A nibble that doesn't bite

Kristen said she wanted to read, and so...

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How do the damned react to their condition? Do they mourn their fall from grace, or is that only the wishful/hateful/envious thoughts of the self-righteous? If the Damned are, by their nature, held apart from Salvation, is it not more likely that they revel in their newfound freedom, finding truest bliss in their abandonment? Once you have been thrown clear of the conventions and restrictions of piety, isn’t willful self-indulgence your only duty?

It was the logic of the Beast, if such a thing was possible, for I don’t know if the monster that sleeps inside me would admit to logic if it even knew of such things. Logic was immaterial before the stretch of limb, the turn of fang, the twitch of claw; the Beast dealt with sensation, which operated at a level far more deeply-embedded than logic. It sat comfortably in the reptilian underparts of our brains, areas that most people, if they thought of them at all, tried to ignore.
But the taste of the meat was sublime.

This was the thought that held my tongue as Janice spoke of hopes and dreams and our future together, in a steady intravenous drip of liquid conversation that I met with timely nods and endless chewing. I chewed and tasted and it was better than anything. Almost. There was something better, but I would not let myself think about it. It was the monster, tempting me.

It had been twelve days since Bob Kranowitz had been found horribly mauled outside of Cedar Glen, the gated community wherein the 45-year-old accountant lived with his wife and three daughters. Authorities blamed a wolf for his death, and traps had been set throughout the area, but they’d only caught coyotes and a drunken bum. Several renowned huntsmen had declared that they would smoke out the Beast and bring it in, because once a predator got a taste for human flesh, there was nothing else to be done. Maneater, they said. Rogue.

The steak was transcendant. I chewed it over and over, piece by glorious piece, and I tried to give myself over to it entirely, but other thoughts bubbled up, intruded.

“My doctor thinks I’ll never walk again,” Janice said. “But I think I’ll be okay. There’s nothing wrong with my spine. It’s just my legs. I know it.”

“Yes,” I said. “Doctors aren’t always right.”

“I wish I healed as fast as you,” Janice said. “You look totally better.”

“I’m still scarred from it,” I said, swallowing the steak. Janice wore a peach-colored dress. Her legs were too thin, and even her hose could not hide the scars from my eyes. The flesh was fading from her bones, despite her efforts in the pool. It would take more than a fitness baptism to restore her, and the awareness of it made me sad.

“What’s wrong?” Janice asked. “Don’t cry on my account, Brandon.”

The Beast had an instinct for weakness; it could spot it wherever it saw it, and would sneer at it. A disguised limp. A nursed wrist. A muffled cough. A shiver. The usual body language dance that played out in front of us was laid bare to the eyes of the monster; it could see the score, note for note, and know where the tune was headed, knew all the moves.

It saw Janice, too. I could see it watching, speculating, salivating.

She’s lame, it says. No hope for her.

She’ll get better, I thought, hating the Beast for its big, toothy mouth. I did not like it looking at her through my eyes. I concentrated on the plate, on cutting steak with a knife, slowly and methodically, carving out cubes of it, one by one.

Janice was precious. Her half-smile was a solace to me. She was strong. Far stronger than I was, in so many ways. Would she have lost control of the monster, if it had tainted her blood, instead? I didn’t think she would have succumbed.

Another piece went into my mouth, and Janice kept talking.

“I’m going to get better,” she said. “I’ve been reading a lot about it. Everything I can.”

I could see the desperation on the other side of her eyes, welled behind the determination like water bound behind a dam. She would not consider “what if”, because it set off a kinetic chain reaction of unfulfilled ambitions and hopelessness that would flood her spirit.

“I’ll stay with you no matter what,” I said, in defiance of the monster, and realized it was a mistake the moment it left my lips, for Janice read more words into everything that I said.

“Why wouldn’t you?” she said. “This is just a speedbump, Brandon. I’m just asking for patience, that’s all.”

“Of course,” I said. She watched me a moment before returning to her plate. The wheelchair made her look smaller than she was.

But the Beast just laughed. She’s afraid you’ll leave her. I would. She’s weak.

Shut up.

Better off putting her out of her misery.

“I just wished I healed as well as you,” she said. “You were as bad off as me, and yet there you are. It’s worse for girls.”

“Chicks dig scars,” I said, trying to make light.

“Only on guys,” she said. Janice tried to laugh, but I could see it hurt her to think of it. The Beast saw her hand flick to her legs, readjusting the napkin that sat there, a protective, futile gesture.

“You’re fine,” I said. And I meant it.

“Not much I can do about it,” she said. “Wear slacks, I suppose. One step at a time, once I can take a step, that is.”

I can fix her, the Beast says, suddenly. Just as easy as you were fixed.

I’m not fixed. I’m damaged.

Whatever. You were nothing. Now you’re something. I can make her something, too.

The monster that slept inside me always lied. Always. It could just as easily have been setting a trap for it to prey on Janice, using my compassion and my sympathy as the bait. Just one bite, maybe two, surely three, and she’ll be right as rain. Or dead.

“My mom won’t stop crying,” Janice said. “She’s worried about our wedding plans. Can you believe that? It’s not like we even talked about it, you know?”

Or equivalently damaged.

She’ll think you’re crazy if you tell her, so you can’t. You can only make it happen. She’ll thank you for it when she walks again.

I thought of wolfsbane. Great fields of it, blowing in the wind. The monster snarled, recoiled. I had a good imagination, more than the Beast did. Its senses made it vulnerable, even locked inside my heart the way it was.

You’d rather her be a cripple?

It was beyond consideration.

“But no way am I going to a wedding in this,” she thumped the wheelchair with a palm, drank some wine. Janice liked her wine, swirling the red in her glass, making me think of blood, like the kind in movies.

I’d rather her not be a monster.

You’re not the monster. I am. Remember?

Shouldn’t you be sleeping?

I’m hungry.

I’m eating.

Not nearly enough. Kranowitz didn’t stay with me. I need more.

I cut a piece of steak and stuffed it into my mouth, chewing again, savoring. It really was good, but I could tell it wasn’t enough for the monster. Its maw was built for feral feasts, not prim little dinners at candlelit tables.

Perhaps in retribution, it conjured an image of a kitchen rampage, padding in on all fours, snarling, flicking foam on the floor, taking bites out of terrified cooks, running them down as they tried to flee, slipping in their clogs, hiding in the freezer, while outside, the Big Bad Wolf waited, stalking, hearing them dialing cell phones from inside, and then, with an elastic crack of bone and sinew, the Beast growing longer and taller, paws becoming hands, grasping at the handle, giving it a tug, and then a yank, tearing the door from the hinges. And inside, the cooks screamed, and the Wolf howled and roared with laughter, diving into them, turning their kitchen whites into ragged reds with garish snaps of gaping jaws.

“What do you think, Brandon?” Janice asked.

“About what?”

Her eyes did a long-suffering roll. “About a trip out of town? Christ, you never listen.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. It wasn’t true. I did listen, when the Beast wasn’t in the way. “Where do you want to go?”

“New Hampshire,” she said. “We can just drive up.”

“This weekend?”

“Yes,” she said, exasperated. More wine vanished from her glass.

I thought about my internal calendar, tried to place it. Did it matter? Would the monster wait for the Moon? Did it even care, anymore?

“Whatever you like,” I said.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” she asked. I nodded, feeling bad for her. “Not a pity-visit, either. Something fun. I want to go hiking.”

“Hiking?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “There are easy trails. It would be nice.”

The Beast thought of deer. Dead deer. And little pigs.