3. Sagan
3
SAGAN
ONE MONTH LATER
I have an addiction.
It’s taken me two full months to come to that conclusion. Before that, I didn’t even know there was something to be addicted to . The initial hit was good, but subtle. I didn’t realize that it was only getting better each time I came back for a taste. Or that the reason I kept coming back in the first place was because my addiction had already begun.
Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve done it. I’ve acknowledged I have a problem. It isn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. Don’t people say the first step to recovery, the one where you acknowledge there is a problem, is the hardest? Well, maybe I’m just stronger than most.
Or maybe it’s because I have no intention of recovering from it. Seeing this for what it is doesn’t mean I find anything wrong with it. Being addicted to the lovely and potentially dangerous Beatrix Starr is fine by me. With Christmas next week, it feels fitting to treat myself to something special. One more hit of Beatrix before heading back to the others seems like a fine present to myself.
I won’t admit it quite yet to Thatcher or Knox—they already know at least partially anyway. Even if they didn’t constantly point it out, I can see it in the way they both exchange knowing, frustrated glances with one another. It’s in the stiffness of their shoulders when I refuse to hear their objections while I pack my few belongings before jumping on my motorcycle and taking off for days, sometimes a week at a time.
There’s just something about Beatrix Starr that has me coming back time and time again. I both love and hate my trips to the Starr house. Love, because I get to see her again. With each visit, I see that creature inside her—the one made of malice and wrath—has grown stronger. It excites me. That creature calls to me as if sensing my presence nearby. It’s been hard staying in the shadows when all I want to do is step out and sink onto Beatrix’s bed and curl up with her while she sleeps. There, with my chest pressed against her back, I would whisper into her ear promises of a freedom so spectacular, if only she would succumb to those dark urges she’s suppressing.
But, as much as I wish to do so, I won’t. You can’t rush this type of corruption. She’ll have to get there herself—eventually. And she will. I’m certain of that. The reason I’m so certain of her impending fall from grace is also the reason why I hate my visits to this fucking house.
“Goddamn!” Patrick snarls.
“What’s wrong now?” his friend asks anxiously from the couch. His raspy voice tells me he’s a heavy smoker and has been most of his life.
Officer Burns shifts uncomfortably. His eyes dart to the young, naked, semi-unconscious Beatrix who’s hogtied and gagged on the floor, then in the direction of the front door. He clearly doesn’t want to be here. My dad, kneeling behind Beatrix on the floor, frantically pumps his fist up and down his small soft dick. His body sways a little and he breathes heavily.
“I can’t fuckin’ get it up,” my dad says, his words slightly slurred. “Somethin’ ain’t right. You got a hard on? You can go first. I’ll record ya from the face down, like I promised.”
“Naw, I’m soft as fuck.”
Bile burns in the back of my throat as I watch Beatrix’s tormentors from my hiding place. I’ve been here for hours, initially waiting for Beatrix to come up from the funeral home for the evening. But I wasn’t the only one. Patrick had hung close to the door, impatient for her presence. When she stepped through the front door, she’d been greeted by his fist.
This is why I hate visiting the house. The reason that dangerous creature that’s come alive behind Beatrix’s eyes is my father. I love its presence, but I hate that my father’s the cause of it. Each time I visit, Patrick is either beating, choking, or assaulting her. Her deadbeat of a mother simply ignores the abuse or is too fucking high to bother stepping in. Bit by bit, I can see how his actions are chipping away at her moral compass. His abuse toward her might be what leads him to an early grave and what leads to Beatrix’s first kill.
That’s if Thatcher, Knox, and I don’t get to him first.
“I need this video, Burns. You said we could get good money if we get young ass onto that website. She ain’t gonna say anything to anyone. She’s out like a light. Even if she does remember and tries to blab, you know no one likes her in town— Woah …” Even on his knees, my dad manages to stumble. He falls to the side, barely managing to catch himself from face planting.
Officer Burns chuckles, though the sound is nervous. “Yeah… but I didn’t think we’d go about gettin’ ass like this. I say we call this a night, man.”
“I owe David money, Burns. I need t-that… c- ash ,” Dad grunts out before his arm gives way beneath him. His face hits the worn area rug, and he groans.
“Rick?” The morally corrupt cop starts to stand, gets halfway up, then falls back down with a groan. “Fuck, I think I had…. too much… to, ah…drink.”
His head flops backward, and the two of them go quiet. A few minutes later, and they’re both snoring hard. I frown, confused. Having been here most of the day, I know Patrick didn’t have much to drink. The three beers over the course of the past two hours wouldn’t have knocked him out. I doubt the beer sitting beside Officer Burns is even half empty.
A few more minutes tick by before Beatrix starts to move.
Her wrists twist as she tests how tightly she’s bound. Clearly, Patrick was betting her on being knocked out cold and got lazy tying her up because, after a bit of work, she gets her hands free. She sits up slowly and groans as if in pain. With a shaking hand, Beatrix reaches up and tears off her gag then gingerly touches the side of her face where Patrick struck her.
“Just so you know…” she starts in a low voice.
I flinch, surprised to hear her speaking. Who is she talking to? Does she know I’m here?
“There's already a video of me floating around online,” Beatrix continues. She spares Patrick a look, her face twisting away so I can’t see the expression on it. “It was posted by Cal, my mother’s third husband, and I’m about ten years younger but… yeah, it's out there.”
Slowly, silently, I let out a breath. She doesn’t know I’m here.
I should be relieved but anger blankets that emotion as I mull over her words. There are videos of her online? As a child ? My hands clench into fists as rage burns me from the inside out. I’ll have Knox find and remove them.
“My mother really knows how to pick them, doesn’t she?” Beatrix whispers. The pain that laces her voice tugs at something in my chest. “You and her previous husbands, you are all the same, and she… she’s… well, just my mother, I guess. When will she listen to me?” She tugs at the bindings around her ankles. Her fingers struggle to loosen the tight knot for a bit before she finally gets herself free. “I can’t keep doing this…” Her voice breaks but she doesn’t start to cry. She sniffles once then rolls her shoulders, straightening them as she spares Patrick a glare. “I took a page out of your book. Maybe you need to keep a closer eye on your drinks from now on.”
A small balloon of pride swells up in my chest. Beatrix struck back. It may not be a killing blow, but it’s all downhill from here. Or uphill, depending on who you’re asking.
Soon she’ll be a killer—just like me.
With a shaky sigh, Beatrix grabs the rope and gag, stands, then strolls out of the room, only stumbling once before she’s out of sight.
I stand there, listening to her climb the steps and head to her room. The rage burning in my chest doesn’t lessen as time ticks by and silence fills the house. Instead, it only grows stronger. I glare at my father’s unconscious form.
At some point during the past few visits to this house, I decided that Beatrix Starr belongs to me. How could I not covet this beautiful enigma? Everything about her calls to me like a woeful song of a siren. She’s lured me in, and now I’m trapped in her snare. Beatrix might not be one of us just yet, but she’s getting there, and I’m excited to see her blossom into the true terror she’ll become.
And, because she’s mine, I ache to claim and protect her. Each time I witnessed a crime against Beatrix Starr, I’ve wanted to step out of the shadows and end her misery. If I could, I would.
But I can’t .
Thatcher, Knox, and I voted on this weeks ago. The plan was, if we decided that the house and Bright Starr Funeral Home were worth possessing, those who owned it had to die. That includes our father, his wife, and his stepdaughter. When I returned after my initial visit, I’d given Thatcher and Knox my notes about the state of things here. It took only a few minutes for us all to agree that taking over our father’s home and business and making it our own would not only be easy, but the best thing for us.
For our Pretty Boy, Knox, especially.
That vote should’ve been the end of it.
Yet, not long after that decision was made, I returned here. Something had drawn me back to the young woman with liquid amber eyes. I didn’t know it then, but now I know it’s because of my addiction to Beatrix Starr. It's maddening. Just when I think I’ve had my fill of the young Starr and leave to return to the others, I’m hit with a painful ache to turn around and be in her presence once more.
There is nothing I desire more than to possess the beautifully mysterious woman who houses a soul as dark as any of ours. But I can’t have her. A vote is a vote. It’s how the three of us make decisions. Once a majority has been reached, whatever has been decided is set into motion. Beatrix Starr can’t be mine because she has to die to make this house, and that funeral home at the bottom of the hill, ours.
That truth doesn’t make me crave her any less.
I have to figure out a way to keep her. I know if the others could just see the creature lurking behind her eyes, the one coiling and getting ready to strike—like a viper cornered and scared—they’d agree that she belongs with us. I just have to figure out how to convince them Beatrix Starr is worth saving.
Until then, I’ll be here, watching her from the shadows, standing with her in solidarity while she suffers at the hands of the people who can’t, and won’t, appreciate the treasure in their midst.