A/N: Hey, sports fans! It's me! Didja miss me? Sorry about the first
chapter being nothing but a big long paragraph, some sorta computer thing I
was definitely not aware of. I hope you're all still with me. Also, I
apologize if it happens again with this chapter. I'll try to deal with it
if it happens. Anyway, I was wondering, should I have a few chapters be
from the Beast's point of view? I've been thinking about the story for a
while, and whenever I think about the middle of it, it sounds like Beast's
point of view. So, if you're still reading, give me some advice: Keep with
Sasha, or give Beast a chance? Here we go.
Once my eyes adjusted, they widened to the size of dinner plates as I gazed at the space I was in. It was huge, it was dark, it simply figured. It was a more wide than long front hall that ended in two flights of stairs that curved toward each other, met, then split again to lead to the next floor. Between the stairs was a door nearly the size of that of the main entrance. The only difference was the ornate carvings of flowers and animals, along with the gold and white gilding on the frame.
"This is the main hall," the butler unnecessarily, who said his name was Crawford (no first name, figures), "How long have you and your daughter been in this line of business, Master Dante?" ("Line of business" was always the rich folks way of saying paid-servitude)
"Four years," answered my father, "My wife got sick six years ago. She held on for two years, but she was confined to her bed. Sasha and I did the cleaning for our home until she died." He paused, as always when spilling our sob story to the new bosses, "There seemed no sense in staying in a house full of sadness so we left. We've been taking cleaning jobs since."
Crawford opened the door under the stairs, which led to a slightly smaller, longer hall. This one had large windows, which depicted the corpse of a garden/courtyard. The skeletal trees and plants spooked me, they seemed to be trying to claw their way to Heaven, or something like that. I looked away from the windows.
"Don't bother trying to tidy the yards," Crawford said, "They are past helping." No kidding.
Through the next gilded door at the end of the hall was a kitchen. Pots and pans hung from nails in the walls, and bunches of herbs hung to dry in the windows. The room was hot and stuffy, heat was rolling of an oven in a corner. I wondered why none of the windows were open. Suddenly, a heavy-set woman burst from around a corner, a knife in one hand and the flopping corpse of a headless chicken in the other. She took no notice of us two wide-eyed spectators (Crawford's face didn't appear to have changed.) as she dropped the chicken on a countertop and proceeded to pluck the feathers off a handful at a time.
"Ah, good," Crawford said, "Svetlana, meet the new servants, Dante and Sasha. They shall handle the cleaning from now on." Svetlana glanced at my father then me, gave a brief nod and a grunt, then took the knife and proceeded to gut the deceased poultry. Figures.
"Come along then, you two," Crawford announced, after turning and swiftly walking forward once again, "You have much more to see and little time to see it."
Crawford led us through the castle, keeping such a swift pace I thought my feet would drop off if I took one more step. He led us through dozens upon dozens of gloomy halls, dreary bedrooms, dank dining rooms, and my fair share of depressing bathrooms. We had our work cut out for us. Crawford paused when we had worked our way to the front hall again.
"Sasha," Crawford said, for the first time speaking directly to me, "You will be given instructions on where and what to do from either myself, Svetlana, or your father, whomever needs you. You will follow those instructions to the letter, without question or dawdling. You will also not bother the master, should you see him. That goes for you also, Dante." Dad nodded mechanically. This was also the first time he'd mentioned the master.
The last place Crawford took us was the servants' quarters. It was more or less another long, dark hall in the basement of the castle, only, this time, there were beds lined up along the sides of the walls. The beds were, however, separated by thin sheets of fabric. It was well into the night by the time the tour was finished, so Crawford instructed Dad and I to sleep, we'd have much work to do tomorrow. I didn't doubt him. I counted the number of beds, and found there was an extra one. I asked Crawford who the last one belonged to.
"That bed belongs to Ivan. He's the farmhand around the castle. He barely comes inside, usually sleeps with the horses in the stable. I can't say that I blame him. You may meet him tomorrow." Crawford turned on his heel and left the room. I wondered if he ever slept. Figures.
I sat down on my designated bed, Dad in his. He yanked the sheet between us before I even got a chance to wish him good night. I wanted to scream. In this place, the haunted castle of the beast lord, everything figured. Nothing I'd seen didn't belong in this hellhole except me. I knew in the bottom of my heart that if Dad and I stayed here, worked here, interacted with these dead on the inside people, I'd figure too. I would become just like them. Dead on the inside, a ghost of a person, all that dramatic crap. It would be me, if I stayed long enough. Not that I wasn't already on that road, been there for four, maybe even six years. But something in me had resisted, refused to go into the dark, to die. It was probably that little voice deep inside that still believed good things come to those who wait. It had kept me going, kept me trying to reach my father. But its power was ebbing, and this place sure as hell wasn't helping. I lied down on the bed, tears instead of screams slipped through my eyes, and I woke up feeling puffy and more tired than I'd ever felt.
A/N: Whew, that was angsty wasn't it! Sorry about that, it'll lighten up soon. And sorry if this chapter is one long paragraph again, too. I'll try to figure out my computer and try again. I might squeeze out two chapters today, if this double-enter thingy works. Keep reading, and send me your advice, per favor!
Once my eyes adjusted, they widened to the size of dinner plates as I gazed at the space I was in. It was huge, it was dark, it simply figured. It was a more wide than long front hall that ended in two flights of stairs that curved toward each other, met, then split again to lead to the next floor. Between the stairs was a door nearly the size of that of the main entrance. The only difference was the ornate carvings of flowers and animals, along with the gold and white gilding on the frame.
"This is the main hall," the butler unnecessarily, who said his name was Crawford (no first name, figures), "How long have you and your daughter been in this line of business, Master Dante?" ("Line of business" was always the rich folks way of saying paid-servitude)
"Four years," answered my father, "My wife got sick six years ago. She held on for two years, but she was confined to her bed. Sasha and I did the cleaning for our home until she died." He paused, as always when spilling our sob story to the new bosses, "There seemed no sense in staying in a house full of sadness so we left. We've been taking cleaning jobs since."
Crawford opened the door under the stairs, which led to a slightly smaller, longer hall. This one had large windows, which depicted the corpse of a garden/courtyard. The skeletal trees and plants spooked me, they seemed to be trying to claw their way to Heaven, or something like that. I looked away from the windows.
"Don't bother trying to tidy the yards," Crawford said, "They are past helping." No kidding.
Through the next gilded door at the end of the hall was a kitchen. Pots and pans hung from nails in the walls, and bunches of herbs hung to dry in the windows. The room was hot and stuffy, heat was rolling of an oven in a corner. I wondered why none of the windows were open. Suddenly, a heavy-set woman burst from around a corner, a knife in one hand and the flopping corpse of a headless chicken in the other. She took no notice of us two wide-eyed spectators (Crawford's face didn't appear to have changed.) as she dropped the chicken on a countertop and proceeded to pluck the feathers off a handful at a time.
"Ah, good," Crawford said, "Svetlana, meet the new servants, Dante and Sasha. They shall handle the cleaning from now on." Svetlana glanced at my father then me, gave a brief nod and a grunt, then took the knife and proceeded to gut the deceased poultry. Figures.
"Come along then, you two," Crawford announced, after turning and swiftly walking forward once again, "You have much more to see and little time to see it."
Crawford led us through the castle, keeping such a swift pace I thought my feet would drop off if I took one more step. He led us through dozens upon dozens of gloomy halls, dreary bedrooms, dank dining rooms, and my fair share of depressing bathrooms. We had our work cut out for us. Crawford paused when we had worked our way to the front hall again.
"Sasha," Crawford said, for the first time speaking directly to me, "You will be given instructions on where and what to do from either myself, Svetlana, or your father, whomever needs you. You will follow those instructions to the letter, without question or dawdling. You will also not bother the master, should you see him. That goes for you also, Dante." Dad nodded mechanically. This was also the first time he'd mentioned the master.
The last place Crawford took us was the servants' quarters. It was more or less another long, dark hall in the basement of the castle, only, this time, there were beds lined up along the sides of the walls. The beds were, however, separated by thin sheets of fabric. It was well into the night by the time the tour was finished, so Crawford instructed Dad and I to sleep, we'd have much work to do tomorrow. I didn't doubt him. I counted the number of beds, and found there was an extra one. I asked Crawford who the last one belonged to.
"That bed belongs to Ivan. He's the farmhand around the castle. He barely comes inside, usually sleeps with the horses in the stable. I can't say that I blame him. You may meet him tomorrow." Crawford turned on his heel and left the room. I wondered if he ever slept. Figures.
I sat down on my designated bed, Dad in his. He yanked the sheet between us before I even got a chance to wish him good night. I wanted to scream. In this place, the haunted castle of the beast lord, everything figured. Nothing I'd seen didn't belong in this hellhole except me. I knew in the bottom of my heart that if Dad and I stayed here, worked here, interacted with these dead on the inside people, I'd figure too. I would become just like them. Dead on the inside, a ghost of a person, all that dramatic crap. It would be me, if I stayed long enough. Not that I wasn't already on that road, been there for four, maybe even six years. But something in me had resisted, refused to go into the dark, to die. It was probably that little voice deep inside that still believed good things come to those who wait. It had kept me going, kept me trying to reach my father. But its power was ebbing, and this place sure as hell wasn't helping. I lied down on the bed, tears instead of screams slipped through my eyes, and I woke up feeling puffy and more tired than I'd ever felt.
A/N: Whew, that was angsty wasn't it! Sorry about that, it'll lighten up soon. And sorry if this chapter is one long paragraph again, too. I'll try to figure out my computer and try again. I might squeeze out two chapters today, if this double-enter thingy works. Keep reading, and send me your advice, per favor!
