Beautiful Beast by Aubrey Irons

Author:Aubrey Irons [Irons, Aubrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-07-15T16:00:00+00:00

6 Months Ago:

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

The song fades in and out, lights flashing, blackness clawing at everything. I try to move, I try to open my eyes, but it’s like I’m trying to run a marathon twenty feet underwater - everything coming in slowed, dragged-down apathy.

And then there’s the pain, and the pain is everything.

It’s consuming, and in every single fucking part of my body, all at once. I hurt in places you don’t even think about, like the tip of your nose, the inside of my left elbow. My insides - places where I vaguely think my kidneys live. Or maybe spleen.

It doesn’t matter because right now, it’s all just agony. Right now, I want to be literally anywhere but here, inside this body.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

It’s my birthday.

I force my eyes open, and I want to scream at the pain, but I can’t because something’s blocking my throat.

A tube.

The cold feeling is like death itself, clawing at me and trying to drag me under. But it’s the cold, frozen certainty that I’m paralyzed that has my hands yanking up against the pain.

Not paralyzed.

Just really, really fucked up.

I choke, clawing at the tube. Alarm bells blare next to me, there’s a sudden commotion, and faces I don’t know are leaning over me. Hands push me down, a big guy presses on my chest with a beefy arm, and I’m screaming and sputtering as loud as I can as the tube is pulled from my throat, one agonizing inch at a time.

I blink, my head swimming and my vision going in and out.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

“It’s my birthday,” I mumble, to no one.

Well, it’s more like, “iiiffs muh birrfdaay.”

The big guy in ignores me, still holding me down as he shines a light into my fucking eyes.

It comes back in flashes then. There was a toast, I think. Maybe more. Brent was there, someone else. We had some drinks. I don’t know how many.

But it’s before that that seems clearer. Before that, it’s the email from the private investigator I hired in LA to make sure Chris held to his side of the deal. There’s been no sign of him, though I already know that since I’ve got another one watching him in his new life in New Hampshire.

But then, it was never really Chris I was interested in, now was it.

It’s the picture though that did it. Somewhat grainy, shot through a telephoto lens. Shots of her at work at her part-time barista gig or coming out of a show. Sitting alone at her kitchen table - a new one, in a new apartment - alone, and sad. And thin. She looked too thin.

I remember the phone call I made before I stepped in for the toast, where I fired the guy in LA, told him to bill me and never watch her again.

Enough.

Enough, is enough, is enough. My obsession has become a sickness. For a long time, I told myself I was doing this to make sure no one as fucked up as me got to her.

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