Page 4 of Beautiful Beast

Uncle Dennis: It’s not what you think it is. I promise. Call me.

Except it’s exactly what I think it is.

I love my Uncle Dennis, but I currently have no interest in talking to him or anyone else in my father’s predominantly godawful family. The man in question was a saving grace in my childhood, but I still don’t need the guilt trip about how I’m spending my life.

Not right now when I’m so completely battered and broken.

Instead of responding to anyone, I call NewYork-Presbyterian to find out the soonest that I can get an appointment. The entire plane ride home was spent researching because only the best doctor in the country will be able to do what I need.

No expense will be spared.

It’s way too important.

“Mr. Townsend, we actually just had a cancellation. Dr. Martindale can see you next week,” the chipper receptionist announces.

There are numerous benefits to sharing a last name with monsters.

“Thank you. Please email me any paperwork I need to complete.”

Dr. Martindale won’t wave a magic wand and fix me. Even his scalpel may not be enough. But surely whatever he can do will be an improvement from what I’ve become.

I rise to my feet, walking slow, painful circles around the open concept living room. The grating limp still plagues me, and the unfamiliar weakness coursing through my body has me so pissed off that I could scream and drive my fist through the wall.

All I want is my strength back.

My life back.

Fuck other people’s wars.

I’m done.

Done.

Sculptures from my numerous trips to Africa line the window’s edge, and a huge black, red, and silver abstract painting dominates the main white brick wall. I have no idea what it’s supposed to represent, but I couldn’t walk away when it caught my eye.

The shiny onyx table in the corner has the only personal photograph in the entire apartment. I keep it here instead of in my bedroom because I need it to greet me as soon as I get in the door.

Besides, no one outside of my rides or dies comes inside my sanctuary anyway, so it remains a private shrine.

The photo is of me and my mom when I was six years old. I’m sitting on her lap and looking at her laughing face with total adoration. She died four years later, and the biggest, purest part of my heart died with her.

It’s the only snapshot I managed to salvage after one of my father’s explosive rages destroyed almost every sacred possession in my life.

My sweet mom was my peace, my refuge, my protector. She loved me so much, and the pain of losing her is still sharp enough to steal my breath.

The familiar anger thrums through my veins, and my fists clench at my sides. I wish my father was still alive so I could kill him again for what he did to our family. For how much he made my mom suffer.

If only I had been older, I could have saved her from so much pain.

Another text.

This time, it’s from one of my best friends and brother-in-arms who helped me survive the hell I just left.

I don’t even consider ignoring him.

Briggs: You okay, man?

Adam: Far from okay.

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