Ava
I used to like to clean. Even at my old house, when I got it all done up nice, and my father would get drunk and angry and destroy it all, I still liked getting it back nice again. I don’t know why. Maybe because that place was mine, or at least as mine as it could be. It was all I had then. Even those horses—as much as I loved them, they weren’t mine. And the Hanley’s, as much as they took care of me, they weren’t mine. But the house was. And the land was. My father didn’t care about those things, but I sure did.
But those things aren’t mine anymore.
Nothing’s mine.
When I get the bucket of cleaning supplies out and wipe down the chair, I find myself craving nothing but my dark little corner of the closet
He says this is my home, but it isn’t.
It’s not mine.
Nothing here’s mine.
But he said to clean, so I clean.
I finish the dining room, polishing up the dark oak farm table and sideboard, then move onto the kitchen, where I wipe down the sink, the rust granite counters and the stainless steel stove that’s set into a stone wall with a large copper hood. The fridge, freezer, and dishwasher have the same look as the cabinets, a dark rustic brown that ties in with the dining room set, and I wipe those down too, along with the built in double ovens and microwave. Above me, thick wood beams hover, looking down on me while I move onto the large island in the middle, covered in a thick dark butcher’s block, with a bunch of copper pots and pans hanging above it. There’s hardly anything on the counters, and the appliances look like they’ve never even been used, so it doesn’t take long to finish that part up. I find a dry-mop and a vacuum in a side closet, and start on the hardwood floors, which take a little longer, then vacuum the Navajo rug under the dining room table. When I’m done I look around, making sure I haven’t missed anything. I don’t like thinking this, but it’s a nice kitchen. It’s not the modern luxury like what Gavin had, but it’s still got that expensive feel to it. Only this is rustic, and strangely tasteful for a beast to call home.
I’m about to move on when I realize I hadn’t checked inside the fridge to see if it needs cleaning. When I open it, I step back and blink. I keep blinking, and blinking, at nothing but…bread. Six loaves of Roman Meal bread. That’s it. Nothing more. And when I open the matching freezer alongside, all I see is…Roman Meal bread. Loaves and loaves of it. That must mean—he’s been eating the same thing as me. I don’t know why that strikes me the way it does. I stand there for a bit, that strange feeling growing stronger inside me, then close the doors when I see it’s clean enough.
I leave the kitchen, feeling tired already. I’m not used to moving around like this, and I don’t have much meat on me for fuel. And my knees hurt. So I go slowly, trying to pace myself. The sunken living room looks barely touched, so doesn’t need much except some polishing of the large wooden chest of a coffee table and some end tables that butt up against the brown leather sofas that sit at an angle, facing the mountains through the windows, and a large flat screen on a side wall. In one of the corners is an enormous fireplace, built into the stone wall, with a thick wooden mantle across it, and above me is a large, striking, wrought iron chandelier, that I find myself staring at, wondering if the beast picked it out, or if a decorator did that. Seems strange, wondering something like that. So I move on, and again, it’s the wood flooring that takes up most of my time, and vacuuming the Navajo rugs that cover the floor in places.
I look around again, double checking I haven’t missed anything. Satisfied, I look at a hallway to my right, that leads to a room I know all too well, or a hallway to my left. I decide to go left, knowing I’ve been down this hallway before, a long time ago, but it’s better than going the other way. I pass the entryway to my left, with two massive wooden doors that lead to a world I wonder if I’ll ever see again, then reach an open door on my right and stop, frozen at the threshold. The beast sits behind a desk—a desk I’ve seen before—going through some papers. When he looks up, I blink, not recognizing the Shayne I grew up with. His face really has changed. I realize I’m staring at him, then look down in a panic.
I looked at him.
I looked at him.
My heart begins pounding in my ears and a sweat instantly breaks on my skin.
“Off-limits,” he says in his quiet voice.
I nod and leave in a hurry, my feet almost tripping over themselves to get away. Down the hall, I come across another door to a half-bath that I clean quickly, then onto a laundry room where I wipe things down. Beyond that, is another door that’s locked, that I think leads to the garage.
I go back and get the dry-mop and do a hasty run-through of the hallway, looking down as I move past the open door, fast, fast, fast, but I still feel his eyes on me. I move through the living room to the other hallway. I have to stop a minute and let my breath settle, then look down both sides, seeing two doors to my left, and one to my right. I know what’s behind the first door on the left—the one with the big deadbolt, so head past that one, to the door at the end.
When I enter the room, the wind gets sucked from my lungs. It’s the master, where he first took me. I stare at the large bed, with the thick, black, iron box frame and the huge view of the mountains beyond. But I don’t see the view. Because I remember. I remember it all—how he took me, hurt me, then slid the ring on my finger while I slept.
Strange though, the bed looks no different than how it was left. It even still has the roughed up space from where he’d left me curled up. I let the memories go, knowing it won’t do me any good to linger, and walk to the large bathroom, the shiny browns and sparkling silvers a disturbing memory of when I first had to shower with that burn on my hip.
I clean the bathroom fast, tears making their way down my cheeks, tears I can’t seem to stop. But I keep moving. And just like everything else, it looks almost untouched, so doesn’t take long to clean. I vacuum quickly, and when I go to vacuum the walk-in closet, I stop in the doorway. It’s empty. Completely empty. I know there were clothes here once—because of that black tie—but not anymore. That’s when I realize, the beast doesn’t sleep here.
When I leave the room, my tears are just starting to dry. I move past the room with the deadbolt, then onto the next door at the other end of the hall. When I walk in, I’m struck hard with another memory from long ago, where I hugged a corner tight while the beast raged in the room next door.
The bed is bare, not even any sheets. I clean it all quickly, not letting myself get lost in the past, then leave the room and close the door.
I stand there, trying to figure something out—something that’s nagging at my mind. If the beast doesn’t sleep in the master, or this other room, then where does he sleep? It’s when my eyes drift to the left that I notice the hallway doesn’t end, it turns.
His lair must be that way.
I walk slowly, carrying the supply bucket in my right hand and dragging the vacuum with my left. When I turn the corner, there’s another view of the hills through the windows on the right. I hadn’t been paying attention before, trying not to let myself get taken with the outdoors, a place I’m not sure I’ll ever get to visit again—but I see it’s getting late now, almost dark, except for the slashes of reds and oranges across the sky. I’m struck by the sunset, staring at it while I walk, until I’m struck by something else.
I blink, not sure if I’ve fallen down some rabbit hole. The bucket drops from my hand and the vacuum falls to the floor. It’s a room, an enormous room, with a glass dome ceiling that lets the vibrant colors of the sky come through. That alone should hold my attention, but all I can see is—all I can focus on—are the books. The shelves and shelves of books. Shelves so high, a ladder sits hanging on all four sides, leading up to a narrow landing that lines the entire room, with another set of ladders giving access to the shelves above it. All I can do is stare. Stare at the books. So many books.
Then I hear a noise. A strange noise. A noise that sounds like water. Running water. I turn around and only then do I see the fountain in the middle of the room, centered under the dome. It’s large and round, with a stunning statue of three rearing horses in the middle, with water coming out their mouths and falling into the pool below. I walk to it, only to find myself walking through the circle of roses that surround it. Red roses. Their sweet aroma lingers in the air, while thorn covered branches reach out wildly, looking unkempt and ragged, but still managing to bloom in places, making me realize…it’s spring, or summer. I’m not sure, until I remember the view out the windows—the way the grass in the hills had been a deep shade of gold. It’s summer.
Summer.
I don’t know why that hits me like it does. Maybe because the last time I remember, it was winter.
Then I see everything else. The leather sofas and chairs, all scattered around in little vignettes, the lamps, the Navajo rugs, the greenery all about. Everything around me blurs while tears spill quietly down my cheeks. Because I know. I know what this is. I know who this is for.
“What do you think?” a deep voice asks.
When I spin around, I see the beast leaning against a bookshelf, arms crossed, black eyes quiet. I look down quickly and find myself so weak I can barely stand. I stagger to the edge of the fountain and sit, my hands knotting themselves in my lap.
“What’s the matter, Ava? Don’t you like it? I thought you loved books. When we were kids, every time I tried to come over and talk with you at lunch, or during recess, you were always off in a corner with your nose buried in one of your damn books. Books, books, books,” he sighs. “How I used to hate your books. You’d be so deep into them, you wouldn’t so much as give me the time of day. Remember that? In fact, most times, you’d just get up and walk away, whenever I came around. Drove me crazy, Ava. Fucking crazy.”
He walks now, slowly, around the roses, watching me all the while. I see him, from the corner of my eye. He leans down and lifts a rose to his nose and breathes in, then lets the rose go. Now his eyes are on me again, so I turn away.
“But you want to know why it really drove me crazy?” he asks, his voice drifting as he moves around me. “It wasn’t because of the books, but because I knew you already had it in you what you thought of me, ever since you threw that first rock my way, all because of that damn cat. But…to tell you the truth, Ava, I don’t blame you really. I never did think much of myself either. I know I’m no prince. I know I’m damaged goods. Always have been and always will be. But why do you think I was always causing trouble when you were around, hmm? I’m not saying I wasn’t inclined to cause trouble back then anyway, I know I did plenty of that whether you were around or not, but…after the way you lit into me about that cat, I knew it was the only way I could get your attention. So I spent all my time back then, thinking up ways I could get you to look at me, even if the only way I could get you to do it, was with that fire in your eyes.”
I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing I can say.
“So,” he continues, “after we made our deal, and I knew you’d be coming to stay with me, I built this for you, knowing I’d need some help getting you to think differently of me.”
I shake my head, even though I already knew that.
“Oh, come on now, Ava,” he chides. “You know I did. Of course I built this for you. I built the entire house for you.”
Wait. He built…the house…for me? Not just this room? The house that hardly looks lived in? He built it…for me?
I shake my head again, and a tear falls.
“Think, Ava. It’s a small town. I know you’d have heard I tore down the old house and was building a new one. When did I do it, hmmm? I was always planning to do it after my parents died, but I didn’t start on it until right after we made our deal. I wasn’t sure how long your piece of shit daddy would last, so I moved quick. This sucker was up in under four months. Turns out I had plenty of time to wait after that though, didn’t I? But it gave me time to get everything set up good.” He chuckles, but it sounds sad. “That was silly of me though, wasn’t it? That was back when I thought I could make you want me by making you a pretty room and buying you silly things, like clothes and jewelry. And this…” he waves his hand. “I thought if you had all this, it might change how you felt about me, might help you see past all that monster I got in me, and who knows, maybe you’d never want to go back to that shithole you were raised in. Hell, that little grey horse out there—you know which one I’m talking about—I know you’ve seen her. She’s still waiting on a name.”
Another tear falls and lands in my lap. “Not fair,” I whisper.
“No, darlin’, I suppose it’s not fair. I never did play fair though, you know that. Especially when it comes to you. I’m one of those—what do they call it—complicated guys? Yeah, that’s it. Complicated. One of those guys who doesn’t make sense, so women sum it up with a word like ‘complicated’.”
He’s back in my sights again, and I see him reach out and cradle a rose between his fingers. “You know why I have all these roses around, right? Not just because your middle name is Rose, but for all those little red roses you had on that dress, the day we made our deal. Figured you must’ve liked them, if you were wearing them too.” His eyes drop to his chest and he rubs his fingertips over his shirt—over his heart—where the tattoo rests. “I know I carved this all to hell, but I’ll get it fixed up again.” He sighs, sounding more man than beast.
I hear what sounds like a snap, followed by his footsteps as he walks towards me. I look to the ground, only to see a rose appear in front of my eyes.
“For you,” he says, quietly.
When I take it, my hand’s shaking so hard, a petal falls and I watch it float to the ground. By the time it lands…he’s gone.