Page 50 of Wicked Beasts
The pause stretches for far too long, the silence growing into an impassable emptiness between us.
“Nevermind,” I mutter, my stomach knotting. The pity in his eyes and the weight of that silence are too much. I don’t want to hear it. I’m not ready. “Just forget it. Forget I said anything.”
I turn away quickly, my chest tightening with the sting of vulnerability I wasn’t ready to face. I don’t want him to see how much it hurts, how exposed I feel now that I’ve opened up, only to be met with nothing but his silence and hesitation. I can feel the hot press of tears threatening to spill, but I hold them back, waiting for him to leave. I wait for the sound of his footsteps retreating, the soft click of the door closing behind him. I wait until I’m alone again, until the silence in the room feels like a blanket I can finally pull over myself, hiding from the world.
My hands clutch the back of my chair, the wood creaking beneath my firm grasp as I stand facing the writing desk. I can see the letter peeking out from under the edge of my laptop. The unknown information it contains calls out to me. I rake my fingers through my hair before brushing a few strands from my face. My heart flutters in my chest, racing as my thoughts shift back and forth. Do I read it first? Do I simply return it to the library unopened?
Who am I kidding? I think to myself as I lift my laptop and slide it out.
I can’t return it without reading it.
I have to read it. I have to know what it says.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
My hands shake as I begin to unfold the letter, the edges stiff beneath my fingertips. I don’t know what it holds, what secrets or truths it might reveal, and a part of me is terrified of what I might find. Still, deep down, I know it would be worse to leave it unopened, to just return it to the library without even a peek,where it will continue to taunt me with its silence. If I don't look now, I will never stop wondering. I will never stop questioning what it might have said, what it could have meant.
I can’t live with that kind of uncertainty.
I have to know.
My dearest Tristan,
I have started this letter to you over a dozen times with the same question in mind, wondering if I should bother, if I should say something. I wonder if you’ve noticed yet, what I have done. If you noticed what I did to you—for what you did to me.
The painting will reveal what words cannot.
Try as you might, you won’t be able to pry it from the wall. This beast you’ve created will stay with you always. A beast you will never escape. Never outrun. Never outlive.
A beast you will one day be forced to surrender to, and I will come to collect what’s mine.
Try as you might with that brilliant brain of yours, but you will never succeed in gaining your liberty. For magic is rooted in love and hate, and all you understand is indifference.
I love you, my dearest Tristan.
One day, you will love me too, and I will be here, waiting.
- C
Forty-Four
Ifind myself standing in the library again, at the same desk where I found the letter. The air smells of dust and old paper, the familiar scent that’s been a part of this place long before I was. My eyes drift over the cluttered surface, noting how things have shifted, how the scattered items no longer sit in their exact places. Yet, there’s one thing that hasn’t changed: the candle in the corner, its wax still solidified in long, delicate tears, frozen and untouched. The journal rests beside it, though I have no idea between which pages the letter was originally tucked.
I’ve walked through this library dozens of times over the past few weeks, each visit feeling like it belonged to me. But now, as I stand here, something is different. Something feels...off. For the first time, I sense I don’t actually belong here. I shouldn’t be in this room, surrounded by the remnants of forgotten stories. The weight of it hangs over me, like I’ve crossed an invisible line I didn’t know existed until it was too late.
The letter feels unbearably heavy in my hands, a burden I’ll never escape. Every part of me screams to put it back, to slide it into the journal where it belongs and walk away from it for good, but I can’t shake the words that keep echoing in my mind, each one deeper than the last. I regret reading it—I should have leftit alone. But curiosity had me in its grip, and now, I’m forced to live with the consequences.
What did she do to him? What painting is she talking about? Is she referring to the one Mortimer and Mrs. Wong swapped out in the other room? The questions swirl in my mind, relentless and unanswered, and I feel the weight of them pressing on my chest.
A beast you will one day be forced to surrender to, and I will come to collect what’s mine.
And what about Dr. Shadow? Tristan blamed him. How does he fit into all of this?
I draw in a sharp breath, my fingers tightening around the journal. Without thinking, I flip to a random page, tuck the letter inside, and set the journal back down beside the candlestick with a quiet thud. It’s done. It’s over. I no longer have it.
What was borrowed has been returned.
“People underestimate the weight of knowledge.”
