Page 5 of Monsters
Guard up, always.
“You’ve gained weight. You know how important your appearance is. Perhaps we should punish you,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He lifts his hand and spanks me, hard, across my abdomen.
I ignore the feeling of dread—the sick, prickling feeling whenever I think about how different my life is now. How far I’ve come. How many I left behind in my wake. I squeeze the sleeves of my shirt with my hands, fisting them as the memories roll through me, like they often do.
Someone or something grazes my lower back, and I twist around. A man wearing a cloak walks past me. He stops a few feet away from me, his face hidden underneath his hood. The sight sends shivers inching down my spine, one vertebra at a time. His hand reaches out toward one of the shelves, and a thin finger caresses the spine of a book. I stare at him until he looks away, uncomfortably.
I am in charge of my story.
I will not be scared.
I continue down the narrow walkway between shelves, my legs wobbly from the adrenaline. I take a deep breath and shake out my hands a few times, telling myself it’s fine. Oxford isn’t exactly a warm, inviting atmosphere, but I know I’m safe here.
And if I’m not, no one and nothing will make me scared again.
I refuse to live in fear.
I set The Pulpit on the librarian’s desk, and he gives me a grateful smile. He takes the card and places the book in one of the boxes he has sitting out. Each book will inevitably be filed away in its proper place later, only to return if it’s called upon. The answers I’m looking for might be hidden away somewhere in here. It may not be what I started out looking for, but I’m sure I’ll find what I need to move on with my life.
Ihaveto. I don’t have a choice. I cannot physically carry this burden any longer.
“Find what you’re looking for today?” he asks, giving me a warm smile as he boxes the rest of the books, readying for re-shelving.
I shake my head. “No. But I will.”
The Brotherhood
Evelyn Snow
Oxford,Present
I hurry across campus to meet Zoey at The Lamb and Flag, a cozy, historic pub dating back to the 1600s. It’s named after the two symbols of John the Baptist. The exterior is a three-story Headington stone building, and the red banner with gold serif font is classically British, as are the small wavy glass windowpanes showcasing the candles sitting on each table. It’s dark now, so the light flickers against the warped windows as they have for hundreds of years, beckoning people inside for a pint. The crisp, October air feels so much colder here in England, like a chill to my very bones. I attribute it to all of the damp fog that clings to the air particles.
It makes everything seem so much colder than it is.
I step through the short, wooden door frame, the sounds of the pub greeting me immediately. It’s the last place I want to be, but since my roommate insists they have the best fish and chips around, I have no other choice. SheisBritish, so I suppose I should leave this declaration to the native.
I spot Zoey across the pub, sitting in one of the booths lining the back wall, illuminated by the wall sconce. She’s looking down at her phone, completely oblivious to anyone around her as she hums along to the music. I admire her confidence, something I know is hard won for her. She didn’t have the best upbringing, and she’s fought hard for what she has.
“Hi,” I say, sliding into the booth next to her. She doesn’t flinch.
“Heya,” she says, scrolling on her phone, her pointy nails making a heavy clicking sound. “What do you reckon this text means?” She asks, sliding her phone to me and sighing dramatically. “He just sent it.”
I look at her phone, and all I see is completely normal dating banter.
“Am I missing something?” I ask, smiling. Her face falls for a second—if I hadn’t been paying attention, I would’ve missed it. But then she sits up straighter and takes a sip of her beer.
Always resetting—always putting on a brave face.
Nothing gets to Zoey Hawthorne.
“Look at the timestamp. I sent my text over three hours ago, and he’s just now getting around to texting back.” Damien is her newest dating app endeavor, and apparently, it’s not going well. “Bloody idiot. He couldn’t text me quick enough when we first started chatting.” Harrumphing, she grabs her phone and flips it over, so the screen is facing down.
“Maybe he’s in class?”
“I doubt it. He’s not taking any night courses.”
I open my mouth to answer her, but something catches my eye from across the pub. Two women wearing all black take a seat in one of the window booths. Zoey must catch me watching because she follows my gaze. She groans, rolling her eyes and leaning forward so that she can talk quietly in the rowdy pub.
