The Birth of a Beast
The sleepy afternoon idyll was suddenly broken by the bag as the front door was slammed open. Nancy Knaevish thanked the Lord for the hundredth of time that they lived far enough in the verge of the town that they were spared from the locals' disapproval. “Shoo, you stupid cat, get away from me! Nancy, where are you” bellowed a voice from the hall. Nancy swallowed a distinctly different kind of praise to the Almighty. “Get your ass over here and welcome your mother, you sloth!”
“Coming” she hissed back irritably as she threw the stained washcloth into the sink.
“There you are. What kind of a woman I’d raised who couldn’t even be bothered to greet her own mother?!” Nancy just stared at her dispassionately as she waited for hell to unleash. She didn’t have to wait long. Mrs. Knaevish apparently required no answer as she lost herself in her tirade. “Told you before, move here and you will become a clod hopper yourself. All my time, all my energy, all my prayers! Oh, my God, the waste, what a waste…” Nancy knew that she was by no means beautiful with her pastry skin and a dry nest of tawny hair. But as she watched in morbid fascination that with every poisonous word spit spouted out of her mother’s purple face, she felt grateful for her father’s genetics which gentled her features from hideous to simple ugly.
“Where’s that bastard of yours?” thundered Mrs. Knaevish suddenly, interrupting her own litany. “Just like you, no respect for the elderly. Where’s that little beast? Get him to me, I’ll show him how respect is done”
The boy in question recoiled from the kitchen window where he perched in safety. He didn’t care for his grandmother and her idea of introducing discipline. He had just enough time to duck away from view as he heard her mother scream “Bastien, come over here at once!” He crept towards the haven of the weed that proliferated over two feet high with such skilled stealth that would have made a soldier envious. When the sunburnt vegetation swallowed him up, he finally allowed himself to breath freely. Bastien didn’t really care that he would be punished later on for sneaking out as he calculated the probability of her grandmother’s staying the night to be very low. Since he couldn’t imagine a grimmer fate than being placed into her grandmother’s not so gentle hands, he decided to take the worst her mother could do.
There was a trace, hardly noticeable in the overgrown weed, which led to a tiny clearing, barely two feet square. Bastien was immensely proud of himself for establishing this hidden base in what he considered of his personal jungle. From the moment they moved here, he relished the thought of exploring the patch of land which now belonged to them. Both the bushy wilderness behind their half-timbered house and the neglected acre next to it provided ample opportunities for him to hide from watchful eyes.
He came here every day, to play and to learn. He was acquiring a new art and he took his studies very seriously. In the privacy of his haven, he was cultivating a form of perfection, and with every finished piece, he felt a pride that was unlike anything he felt before. Anticipation started coursing through his veins as he contemplated on the possibilities the day held for him. With utter concentration shining from his bottomless black eyes, Bastien carefully conjured a small, worn leather case from his pocket. He liked to think that it had been bequeathed to him from the master he had never had a chance to meet, but taught him more, than anybody ever had before.
He had found the case on the day they moved here. His mother had sent him out to clean out the mess the previous owner had left behind from the waste container. Thinking of it as an adventure, he had gone gladly. And what an adventure it had been! His young, inquisitive mind could barely take in all the forgotten treasures he had discovered there. Amongst the empty cans of food and bottles reeking of beer, he had found skeletons. They had been hidden in unassuming cardboard boxes, smaller and bigger ones, held together by screws and some kind of yellowish glue. There were also individual bones, the meat still rotting on them, giving off a sense of incompleteness. As Bastien had peered more closely into the container, he could make out a pair of unblinking eyes staring back at him. Without hesitation, he had stuck his hand deep into the dark depth and grabbed onto a dusty jar. He had brought it closer to his face to inspect the slimy water, a substance, he later learned was formaldehyde. Somehow, the dull gray orbs swimming there had reminded him of his mother’s eyes.
Bastien smiled at the sweet memory. Ever since that day, his life had changed as it gained a new purpose. The brilliant man who had left his creations behind became a nameless master in his mind and he had done everything in his power to guard the forgotten artifacts. From all the wonderfully exciting things he found there, he treasured the leather case he now held in his small hands the most. Even though Bastien was only twelve years old, he knew that an artist needed to have the best equipment for his work. With this most useful gift from his master, he had found that all his needs had been taken care of. As he learned to handle the sharp scalpels and ragged knives, the number of artifacts had been growing in the makeshift museum he had hidden in the cellar. He was just about to start his daily hunt, when suddenly, he heard a noise; something was shifting closer in the concealment of the weed.
He managed to stand up without a sound and he took out a large knife from the case. He held the wooden handle with resolve in his white little fists. Eyes straight on the spot where the noise was coming from, he mentally prepared himself to fight. His master taught him of his true nature. He was a hunter. He would never become a prey. He was prepared when a black blur leaped out headfirst into the clearing. He lunged for it. As the thing let out a pained meow, he allowed himself to smile. He absentmindedly started to stroke the terrified creature. “Hey, kitty, kitty…” Bastien soothed. Now, he had plans to make. He was still learning.
When he finally arrived home, the sun was just setting, painting the white coat of their house to a shimmering hue of crimson and carmine. For a moment, Bastien stood there entranced by the beauty of the colorful dance of the lights. It keenly reminded him of the blood that coursed through each and every creature: how it kept them alive and how fleeting that life was when the sweet essence was drained from them. His musing was suddenly interrupted by the loud bang as the front door was wrenched open. Her mother stood there with one hand on the doorknob, the other thrust to her bony hip. Her face was carefully blank, but her gray eyes glimmered with barely restrained fury.
“Bastien Knaevish, get your ass over here,” before he could even contemplate to dart back into the safety of the overgrown weed, she added, “at once,” for good measure.
Bastien knew the drill. His face just as dispassionate as her mother’s, he walked up to the porch and took the expected slaps without flinching. As the harsh sound of flesh on flesh died away and the ringing of his ears ceased to resonate, he could hear again the sounds of nature. The flies and mosquitoes, lazily floating around in uneven circles, continued to perform their buzzing serenade to the last rays of the dying sun. Bastien avoided the dullness of her mother’s eyes as she kept glaring daggers at him. “No dinner today for you. Get out of my sight before I truly forget myself, you ungrateful excuse of a human being.” When Bastian didn’t move fast enough for her liking, she helped him along with a resentful shove. “Move!”
When the child finally disappeared inside his room, Nancy allowed the deep, frustrated huff to emerge through her nose. She couldn’t help being mad; with her son gone, she had been the sole recipient of her mother‘s attention. She had been barely able to restrain herself from killing that dreadful woman. The only thing she could be thankful for was that her mother was finally gone, claiming that she had no intention to subject herself to her daughter’s dubious hospitality for a whole night. “Thank God, for small favors” she snorted, “I might have had to kill her, if she had stayed.”
Shoving her less than affectionate feelings for her family, Nancy raised her voice and called out “Hey, kitty, kitty… kitty kitty kitty” she cajoled, expecting their cat to leap out from its hiding place immediately. When nothing happened, she repeated the phrase with a frown edged between her bushy brows. After a few minutes, she went inside with a disgusted snort. Another deserter, she thought. Good riddance, it is. As she went around making some light dinner for herself, Nancy managed to clear her mind of her mother and her son. However, the picture of their cat somehow lingered. For an unexplainable reason, she had the oddest feeling that they wouldn’t see the damned thing again.