Beast: Chapter 1
Once, there was a time, when darkness swaddled him. Before that, there must’ve been another time, when the swaddles were cloth, and warm hands, but that escapes his memory. A mercy, really.
He knows he had a mother; after she was gone, a father and a brother, but they were all gone before he came twenty years of age. There was a war - there’s always a war. He would have died there as well, if he’d been allowed to go. Instead, his brother died, his big brother, nameless, faceless, what a blessing that he is so, it makes him so impossible to remember. But now him, being the sole heir, the first crown prince, the only hope for a bloodline, was shut inside, while his father left for war: everyone left for war. And there were no lavish balls thrown, no feast’s had, because he wasn’t man and host enough yet to throw them (that's what she said).
He was alone - except for an enchantress left to look after him. She had been with their family since- since the death of his mother, watching over them, and she was keen to take care of him, as keen as the king was to leave his son in the care of someone else. After he had left with his army, never to return, she shut all the doors, all the curtains, enveloping them in the darkness, out of the eyes of danger, or anyone. He didn’t mind. He used to be a bright boy, happy, but being left behind made him anxious, unable to contradict when the enchantress (witch) told him it was for the best. Instead, he played music.
He was very good with music, filling the house with the notes he'd drawn himself, hastily, on white paper. He swayed with his whole body, feeling the melody inside, and for a moment he forgot everything else. It was just like before. But then there were hands on his shoulders when he did, fingers in his hair. Soon all the time. He stopped playing then, to stop the fingers. Keep playing, she would say with an enchanting voice, but he couldn’t.
Then they came for him everywhere, when they ate, when he was reading, when he was resting and sleeping, and there was a whisper in his ear. Aren’t we happy here? There’s a war, but look how happy we are. He asked her to go to her own bedroom, but she wouldn’t. She would sit there, on the edge of his bed, and caress his forehead. Sleep, fair boy, I will watch over you.
She didn’t know how anxious it made him, he thought. How his body tensed instead of relaxing, as she must have meant. He was starting to feel like he should speak, to tell her she was not his mother. So one day he did. Curtly, but softly, as he knew he should be thankful to her for all she’d done. She laughed.
I am glad to hear it, she said. I would not wish to be your mother. And she lay beside him on the bed, and slid her hand down into his trousers.
What if he could have gone to the war? What if he could have gone instead of his brother? Could he have died? He could have died without a touch - since no one had ever touched him much before, (maybe because she had wanted it so). His body reacted, though it didn’t feel like anything, like nothing at all. Dying without a touch - maybe that would not have been so bad.
His mind was reducing into an animal state, so gradually that he didn’t know it. There was a shadow on the wall, his own shadow, moving, heavily. There was ache in his bones, bones, which he had broken some time ago. A low growl echoed in the hall, low, rumbling, breaking but continuous, like cogwheels turning. Steps dragged behind him.
The path was filled with broken things, splinters of wood, scraps of canvas, bent stiffly because of the paint on them, gold-guilded picture frames, which crackled under his feet. There was barely any memory of what here had looked like, before. Not this. But in her curse she had granted one gift to him, and that was the flickering out of conscious thought. It had taken years, yes, so she must not have meant for it to happen. But it is so easy to forget how to be human, when humanity is not given a chance.
He had writhed in pain, at first, he had woken up to it. He had clasped his face, which was burning, and realized that in the stead of his own, delicate hands, there were large, wrinkled, monstrous fingers, covered in coarse fuzz, with yellowed, thick claws bursting profanely out of the skin. His scream was a half-animal roar, then a whine. His whole body had changed: instead of slender and light, it was heavy and he was acutely aware of it. He pissed himself in fear, rolled off the wetted bed, unable to coordinate his intended movements with this new mass all around him, and when he fell, he saw himself naked, all brown hairs, not skin. When he turned to the mirror, his face was not his own.
He felt the largeness of it, the jankiness, the awkwardness, but it was nothing he could have imagined. Twice as large as his own head, there was facial hair where had been none, a huge forehead with two, glistening, skinned horns sticking out of where there should have been a hairline. There was hair, definitely, but it was a shaggy mane, covering and surrounding his head and the protuberance on his back that made him hunchbacked. And the face: it was an ape-like face, a devilish face. The eyes… small, black, empty, almost hidden by the downturned skin of eyebrows. A different, swelled nose, two sharp, ivory fangs protruding upwards from his mouth.
It was the face of a monster.
He was sure there had, at some point, been people in the castle. Guests, men and women, servants. Now, if there were servants, he never saw them. The food simply appeared when he went to eat. He had a lot of time to think, and to remember. In time, his memory reduced, and all he could remember was what had happened just before. He forgot almost everything of that body, the body that was still his in his mind, not this perturbing mass that he had to carry around - but he didn’t forget the touches. He had said no, to the question. That was surely it. She had devoted her life to him, loved him so very much, and he had lead him on so that she thought he loved her too. He could still hear her voice, from when he’d somehow rolled down to the entrance hall in search of her, immediately after.
Look at you. Finally what you ought to look like, you ungrateful beast, and there was amusement which must have masked a deep hurt, must have. Yes, you are, a beast, she continued, as he howled, bending to cover his ears from the voice bellowing all around the hall. And beast you shall remain! Until someone truly loves you. And then she laughed and laughed, until she was gone - for who could love a beast?
He knows he had a mother; after she was gone, a father and a brother, but they were all gone before he came twenty years of age. There was a war - there’s always a war. He would have died there as well, if he’d been allowed to go. Instead, his brother died, his big brother, nameless, faceless, what a blessing that he is so, it makes him so impossible to remember. But now him, being the sole heir, the first crown prince, the only hope for a bloodline, was shut inside, while his father left for war: everyone left for war. And there were no lavish balls thrown, no feast’s had, because he wasn’t man and host enough yet to throw them (that's what she said).
He was alone - except for an enchantress left to look after him. She had been with their family since- since the death of his mother, watching over them, and she was keen to take care of him, as keen as the king was to leave his son in the care of someone else. After he had left with his army, never to return, she shut all the doors, all the curtains, enveloping them in the darkness, out of the eyes of danger, or anyone. He didn’t mind. He used to be a bright boy, happy, but being left behind made him anxious, unable to contradict when the enchantress (witch) told him it was for the best. Instead, he played music.
He was very good with music, filling the house with the notes he'd drawn himself, hastily, on white paper. He swayed with his whole body, feeling the melody inside, and for a moment he forgot everything else. It was just like before. But then there were hands on his shoulders when he did, fingers in his hair. Soon all the time. He stopped playing then, to stop the fingers. Keep playing, she would say with an enchanting voice, but he couldn’t.
Then they came for him everywhere, when they ate, when he was reading, when he was resting and sleeping, and there was a whisper in his ear. Aren’t we happy here? There’s a war, but look how happy we are. He asked her to go to her own bedroom, but she wouldn’t. She would sit there, on the edge of his bed, and caress his forehead. Sleep, fair boy, I will watch over you.
She didn’t know how anxious it made him, he thought. How his body tensed instead of relaxing, as she must have meant. He was starting to feel like he should speak, to tell her she was not his mother. So one day he did. Curtly, but softly, as he knew he should be thankful to her for all she’d done. She laughed.
I am glad to hear it, she said. I would not wish to be your mother. And she lay beside him on the bed, and slid her hand down into his trousers.
What if he could have gone to the war? What if he could have gone instead of his brother? Could he have died? He could have died without a touch - since no one had ever touched him much before, (maybe because she had wanted it so). His body reacted, though it didn’t feel like anything, like nothing at all. Dying without a touch - maybe that would not have been so bad.
His mind was reducing into an animal state, so gradually that he didn’t know it. There was a shadow on the wall, his own shadow, moving, heavily. There was ache in his bones, bones, which he had broken some time ago. A low growl echoed in the hall, low, rumbling, breaking but continuous, like cogwheels turning. Steps dragged behind him.
The path was filled with broken things, splinters of wood, scraps of canvas, bent stiffly because of the paint on them, gold-guilded picture frames, which crackled under his feet. There was barely any memory of what here had looked like, before. Not this. But in her curse she had granted one gift to him, and that was the flickering out of conscious thought. It had taken years, yes, so she must not have meant for it to happen. But it is so easy to forget how to be human, when humanity is not given a chance.
He had writhed in pain, at first, he had woken up to it. He had clasped his face, which was burning, and realized that in the stead of his own, delicate hands, there were large, wrinkled, monstrous fingers, covered in coarse fuzz, with yellowed, thick claws bursting profanely out of the skin. His scream was a half-animal roar, then a whine. His whole body had changed: instead of slender and light, it was heavy and he was acutely aware of it. He pissed himself in fear, rolled off the wetted bed, unable to coordinate his intended movements with this new mass all around him, and when he fell, he saw himself naked, all brown hairs, not skin. When he turned to the mirror, his face was not his own.
He felt the largeness of it, the jankiness, the awkwardness, but it was nothing he could have imagined. Twice as large as his own head, there was facial hair where had been none, a huge forehead with two, glistening, skinned horns sticking out of where there should have been a hairline. There was hair, definitely, but it was a shaggy mane, covering and surrounding his head and the protuberance on his back that made him hunchbacked. And the face: it was an ape-like face, a devilish face. The eyes… small, black, empty, almost hidden by the downturned skin of eyebrows. A different, swelled nose, two sharp, ivory fangs protruding upwards from his mouth.
It was the face of a monster.
He was sure there had, at some point, been people in the castle. Guests, men and women, servants. Now, if there were servants, he never saw them. The food simply appeared when he went to eat. He had a lot of time to think, and to remember. In time, his memory reduced, and all he could remember was what had happened just before. He forgot almost everything of that body, the body that was still his in his mind, not this perturbing mass that he had to carry around - but he didn’t forget the touches. He had said no, to the question. That was surely it. She had devoted her life to him, loved him so very much, and he had lead him on so that she thought he loved her too. He could still hear her voice, from when he’d somehow rolled down to the entrance hall in search of her, immediately after.
Look at you. Finally what you ought to look like, you ungrateful beast, and there was amusement which must have masked a deep hurt, must have. Yes, you are, a beast, she continued, as he howled, bending to cover his ears from the voice bellowing all around the hall. And beast you shall remain! Until someone truly loves you. And then she laughed and laughed, until she was gone - for who could love a beast?