Beast

Revised and updated.

The house on 28th Street is where what’s left of my old college friends reside.

I’ve moved on, “grown into adulthood.” A classier me. Hair dyed, acrylic nails. Designer clothes. But I still return. After a night out with new friends and colleagues from work, I’m exhausted. The face I wore is tired.

As usual, half-empty bottles of liquor litter the countertops and floors. The lights are off, it doesn’t feel like anyone is home. The fish tank glows purple, an angelfish the only thing drifting inside. The porch door to the fenced-in backyard was left wide open, and for a second, I wonder if someone is lurking inside, watching from a closet. Music plays from the basement. It’s The Weeknd, a song from “House of Balloons.”

If it hurts to breathe, open a window.

I walk down the steep steps to Luke’s room. The stone walls are cool, the air stale.

Luke has a carpenter's table set up for “projects.” Right now, he’s building an assault rifle. His shirtless back is turned toward the staircase, and I look at his tattoos, two eyes across his back, and at the rest of the room— a printed target on the wall, overlaying a thick corkboard, knives thrown into it so many times, it’s hanging in shreds. The pull-out couch, old, empty Monster Energy cans thrown onto it. One light in the corner, a bulb without a shade.

I think about leaving, going back home to my apartment in Downtown. I haven’t been here in months. I turn to walk back up the stairs before Luke notices, but as I do he swings around in his stool.

- Where are you going?

- You seem busy.

- You can watch till I’m done.

- I don’t like it when you have your gun stuff out…

He gives me one last look, then turns back to the rifle.

I brush the Monster cans onto the floor and sit on the couch. It smells like perfume, something cheap.

- Who was here?

- What?

I don’t say anything, he knows what I’m asking. Minutes pass. Luke’s pulling on the trigger, letting out an unsatisfied sound and sets it down. He lights a cigarette, Newports.

- Fuck it. What were you asking?

He walks over to the couch, kicking his stool under the craftsman’s table. He’s standing over me. I don’t want to ask again.

- Where is everyone?

- Out.

I lift one leg in the air, resting my ankle against his chest.

- Help me.

- You can’t do it yourself?

- No. Plus you like to, I know it.

He puts the cigarette in his mouth, pulling my boot off. He leans down, grabs my other leg, and lifts it, pulling that boot off too. He kneels in front of the couch, my legs now hanging down his back, my knees by his ears. He unbuttons my jeans, pulls them off, and tosses them. Luke sets his cigarette on the floor. He massages my foot, kisses the ankle. I catch a hint of a smile on his face, and close my eyes, the cheap perfume still lingering in my nose and thoughts.

Luke’s going down on me, his tongue ring cool, the metal making me shiver. I touch his head, his hair normally buzzed short, is growing out, white and soft like a baby chick. I open my eyes, glancing over at the gun, then quickly close them again, trying to forget that it’s there. I’m coming and Luke is rubbing the inside of my hips, thumbs digging into my pelvis.

He lights another cigarette, giving me the first drag. After I exhale, I lean in to kiss him. Luke turns his head, turning up his stereo. “Beast of Burden” is playing. He blows smoke up towards the ceiling, flicks the ash, then holds it to my lips again.

- This song will always remind me of you.

I raise my eyebrows.

- Even if they play this at my wedding, I’ll still think of you.

I laugh and mutter under my breath.

- I’m not the bride?

He looks at me, irritated.

- No.

But I can’t stop talking, asking things I don’t want the answer to.

- Why not?

- I don’t see you getting married.

My breath quickens. The euphoria of my orgasm is gone.

- Me, not get married? I’m not the “marrying type”?

- I just know you too well. And for too long. Too much about what you’ve done.

- Isn’t that the point though? To know the other half like the back of your hand? To know everything about them? Flaws and all?

He doesn’t answer.

- I guess not.

- Look, do you think we’re going to fuck or…?

- Who was here earlier?

- No one important, okay? Christ.

Luke gets up and starts rummaging through the drawers of his filing cabinet, grabbing a plastic gallon bag, and emptying the contents on his worktable. Burnt pipes, lighters, elastic, and kitchen tools fall out, along with various baggies of powders and pills. I pull my jeans and boots back on.

- Am I getting on your nerves?

He snorts a bump and then another, and turns back to the gun. I stand up.

- You’re just a nobody anyway. Who cares?

I turn to the steps and he grabs my wrist and pulls me to him, breathing heavy.

- Let go.

He drops my wrist and slumps back onto the table. We stare at each other as I move up the steps. I reach the top and Luke is telling me how I’ll be back. As I leave from the open porch door and walk through the backyard, I hear someone in the shadows, chuckling. I push and pull the fence gate till it opens, and stumble into the street.

Miranda is a femcel. She lives with her husband in Brooklyn, NY. You can find her on Instagram.