  The pale man stood outside of my third floor apartment window in a slim fitting charcoal grey suit, with a pale blue tie that accentuated his pale blue eyes, with his jet black hair slicked back.