The Beast Read Free Page B

beneath it was new.
                  My spine and stomach both screamed white hot protest when I tried to remove my jeans, and my arms refused to pull the shirt up over my head.  I crawled into the tub, still dressed, and lay in fetal position under the flow of water. The water stung and made my clothes heavy, but I everything hurt so much already and I could hardly lift my own weight.
                  The one thing I liked about living in an apartment was the endless hot water. Growing up in an ancient farmhouse, we only had a small water heater that barely worked. In the winter it stung like icicles to shower. Nothing like the fire that I let burn into all of my cuts and pin me to the tub floor. I don't know how long I was in there, or how many handfuls of leafy goo I threw into the trash can by the toilet when it clogged the drain, but eventually I pushed myself up far enough to pull a pair of hair scissors from the drawer under the sink. I cut my shirt up the middle and wriggled my arms out of the sleeves. The ruined shirt hit the floor with a loud splat. The jeans were next. I wasn't ready to stand up so I cut through the waistband and down the length of each leg. I started replaying the night over and over in my mind as I the scissors made their chilling snipping sound, two knifes rubbing together over and over. Simon had vanished and the beast had appeared. A beast with a muzzle who stood on two legs. A beast with ape like arms and elongated feet.
                  Splashing snapped me out of the memory. I shut the water off and pulled sopping piles of shredded denim away from the blocked drain. When the water was low enough I climbed out, stripped out of my bra and panties, and started to take a real shower. Eventually I sank again and knelt under the water, letting it comb my hair, pulling leaves and twigs and clumps of hair out, dropping everything onto the pile of ruined clothes. I distantly wondered if I’d have any hair left by the time I could pull a comb through it.  
                  I dripped on the floor on the way to the linen closet to get a towel. The cold air pricked my skin into goose bumps and sent fresh waves of pain across my wounds like electricity. My heavy arms pulled a pile of towels down to the floor, but I held onto two. I wrapped one around my waist and one around my shoulders. It was already after noon. By the time I stopped rocking on the couch it was four and my hair was dry.
                  With the realization that there was no one but me to clean up the mess, and knowing that I would eventually have to face life again, I rose.
                  I balled the bedding up and threw the pile of sopping ruined clothes in the trash. I kicked some of the fallen towels from the hallway to the bathroom and used them to clean up the spill. I threw the entire scattered pile of mail from my bedroom floor into the trash can. If anything in there was important, they’d send it again.
                  When I went into the bathroom to retrieve the wet towels, my reflection stopped me in my tracks. It wasn't good. Top to bottom, I was a mess. Even though I'd combed it, my long hair stuck out unevenly. Instead of being thick, shiny and obedient it was frizzy and had thin spots. I pulled it back into a ponytail, the least unattractive option. My chest looked fine, like nothing at all had happened, but an enormous bruise bloomed across my lower ribs. It was yellow in the center, with blue, purple and green reaching out like petals. My sides bore angry red stripes from knife-like claws. One of the cuts connected to the bruise in the front, a bleeding stem for the painful flower.
                  My hip, which I couldn't recall hitting anything, had also bruised down to my thigh. The soda and mud had soaked into my skin for too long and the skin on my calf was peeling. It was going to be a hot afternoon but shorts were