August 25, 2017 by Patrick Starks
The sheriff told me that he would need me for further investigation, but I never expected it to take this long. Everyone including myself smelt horribly, we hadn’t showered for at least a whole week, and barely did we eat—my stomach sounded like a hot tea pot as it boiled in aggravation.
After an extended period, the Sheriff would knock on the door, of the room they had me stay in. “Were ready for you now,” he said. I hesitated to open the door, but felt if I didn’t, he’d kick it down, even worst—accuse me of what I denied—the killing of the victim he would find.
I told the sheriff, even pleaded with him, speaking of who I saw do it or who I assumed did it. But he laughed, “Kid where going to be her for years if you keep making up jokes like that. I dam near shit myself.” But it was no joke, and I surely didn’t want him to shit himself—for that my nostrils had already burned through like the cigar he’d puff.
The Sheriff became surrounded by nothing but clouds of white as he continued to interrogate. And just to clear his throat from the disease he’d inhale, he would down it with not a glass of bourbon, but coffee. I thought to myself, what an odd combination, but realized I would probably need a glass of the same—I was obviously exhausted with speaking in the face of ignorance.
He then pulled a large orange envelope from his brief case. It appeared it had been through a few nights, all that remained on it were coffee stains of the past, of the sheriffs past. And from that envelope he pulled out three images that he’d gotten from the crime scene—one of the man, and one of something that was too difficult to describe, it barely had any visibility to it. The woman known as “Beauty,” would not only be a mystery to the sheriff, but to me as well. And the third picture let’s just say no words could describe such horrific gore.
“Does he know?” an anonymous voice spoke. The sheriff started profusely sweating, just enough to put out his cigar, and nauseously add a saltiness to his coffee. “You heard the woman, speak up,” the sheriff said. But I refused, I asked them who the hell it was behind the tinted glass, and he replied with more questions, hoping that he could drown me in them, enough where I would drop my own interrogation—insecurities would soon get the best of him.
So instead of answering any questions that were asked of me, I decided to solve the mystery myself, I felt honestly I couldn’t trust even the police force—it was a shame. I then looked at the images the sheriff laid out in front of me with intensity. I could understand the image of the victim, who couldn’t, he’d look just as dead as when I saw him in person, when I spoke to the paramedics. But the second image… that’s what I couldn’t grasp.
Weeks before when I saw the woman, she was as her nickname implied—beautiful. However, there was no beauty in the picture at all, just a blur. I was frustrated, I needed to know, so I decided to breakout, to get away of the so called security I was held in. And sadly, I got through with ease. One slip out of the room, and pass the guard that night. I thought the guard would’ve given me more trouble, but it appeared he was too busy listening, yet singing to Katy Perry’s song, “Roar.” Just by listening to his awful voice was almost enough to blow my cover—I felt I’d burst with colorful laughter like a new born child.
After making my way out, a man was waiting for me. I was confused, I felt I just left the airport—the man held a sheet of paper with my name on it, as he stood next to fairly new limousine. “Sir, please come with me, Mr. Brown is waiting,” he said. I hesitated, I hadn’t a clue to who this Mr. Brown was, but felt any place was better than the place I’d escape—although, the fact that the man knew my name made me uneasy.
As I sat in the limo, everything was quite. I could see the limo drivers eyes repetitively piercing through the rearview mirror, that in which made it even more awkward. Where we headed to were parts of Seattle that I’d never seen. The further we drove out the buildings became more rugged—graffiti, prostitutes, drug deals, were all I could vison from the foggy window I gazed through—I now regretted leaving.
We then pulled up to an alley, similar to the one I’d follow the Beauty through once. And as we approached there he was—the same beast of the man I saw with the Beauty before, except the beauties presence was absent. Lord only knows the shit that was going through my mind, I felt like my life would be at its ends had not I made immediate action. However, no immediate action would occur, I was to numb by the feeling of fear that would course through my skin.
“Get out,” the driver said. But I remained still, I didn’t know what the man I would call Beast would do to me when I stepped out. “Did you hear me? I said get the fuck out, before I fucking throw you out!” From then on, I could tell the driver was not the average driver I’d meet in the city—no uber, no lyft—this guy was from an odd company, one I wasn’t willing to get to know. But as I stepped out, I felt I would be staring the CEO in his face. “Welcome, we’ve been waiting for you. Our plan was to break you out, but looks like you’ve done the job yourself.”
As the Beast continued to talk, there she was behind him, the Beauty. “Ah, I see you’ve found a liking to Isabell. Can’t blame you, she is beautiful. Come down my sweet, come say hello to our guest,” the beast said. But Isabell remained was quiet. She appeared to want no part in the meeting, but the Beast insisted she take a seat, she refused. “I said take a fucking seat!” the beast yelled. Immediately Isabell sat down, shaking just like a cat that just been washed.
I felt sorry for her, it appear she was there under her will, however, what could I have done—the Beast was tall, muscular and probably would break me in half if I tried to be Isabell’s knight. As she and I both sat, the Beast stayed standing. He would gaze at Isabell, then me—my mouth had now became dry for that I hadn’t swallowed for a while.
“So how was the victim?” the Beast asked. But I was confused, just what the hell did he mean by that, sooner or later I’d get my answer. “The victim, you know, don’t play as if you didn’t see him—cold and pale. But don’t worry his death was quick, I made sure of that… well, maybe just a little,” the Beast said as he gave sharp, evil grin. From then the mystery would be unraveled, of the Beauty and the Beast.