Beast's Nightmare
The Beast was bound to the floor by chains hanging from the manacles clasping his wrists and ankles. The room around him was dark, but not entirely devoid of light and colour. There seemed to be a reddish-orange haze of light rising up from the floor around him. Inside the Beast felt a strange breed of fear, and a stabbing cold shot fiercely from the floor and into his lower back.
That's when they all rose through the floor-like demons up from their Hell. All of his servants in the shape of household objects. They stood around him and began to grow taller and larger; they continued to grow until they towered significantly over the Beast's prostrate form. A swell of anger possessed all of their faces-hatred, even. And suddenly, the Beast was a child again-a human child! In fact, he appeared just as he had the night his life was destroyed. He wore the same simple shirt and pants he had worn when Madame de la Grande Bouche advised him to instead dress more formally-like a proper gentleman should. His head hung low, and long strands of unruly auburn hair shrouded his face. At this meeting, the butler was first to speak.
"SO, YOU LET HER GO," Cogsworth's voice boomed out from the face of the giant clock standing front and centre. "HOW COULD YOU DO THIS? We were so close! We could have broken the spell."
"I know," the restrained child spoke softly, not daring to raise his head.
It was not in fear of his gigantic servants that the boy refused to raise his head, but from pure shame. He knew he had been the one who had chosen to fall, but also that he was not the only one fated to take that fall.
"Oh, we know you know," piped Fifi, the feather duster/maid, "But can you tell us why you've done what you have done?"
"Because I love her," the boy barely uttered, but with complete sincerity.
"BAH! Love!" The plump teapot form of Mrs. Potts spat bluntly upon her master's prostrate form. "You don't even know the meaning of the word "love"! If you ever knew the meaning of the word, you would at least care 'nuff for us to ensure we become yuman again, but now you've left us wi'-out a single 'ope in all the world."
"Exactly! We are more like your family than anyone else has ever been. If you could love, you'd prove it to us," Chip chimed in.
"I'm sorry," the prince replied, tears now streaming down each side of his nose. "It's only that I've never felt for anyone the way I do about Belle."
"We know you've been through a lot in the past ten years, but so have we."
It was the voice of the prince's most trusted servant who had this to add. Out of all who spoke, his was the most fervent tone. It was Lumeire, and though his words were those of disappointment, the sound of his voice projected a desire to understand its listener.
"I suppose I desire to know why you chose to behave so unkindly in the first place. We have always been there for you. We have taken care of you. We do not deserve to be taken for granted. You've always had what you wanted when you wanted it. And, that Christmas, we only wanted you to be happy. We only hoped that you wanted the same for us. Why are you so angry with the world?"
The prince sighed as he lowered his head even lower, so that it sat below his shoulders. He was about to divulge something he had never fully divulged-not even unto himself.
"All I wanted, that Christmas, was to see my father again-to hear him say that he loves me or is proud of me. Even just to have some form of closure-that would have been something. That's all I had wanted every day-every second-since he left for good. After the first month of him not returning, I became bitter. Quite a while before that fateful winter's night, I suppose I decided in my heart that I should push everyone-especially those who showed me kindness-away. That way I could not be harmed from the impact of anyone else pulling away from me after being so dear and close. The strange thing is-now that I truly think back on it-my father and I were never really close at all. And, in the process of my trying to shield myself, I was ripping myself in two without even realizing it. It's rather ironic: I wanted for people to remember me always, but I could not even remember myself. Now I'm not even certain that I have ever really known who I am."
The child raised his head for the first time, hoping to see the reactions on the faces of his accusing servants; but they had disappeared, as had his chains. And now, instead of kneeling on the floor, he was now standing in the form of the Beast he had become accustomed to being. And there she stood-in his arms-wearing one of the floating ball gowns that had previously belonged to his mother.
Oh! How beautiful she looked! Those mahogany eyes complemented by the light peach touches that appeared like angel kisses upon her cheeks. Oh how he wished to press his own lips against those vibrant rosebuds that were hers! But, being cursed with fangs as sharp as knives, he had to make do with stroking her hair beneath the pads of his paws. And, oh, how wonderful it felt! Those draping strands of silk which hung from her head resting in his hands-in his hands! He could have stood there-thusly stroking her hair, embracing her like so-forever.
And perhaps he would have, had her body not been swept away from him-out of his arms-as dust carried on the wind.
And for a fleeting moment he was standing on the balcony, watching as she rode away. But then, suddenly she turned upon her saddle, reaching her arm over her shoulder and pulling an arrow from the quiver she was somehow sporting. From behind her back she produced a bow. And before the Beast could even flinch from the horrific sight, his Beauty had struck him in the heart with her arrow.
The Beast clutched at his chest, feeling the heat of his life force as it poured out from the wound, but suffering from more than the mere physical pain of being shot.
She was gone. She had ridden away upon her steed. Into the night and nowhere to be seen.
As all around-the red-orange glow, the sight of the castle, even the blood pouring out from his chest-began to fade, the Beast cried out in agony for his writing soul.
"Belle! Belle! My love! My angel! Why? Why have you done this to me? Belle! Belle! My love! My darling! What is this you have done to me?"
And then, all was black. Several moments of desolate silence passed by before the Beast found his eyes bid open by a familiar voice.
"Master! Master, are you well?"
The Beast did not find himself in the profuse sweat of a man, but instead panted heavily as he sat up in his bed, taking in his surroundings while he struggled to shake off the near and haunting memory of the frightful vision.
"Master! You were shouting in your sleep. Did you have a bad dream?"
"JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" the Beast spat in frustration, trapped between the petrifying confusion of the lingering fright and Cogsworth's incessant interrogation.
"Oh, y-yes. Very well, Sir," Cogsworth replied, cringing as he walked back through the doorway.
That's when a strange sensation rose up within the Beast's very being. It was something he had never before felt. Or, if he had, it had never before been noted by his mind's eye.
But now, as he watched the pitiful little clock-the clock who had once been the butler, the one who had stayed around despite all the angry epithets pitched his way, that little clock-walk rejected through that door, the Beast was aware of what he felt.
He was also fully aware of what part of himself Belle had really pierced and left behind-still bleeding.