October 22, 2017 by Patrick Starks
The whole room would turn into a tornado as all the novels and plays from the rarest of Greek literature surrounded us. The Beast however wasn’t afraid, not even concerned for the conditioning of those books; he was content, embraced in the moment. One book here, two book there, as they smacked the side of the Beast face from everywhere. No ripple of movement was formed upon his bristle skin, as I would continue to play dodgeball in the very study that the Beast had led me in, and there in the middle of it all, bestowed the beauty.
The Beauty was radiant as ever, but this time in a more literal perspective as her eyes glowed of a pinkish-red, the same as the very roses the other beast centuries ago would cradle within their robust hands.
“Do you see it now…. Do now see why she is important, why I protect her with any means necessary,” questioned the Beast. I felt I somewhat understood, but still I couldn’t see the connection, but of course the Beast would explain, just as he’d done the many conversations we would have. “You see Beauty, well… she’s somewhat my mother, or that’s what I was told by the Beast before me—my brothers.” I tried not to smile, tried not to throw up even on how something so disgusting as the Beast could and would ever have the galls to renounce his birthing of such a goddess, and yet his face remained of stone as I smirked into the sadness of his monstrous, yet hazel eyes.
“Smile if you want boy. You don’t have to understand it, but you will listen,” said the Beast with frustration hidden behind his gritted teeth. I’d of course attempt to listen but with all the books flying around and the whole building on the brink of crashing down, I’d wonder if Beauty would ever stop or could stop doing what she was previously told to do; and so I would ask the Beast, to ask the Beauty for her pause, for him to have my divided attention.
The Beast would do as asked, pausing the Beauty’s radiant magic, in which I felt to be overexerting if anything—to her body, to her mind. It was ironic to me, hysterical even, that she the Beauty was his mother, and yet he treated her like shit, like a bad son, like a bad little boy I would guess; although, I’m sure his excuse would’ve been that it was for her own good, for her protection, and yet still I felt it was wrong, I felt he could, or I could treat her better.
Beauty would eventually walk back through the very doors she’d came, as her body glided through their wooden exterior like a ghost in shame. Once her presents became absent, the Beast and I would continue our conversation, as we stayed afloat of all the books and paper we now found ourselves now submerged in.
“I like you, I really like you, you have balls,” humored the beast. I was flattered, but felt I hadn’t any balls, at least not for the moment, not even a pubic hair I’d chuckle. “I have one more thing that you need to see.” The beast would then backstroke his way over to an empty shelf, one in which that still had a book left on it. The book was slightly different than the ones we swam in; it was in fact a book, but that of an exaggerative size—a size so big that no mortal man could hold it, not even the fittest; but of course, we were in Seattle, most anyone knew to hold was a Starbucks cup of coffee, or their laptops sadly.
The Beast wrestled and tugged on the book for just a few seconds, and then a clicking sound echoed the room. I’d ask the Beast if he was ok, for that I feared maybe it was his back. To me he was old for his age, although nicotine can do that to a young soul, even a Beast like he—I could always smell it beneath his fur as he scurried pass me in eagerness to present—it would once again bring back memory of the dimwitted sheriff I’d meet hours before.
After the fading of the sound, a door to the left of the Beast then opened, and we along with the books we bathed in would flush through that open door as if he’d just pull the handle of a toilet, praying to the gods that there’d be no feces included.
We slid down many steps before we reached our destination. Many cobwebs my face caught in that moment, fearing that there would be a big enough spider to bring more paranoia to my soul than even the Beast himself had done. “We are here,” said the Beast taking deep breathes, from the workout he’d felt he’d done, or got. He pulled out picture of a man from an old dusty drawer, which laid plopped in the middle of the basement we now stood; and thankfully most of the books were caught in pockets of hallways on our journey down, or else we would of probably drown in the stories that swarmed us, in which I always seem to find myself doing.
The man was handsome, a mortal, the opposite of the Beast. He wasn’t a really tall man, but tall enough for any insecure woman to not judge, but to love. His hair was long and dark, but he kept it in a ponytail as it would most likely get in the way of his striking features. The beast clinched on the picture tighter and tighter, with eyes burning through it for a period longer than what I assumed he could bare. “This man, this monster, was the one who killed them all—my brothers, my father,” he said. My eyes couldn’t comprehend how such a man was even capable of such, but I figured if David could defeat Goliath, anything was possible; although, David only fought one Goliath.
“He just couldn’t let it go. He was so obsessed with mother that he could never let it go—the fact that my father had one mothers heart. He waited, he waited, and he waited for the perfect opportunity, when father became human; he knew he wouldn’t had been able to take him on otherwise, and so the cowardly bastard waited. And for my brothers, they died on the battle field in gain of vengeance for father’s death, by the hands of the entourage the man had always kept by his side. Mom went in shock after that, she doesn’t really speak much, neither social with the community she was once a part of, she won’t even read a book anymore—the one hobby I know she held close to her heart, as well as fathers,” said the Beast with now eyes and soul of a humans. It seemed behind such grotesque features, there still lied within it innocents, that of a child’s.
“The roses that my father, that my brothers held would all die after they did. In attempt of saving those roses mom spiritually embedded her heart within them, hoping that she could one day restore the family we once had, and sadly I still find that impossible, but she has always had faith. But it will never end until we bring justice to the man that brought so much pain to us all. This man is still out there somewhere, alive and plotting to strike again. I know he want stop until he finishes me, and finally takes my mother away. We need you, she needs you. I know it’s a lot to ask for, and I know you didn’t sign up for this, but still, I ask will you help us?” said the Beast, as his knees touched the ground in aid for a knight, his final submission for help.
I was hesitant. It was all so much to process. I’d never heard such a story, yet in the teary eyes of the beast I could see that it was fact. I’d agree to help but I needed to know of the whereabouts of the man, and what he’d be plotting. The Beast gave me a little more detail and whatever piece of information he’d heard from his friends on the streets. Little did I know, the man we would go after would be the wealthiest man in Seattle—owning multiple buildings, multiple properties within the city.
And in the dusted picture I held in my quivery hands, I would be given my first clue where to start, the heart of Seattle—Westlake Center.