Beast(35)

Metal chunks from the hinges rain down and I let them fall, pointy sides up, on the meat of my shoulders. An old oak desk sits in the corner. My muscles, these big giant things I’ve always hated and tried to hide, scream as they come to life. I squeeze my hands into fists and lunge for it. Lifting it over my head, I throw it to the concrete floor, where it cracks in half. My bloody knuckles burn and drip on the floor in a pattern. I swing my hand out and the drops dribble from my nails and splatter down in a lazy arc. A canvas. Oh look, I’m finger painting.

My phone beeps. Sucking air in through my nose and firing it through my mouth, I pause. Everything hurts. I don’t want to have a phone right now. I’m afraid of what it says. I’m actually drooling. I sigh and wipe it with the back of my furry hand. My fingers look like they’ve been run through a garbage disposal. Great. Now there’s blood and drool on my face.

I am finally what people see.

My future life streaks before me. I’ll live alone in a trailer park, be even more hairy and huge than ever, and subsist on cases of beer, peanuts, and old porn. If I ever do have female companionship, it will be the kind I have to pay for. I just hope the future escort doesn’t mind escorting herself to the lot my double-wide sits on.

Or maybe I’ll just give up and become the hulking football player everyone thinks I should be, and I’ll get a big fat NFL contract and bash everyone to death and get a bunch of groupies who’ll only talk to me because of my millions of dollars, and they’ll go back to my penthouse and f*ck me on Sunday nights after the game. On the Lord’s day.

Trailer park or penthouse, either way I’ll find girls who’ll like me for a price.

I slump at the thought and the mirrors mock me.

God knows what Jamie saw in me.

Jamie.

I feel her lips on mine and it feels like slivers of glass from the broken mirror crept into my chest and rolled around. It hurts. Everything hurts.

“Hello?” I hear from above.

Mom’s footsteps overhead walk around in confused loops. To the living room and back to the kitchen. I look at the annihilated basement. I’m covered in blood. There’s glass embedded in my forearm. I part the thick hair with my fat fingers and try to dig it out.

“You home, Dylan?”

This is not going to end well.

Pondering what to say, I peek in some of the remaining mirror to see just how bad it really is, and I realize I don’t care anymore. I am the Beast. Mom will have to deal.

The basement door wheezes open. “Dylan, are you downstairs?”

“Yeah.”

Her feet pad down the top steps. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting on a pile of broken glass and bleeding.”

Now they run, bang, bang, bang, and boom—she’s at the bottom, gasping. “Oh my god.” She races to me and kneels. “Did someone break in? What happened? Are you okay?”

“I did this.”

“What do you mean, you did this?” Her mouth bobs open and closed like she’s a drunk goldfish. “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?” She stands up. I shrug. An embedded chunk of glass bites the inside of my shoulder.

Mom’s hands lightly sweep over the train set and everything still clinging to the walls. “Something happened,” she says. “You didn’t just do this for fun.”

“Maybe I did.”

She picks up a large piece of fake grass and places it gently back on top of a rounded hill, patting it down. “I don’t believe you’re capable of this.”

“Here’s proof.” I raise my knuckles.

Lunging to my side, Mom seizes my bloody hands. “You need to go to a hospital.”

“No,” I growl. “I’m never going to a hospital ever again.”

“But, Dylan—”

“Never.”

“These are deep. You need stitches.”

“I’ll get a Band-Aid.”

“Please.” She cups my cheek. I shake off her hand. “Tell me what happened.”

“I need you to leave me alone.”

“I will not.”

“Yes,” I rumble. “You will.”

“What? Where is this coming from?”

Jamie’s face. It sneaks inside my thoughts, and I feel her entire body balancing inside the palm of my hand. She stood in my hand and I held her against the sky. Thinking about it burns. Aches. “Can’t I just have a shitty day for once in my frigging life?”

“No!” she yells so sharp, it snaps me backward. “You did not destroy the last thing your father ever made because things didn’t go your way today!” She bends and screams in my face. “He was dying! He could barely move! Cancer was eating up all his organs, one by one, and he still dragged himself down here because he wanted to make this for you. He wanted to leave you one thing, just one thing for his little boy, and you’ve ruined it!”

“I was a baby. I barely knew what a train was.”

“That’s not the point,” she says. “This little village was his legacy to you.”

“Bullshit!” I burst out. “I’m stuck in his legacy every single day!” I am my father’s clone. Each picture of him might as well be a picture of me in bad clothes. I pitch forward and scramble to my foot. I’m all rickety, bumping around on one leg because my other one can’t handle the weight. I pushed it too far. “If you think I’m thrilled about being a carbon copy of my dad, you’re crazy.”