Page 18 of Beasts

“You play guitar?” Niles inquires, eyeing the sealed guitar case.

“Yeah, I’ve been writing songs for quite some time. It’s a passion of mine,” I reply, the anticipation building inside me.

Echo, ever enthusiastic, asks, “Can you play something for us?”

“Of course,” I respond, beaming with the thought of sharing my music with them. As Nolan helps me remove the tape from the case, I can hardly contain my excitement, reminiscent of the joy I felt when I first received the guitar as a teenager. However, that excitement swiftly turns to shock and heartache as I open the case. The sight that greets me is devastating – the strings of my beloved guitar are severed, the neck is broken, and the body bears ugly scratches. It’s clear this wasn’t an accident. The realization hits me hard. Someone must be responsible for this malicious act. I struggle to hold back tears as I forcefully shut the case, the sound echoing my crushed spirit. The room falls silent, the triplets and Nolan looking on with a mix of sympathy and anger.

The supportive presence of Nolan and the triplets is a small comfort, but the loss of my guitar – a symbol of my love for music and a connection to my past – is a bitter pill to swallow. It’s a painful reminder of the pettiness and cruelty that can come from those who choose to misunderstand or envy others. The emotional weight of seeing my cherished guitar in pieces overwhelms me, and Nolan’s concerned voice only adds to the turmoil. “I’m fine,” I assert, though my voice betrays the struggle within. Clutching the guitar case, I retreat upstairs, seeking solitude in my room.

Once inside, I slam the door shut, a physical manifestation of my frustration and grief. Gently, I lay the guitar on the spare bed, its fragmented state a stark contrast to the memories it holds. I recall the day my father gave it to me, a gift that symbolized his support and love for my musical passion. The guitar wasn’t just an instrument; it was a treasured connection to my family, to moments of joy and growth. Sitting by the window, tears well up uncontrollably as I clasp the broken neck of the guitar, mourning the loss of something irreplaceable.

The sounds from downstairs fade, and for a moment, I hope to be alone with my thoughts. But then, a knock at the door pulls me from my reverie. “Come in,” I say, attempting to mask my sorrow.

To my surprise, it’s Oliver at the doorway. His eyes briefly scan the room, settling on the guitar in my lap, but he doesn’t comment on my evident distress.

“Everyone’s left for the day,” he informs me, his voice neutral. “Thought you might want to practice some lines.”

Grateful for the distraction, I nod, quickly wiping away tears and setting the guitar aside. Picking up the drama script, I follow Oliver, finding myself heading toward his room – a place I never thought I’d revisit. The memory of our last encounter there lingers in my mind, yet I don’t voice any hesitation.

Entering Oliver’s room, I take in the dimly lit space with new eyes. It’s a mix of organized chaos—piles of books, papers, and instruments scattered around, yet each item seems to have its place. His bed is pushed against one wall, a queen-sized sanctuary in the midst of the clutter.

The most striking feature is a small baby grand piano near where a window is obscured by heavy curtains. I can’t help but wonder about the story behind it and how it found its way into this attic room.

Oliver gestures towards the study desk, and I take a seat, still processing the surroundings. The room feels like a reflection of Oliver himself—mysterious, layered, and unexpectedly revealing. As we dive into the script, I find myself grateful for the distraction and for Oliver’s quiet company, a reminder that even in moments of despair, there are pockets of solace to be found.

As we settle into our impromptu rehearsal space, I can’t help but feel a mix of apprehension and curiosity. “So, which part did you want to practice?” I ask, attempting to appear nonchalant despite my interest in his intriguing room.

“The part that’s necessary to do,” he replies cryptically.

Puzzled, I press for clarity. Oliver responds by moving a stool chair from beside the baby grand piano to face me. “The only parts of this script I’m unsure about are those involving physical contact with you. Our characters initially meet by bumping into each other at high school,” he explains.

Realization dawns on me. He needs to practice physical contact, to desensitize himself to my touch. “So you need practice touching me,” I acknowledge, recalling his earlier admission.

He extends a hand, offering a handshake. “Let’s start simple.”

I’m taken aback. “You struggle even with handshakes?” I ask, reaching out to accept his hand. Almost immediately, I sense his discomfort.

“Did you know that bubble wrap was originally intended to be wallpaper?” I blurt out, trying to distract him. His eyes, a mix of green and brown, meet mine, and I sense a return to normalcy.

He responds, “I didn’t know that.” He looks at our clasped hands. “You’re quite cold,” he observes.

His comment makes me acutely aware of the potential danger in our interaction. “Are you okay with this?” I ask, seeking to maintain the distraction.

“This is fine. But we can’t just stand on stage holding hands,” he remarks.

“I don’t want to push you too far,” I admit.

He sees through my caution. “You mean you’re afraid I might bite you?”

His blunt acknowledgment leaves me with no response. He’s right, of course.

“You’ll need to get over this fear as much as I need to handle the contact. Remember, I didn’t hurt you when I pulled you off the street.”

The room hangs heavy with the unspoken implications of our conversation. I weigh his words carefully. “Or I could quit the drama club. That’s an option too,” I suggest, half-heartedly.

Oliver counters with a surprising level of selflessness. “If anything, I should be the one to quit.”

“But that’s not fair to you. You were there first,” I argue, feeling a sense of responsibility.

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