Page 8 of Beauty

The gun goes off right in front of me.

A bullet enters his skull.

Blood splashes all around me.

And I scream so loud my eardrums feel like they’re pierced.

Shrieking, I sit up straight in bed, covered in sweat. I throw the blanket off and stare at the wall for a while, trying to regain my bearings. I don’t know how much time has passed, but it feels like everything went by in a flash. I was right there in that warehouse again, in front of that chair, but instead of my father being strapped to it … it was Beast.

And I watched as the gun tore a hole into his forehead.

My hand instantly covers my mouth as I swallow a panicked whimper.

My father’s snoring tears my eyes away from the wall. He’s fast asleep in the chair, mouth half-open, a fly resting on his bandaged leg. The stench of food gone bad and old blood and dirt fills the room and makes my stomach flip over.

I run to the bathroom and throw up in the toilet until I’m empty, and everything hurts. There goes the food I needed so badly.

I flush, but the sound of water rushing past me only makes the tears roll faster, harder, uncontrollably. I sink to the floor and lie on the tiles, staring at the light up above. And I wish now, more than ever before, that I could’ve taken Beast with me.

That I’d be able to turn back time and fight with him by his side.

That I could’ve saved him instead of my father.

I cover my eyes with my hands, unable to look at the world, let alone myself, for even thinking about it. Hiccups make my breathing unsteady, so I sit up to try to regain control. But my breathing is irregular, and every breath feels like a stab to the heart.

I ran because Beast told me to, because he wanted to give me the gift of freedom, but now that I’m here safely in this hotel, I feel like I made the wrong choice.

I left him there to die.

BANG!

I can still hear the gunshot ricochet in my head. Over and over again, like a song on repeat. But this song only plays in my nightmares, and I want it to stop.

Is he really dead?

The thought makes my throat clamp up.

Could it be true?

My eyes water again.

I have to know. I need to know if he’s dead or not.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opens up, and my father stares at me in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, apparently up on his feet again. “You need to sleep. You’ll need the energy for the coming days.”

“I don’t care,” I mutter.

He snorts. “What do you mean,you don’t care?”

He looks at me like I’ve gone insane.

Maybe I have.

“I don’t care if I have energy or not.” Tears roll down my cheeks. “I don’t care anymore. About anything.” It’s all coming out now. “I left him to die.”

My father stares at me for a moment as if he’s trying to figure out who I’m talking about, but then it finally clicks.