carole gill copyright 2009

Beast of Prey

Another night after another day. And him rotten just like always. Using his eyes to frighten her. Using his mouth to curse her and torment her.

He’s let her leave the room this time. Sometimes he doesn’t. It depends on his mood.

She can’t even remember what the fight was over—something stupid but not to him, never to him.

He doesn’t beat her; his mode of operation is to kill her slowly—mind-fucking her and wearing her down. He wants her to die or to lose what’s left of her soul.

She doesn’t even want to run away anymore. Those pitiful dreams have died along with hope.

She can hear him moving around below. Her one wish is that he’ll fall asleep drunk and maybe she’ll have a few hours in the welcoming dark to rest.

Sleep is more elusive than ever—normal sleep—although there’s that lovely deep, dark haze that sometimes comes to carry her off in its painless embrace—don’t knock respite even if it is brief.

He wasn’t always a beast. She has no idea why he changed. But her thinking is muddy now—she’s losing it, she knows.

A smile curls her pale lips, better to lose it—better to sink into some eternal oblivion where she won’t care anymore. It can’t go on forever, not like this.

The room is cold, he won’t put the heating on—he likes to think of her huddled up there—curled up in an icy ball, suffering—enduring.

She falls asleep or passes out, the relevance is irrelevant.

Later, she awakens and needs to pee. The room is still dark, but there’s a small lamp she can use—if the chamber pot is there, she can use that—no luxury of a bathroom here.

The door is locked, there isn’t any reason to check, she’s been with him too long to know he’s not forgetful.

She finds the pot and relieves herself. Then she cries. Oh yes, she still cries sometimes—the tears feel frozen on her face.

A crash—and she jumps, startled—clutching her bony chest—he doesn’t have to withhold food from her anymore, she can barely eat what he condescends to give her. A tray with a half-eaten sandwich of old cheese and moldy bread attest to that. Look, it’s there—on the floor near the door.

Another smile and her eyes light with a rare glimmer of expectation. That crash, did he fall down?! Is he lying down dead, his monster’s head smashed open like an overripe melon?

Ah, but hope is fleeting. “No,” she reasons, he probably just dropped something.

She waits—but there’s nothing--no other sound. She begins to stand on trembling legs to patter over to the door to listen. The TV’s still on she can hear it.

The doorknob—like a magical orb—waiting to be turned, waiting to lead her into--into what? The Promised Land? Hardly. Hell more like. Yet, stupid creature that she is, she reaches out to feel its smoothness.

I only want to feel it—it’s not as though I think it would actually turn--!

But it does turn—and her breath catches in her throat.

It’s open! He hasn’t locked it!

Dare she?

She dares. Soon, she is treading slowly—creeping along an inch at a time—

Don’t let the floorboards creak!

She leans over the banister—there’s nothing to see. Just his briefcase in the hall. Briefcase! They don’t know him like she does!

She pauses at the stairs, waiting—too afraid not to be waiting—

Darren?

His name, not out loud of course, it’s only in her head.

She’s half-way down the stairs when suddenly she stops—she can hear him now puttering around in the kitchen.

Something leads her down the stairs—her will (somehow regained) perhaps—and she finds herself standing in the doorway—he’s bent over—looking in the fridge—

He spins around.

She falls back—he’s covered in blood—blood down his arms and chest—all over his mouth—he throws the food down and smiles—but his teeth look different, they’re yellow and pointed.

“Just snacking!”

Her eyes lock onto the thing lying near his foot—the sandwich—but then she screams because it isn’t a sandwich! It’s--!

He reaches over and picks it up.

“Young, best when they’re young, darling!”

She’s used to hell, but this! That’s--!

He holds it up proudly. It’s a child’s arm!

“There’s plenty for both of us!”

He begins to move sideways—dipping one shoulder first and then the other—then he smiles at her.

Something huge sweeps up from behind him—two some things—he moves again—and she realizes—what she’s looking at. He has wings—great, black wings!

He laughs but the laughter changes—and becomes a hawk-like shriek.

She tries to run, but he’s too fast for her. Swooping down and knocking her onto her back—

and then, like the predatory beast he has finally morphed into, he begins to feed. For she was prey and nothing more.

Her home, his nest. Her life, his sustenance.