Page 41 of Wicked Beasts
While such a thing isn’t typically my crowd, I can imagine the appeal.
Contentedly, I sigh, then quickly blink myself away from the daydream as it grows smaller in my mind. Again, I find myself procrastinating, lost in my thoughts as I find every little distraction as an excuse to avoid writing.
The blinking cursor seems so dramatic against the white screen of death, absent of whatshouldbe my manuscript if I had a shred of self-discipline.
I look at the flyer again and think of the friendly local man with the devilish grin. The dark features of his complexion, bronzed by the sun. The playfulness in his green eyes that captivated me with its sparkle. Just like that, I have once more descended into the depths of my illusions.
It isn’t as though I think my idea is no good. No, I just clearly have the attention span of a gnat.
As I try to ground myself back to my laptop, I click through my word documents to find my outline, hoping a quick reread will stir some kind of motivation from within me.
The candle flame flickers violently, clinging to life as a cool breeze curls through the open window, threatening to snuff it out. The rose on my desk, once straightened and blooming, has begun wilting and drooping, yet somehow, it’s still holding its shape. The shadow it casts against the wall looks oddly like a slender man hunched over in a boat, as if waiting patiently for the fish to bite. I watch for a moment, entranced by the simple movement of the flame. Then I realize that, once again, I have let my focus slip, pulled away from the task at hand.
My novel.
The idea of writing a psychological thriller had wrapped itself around my mind like a snake. The premise, dark and twisted, teased me with its potential, drawing me into a web of intrigue and uncertainty. But sitting here, staring at the blank page, trying to summon the words from the depths of my mind and release them with a touch of my fingers, has become somewhat of a thriller in itself—one of madness and frustration, a game of cat and mouse with my own thoughts.
I sit before my screen, fingers poised over the keys, but my mind strays like a lost soul wandering blindly through a thick fog. Each time I try to focus, the words slip away, like shadows dissipating in the light. I have an idea, I just can’t get it out of my head. I can almost hear them whispering, just out of reach, tempting me with their secrets, too quiet for me to comprehend.
I glance at the clock, feeling its slow, inexorable tick in the pit of my stomach. The hours have slipped by unnoticed, each second a reminder of my failure to escape the fog of my own distractions. The story that once burned brightly in my mind now seems like a distant memory, as though the idea now belongs to someone else. Perhaps it was meant for another mind to write.
One with more discipline than me.
I sigh, pushing my hair from my face. I am on the brink of giving up for the afternoon, throwing in the towel and perhaps trying again tomorrow. No magic will be created from these hands—not tonight, at least.
My gaze flits once more to the flyer, its cool blue color mocking the fog of distraction choking my mind. With a quiet resignation, I push myself away from the desk, surrendering to the relentless pull of time. The weight of the evening ahead settles over me, and I make my way toward the wardrobe, as though the act of choosing something to wear might somehow summon the will to focus.
I tell myself it’s only practical—find something flattering, something that will make the evening feel worthwhile. But as I sift through the clothes, the quiet truth becomes clear: it’s just another distraction, another way to postpone the inevitable confrontation with an empty page that awaits me in the corner of the room.
Raking my fingers through my hair, I pull a skirt from the wardrobe and wander back over to the mirror hanging over my desk. I press it up against my body and look over my reflection.
I won’t let the weight of an unproductive day tarnish my evening. Nor will I allow thoughts of Tristan and Dr. Shadow to linger, keeping me from being truly present in the moments to come. I’m eager to enjoy the night with Gisella, to finally break free on a Saturday evening, to lose myself in the smooth, velvety cadence of that man’s voice. His speech alone was enchanting and rich—I can only imagine what it sounds like when he sings.
Thirty-Five
Fall in Hawai'i is a cruel illusion—a whisper of seasons that will never be realized in this isolating paradise. There are no crisp winds to stir the world awake, no amber leaves scattered at my feet when I step outside. Instead, summer holds the land hostage, like a lover who can't bear to let go, draping the island in humidity that clings to the skin, sticky and relentless. It’s the kind of warmth that doesn't let you breathe, that makes my skin slick with a sheen of sweat, as though I'm drowning. For someone like me, whose pale, freckled complexion has always felt out of place, it’s an insult to the senses. I look more drenched than glowing, my skin a pale canvas of vulnerability.
Down the winding road and through the gates of the Black Manor, the world is different. The coolness within its stone walls feels like a sanctuary from the stifling world outside, the hum of the central air system a constant, low murmur—like a secret warning—drifting through the rooms. It seeps into my bones, this chill, wrapping me in its embrace as I drift to sleep each night, a cold comfort in a house that feels too watchful, too full of things that whisper just beyond the edges of my consciousness. I’ve come to crave it, this cold, this eerie hum, as though itmight be the only thing keeping the shadows at bay, keeping the shadows from taking me into their dark abyss.
In the dim glow of the bathroom light, I adjust the line of my eyeliner with a delicate, practiced touch, folding the tissue before discarding it. The mirror reflects my movements with an intimacy I can’t escape, and I step back to scrutinize myself, my reflection seeming to mock me with its quiet stillness. The deep cerulean headband on my head matches my pleated plaid skirt, a deliberate clash of softness and sharp edges. My legs are swathed in torn leggings, a purposeful imperfection, and I adjust the cuffs of my oversized black sweatshirt, pulling them just a bit tighter. I love the weight of these chunky sleeves, the way they swallow my arms, leaving me feeling safe and unseen, the waistband tucked into my skirt. The open shoulders, held together by delicate laces, feel like a strange rebellion, a way to make something dark and soft at once.
My pale skin is an accusation against the dark clothing I wear, an ethereal contrast that feels more like a beacon at night than a refuge from it. Sometimes, when I step into the gloomy hallway, I feel like a light in the dark, fragile and luminous but vulnerable to whatever might be lurking in the shadows. Yet, that darkness calls to me—a whisper I don’t want to ignore, a magnetic pull that tugs at something deep inside. I wonder, sometimes, if it’s not the shadows that are waiting for me, but something darker still. Something alive.
I unlock the bathroom door and release myself back into the dim hallway.
A faint scratching reverberates from the wall behind me, a dry, unsettling sound that makes my breath falter in my throat. A cold shiver prickles across my skin, as if something unseen is reaching out, trying to curl its long, boney fingers over the collar of my sweatshirt. Slowly, I pivot on my heels, each movement deliberate, as if afraid hurrying might trigger whatever waits inthe dark. At the far end of the hallway, an ornate table stands. Upon it, a vase—large and imposing, almost like a forgotten urn—sits still, untouched. I’ve never dared get close enough to truly examine it, but tonight, its shape seems to loom larger. My eyes scan the darkness, seeking some explanation for the sound, but it offers nothing in return—just the cold, suffocating silence.
My gaze drifts down to the air vent, and I wonder if it might have been a rat, some small, insignificant creature scuttling in the walls. I take strange comfort in the idea that it might just be a mundane explanation. I didn’t like rats, but it was a lot less terrifying than whatever my imagination could come up with.
I turn back, but my heart nearly stops.
“Oh, Mr. Black...you scared me!” I exhale in a breathless rush, my hand flying to my chest, pressing against the frantic beat of my heart. It pounds in my ears, wild and erratic, and I try to calm it with the gentle stroke of my fingers, as if my touch could silence the rapid rhythm pulsing beneath my skin. The air between us feels too thick, too charged, as though it carries a thousand unsaid things.
His glasses rest casually in the collar of his shirt, but it’s his hazel eyes that capture me, thatalwayscapture me. They glint with a quiet fire, even in the oppressive shadows of the hallway. They take me in, every inch of me, as if committing the sight to memory. I feel their gaze like a touch, warm and intense.
“You look beautiful this evening, Miss Amara.” His voice is liquid, rich and smooth, like honey melting on my skin. I could lose myself in it, let it pull me under, a sound so tender, it makes my heart stutter. Tonight, he doesn’t retreat into his usual shyness, doesn't ask me to call him Tristan as he so often does. I don’t correct him either, because there’s something in the way he saysMiss Amara—a softness, an adoration—that makes my name feel like something sacred, something precious.
His hands shift in his pockets, restless, as if they’re aching to reach for me. I can almost see them, feel the desire to take my hand, raise it to his lips, and kiss the back of my fingers with a tenderness that would break me.
