Page 36 of Wicked Beasts
Is he a threat to me?
The fear stirs within me, all dark and insidious, swirling like a storm at sea, threatening to drown me in its intensity. My thoughts rise and crash over me, swelling like the violent waves of a black ocean, each one more consuming than the last.
Tristan shifts back to texting me my duties every morning instead of Mortimer, and while it feels like a genuine attempt to close the distance he created between us, there’s something about it that leaves me feeling uneasy. Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks, clouded by everything, by the chaos of new revelations.
Buthowcould it be Dr. Shadow’s fault? What exactly could he have done to Tristan to cause his illness? Did he poison him somehow? My thoughts spiral again, each question seeming darker than the last. It feels like I’m drowning in uncertainty, floating in a sea of questions without lifelines. I’m beginning to wonder if the answers I seek are ones I’m not meant to know.
Ones I have no right to ask.
I see Tristan’s texts, each one an attempt at normalcy, at a meager connection he’s trying to resurrect and reinstate from when I first arrived. But beneath them, I sense a heaviness of some kind, a burden. It’s as if he’s reaching out because guilt is forcing his hand.
And somehow, his guilt only makesmefeel guilty too.
The weight of it presses on me, suffocating, because in the depths of my mind, I cannot forget what I shared with Dr. Shadow—t he things I told him that night, the things I did with him, the way I surrendered to his touch, melted into it. How could I ever explain that to Tristan? How could I explain to him that Ienjoyedit, that I let it happen without protest?
Twice.
Even now, despite everything, there’s a part of me that still craves it, longs for it.
Even still.
What is wrong with me?
The question lingers in my mind like a cold, taunting whisper, refusing to let go. Perhaps that’s another thing I will never have an answer to, another mystery, another darkness I’ll carry inside me, forever unresolved.
I step into his study with a few textbooks in my arms, eager to end the day. But the moment my eyes fall upon the desk, they fixate. There, resting atop the smooth, dark wood, lies a book—a singular presence amidst the shadows. Tristan has a lot of books, but they’re all medical texts and science tomes. This? This isfiction. My steps falter, the air suddenly thick with tension that crawls beneath my skin. I glance over my shoulder, the sensation of being watched prickling at the back of my neck. A shiver courses through me, but I push it aside, unwilling to yield to the unnerving presence of the skeleton perched in the far corner. Its hollow eyes, ever observant, seem to follow me, but I force myself to turn back to the book, my fingers trembling as I place the textbooks on the desk with a soft thud.
It’s a collection of short stories by Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson.
I can hardly breathe as I slide my fingers beneath the weighty hardcover, my heart quickening with every passing second. Hesitantly, I open it, the scent of aged paper filling the air.
Amara,
I don’t read a lot of fiction, but Robert Louis Stevenson was a favorite of mine when I was younger. Admittedly, I only had the attention span for short stories. I added some of my thoughts if you were curious—I hope you enjoy it.
Tristan
The words dance before my eyes, and my heart skips. I slam the book shut, as though its very touch has shocked me. He...he annotated a book.
Forme.
I pick it up again, more deliberate this time, my fingers brushing the pages with care as I flip through them, my breath catching in my throat as I notice his thoughts written in the margins. The impulse to squeal is almost unbearable, but I hold it back, desperate for composure. Despite being alone, you never know who’s listening.
With trembling hands, I fumble for my phone, the screen lighting up as I type quickly.
I just got the book! Thank you!
It was my pleasure. :)
A fluttering warmth rushes through me at his sudden response, and I clutch the book to my chest, feeling the weight of his gesture in the deepest crevices of my soul. I quickly slip my phone back into my pocket, allowing the quiet embrace of the study to wrap around me, as if Tristan himself were there in the shadows, lingering.
It was an unexpected kindness—a tenderness that sent ripples through my heart.
I quickly retreat to my room, ready to dive into his thoughts scribbled in the margins and across the pages beneath the printed text.
Truthfully, I have never readTreasure Island, and Tristan’s annotations almost make it feel like he’s there reading it with me. I fall into my bed with the book still at hand, flippingthrough the pages, eager to explore, eager to learn more. Every word reveals a little more about him, as though he is slowly opening up to me, page by page.
Hours seem to slip away as I slowly bring the book down. My gaze sweeps over to the rose sitting at the edge of my desk in a small vase, petals seemingly uncurling at the edges, blooming and brightening. I furrow my brows as it seems to bloom with continued life and revitalization.
