Part of This Idyllic Scene
By Sarajane
He would get that beast. That beast who had stolen his Belle. How could she love him… how could this have happened? Why would she want a monstrous creature when she could have had him… Gaston? The strongest, most handsome man in town… and perhaps the whole world?
That beast thought he was letting Gaston off by not killing him. But instead, he would make Gaston look like a fool! Gaston, at the mercy of THAT thing… Never…
Gaston plunged forward, stabbing the beast twice in quick succession… But suddenly… suddenly he could feel his feet slip on the roof of the tower… He needed to keep his balance… The beast roared up in shock from the stab, and Gaston felt himself shoot over the edge of the balcony and into the air.
Now he was falling… No, no, this couldn't happen… He was Gaston… And now, could it be? This young, he was going to…? And now he was screaming, and he was…
THUD.
All at once, Gaston could feel his mighty body contort. His bones cracked and his muscles twisted as he let out another yowl.
And then, just as quickly as the pain had come, it dissipated. And he could see light. Now, he thought to himself, how did this happen? Was this Heaven?
But, as he picked himself up off the ground, looking around he thought to himself that it didn't look like any Heaven he'd ever heard of. There was a waterfall over his head, and the ground was made of some kind of strange shiny substance. He then became aware that there were many people walking around him, speaking a language he didn't understand a word of.
What was he going to do?
Meanwhile, Margalit Munoz, age eighteen, was walking through The Gallery. The Gallery was the subway mall located between the 8th and 11th Street and Market Street intersections in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Margalit wasn't from Philadelphia – she was from Media, an outlying suburb of the city.
Margalit was half Israeli and half Puerto Rican. She was not very tall – about five foot four – and had short black hair, tanned skin, and hazel eyes. A good amount of other students at her high school – Clearview High – also spent most of their time at the Gallery, and a few were currently watching her from a bench.
"Ew, it's Margalit," said one girl, a blonde named Carolyn. Her companion, a caramel-skinned African-American girl named Tawny, nodded. Margalit walked by them, engrossed in the book she was reading.
"Why does she even bother to come to the Gallery? She's such a loser," Tawny declared. They both giggled.
Margalit was oblivious, and she was still working on her reading-and-walking act when she bumped right into a tall, dark, oddly dressed man who immediately beseeched her, "Ou est moi, mademoiselle?" She raised an eyebrow, glad to have studied four years of French in high school.
"Tu es dans La Gallerie," she responded. The man looked very confused. "Comment t'appelle tu?"
"Je m'appelle Gaston," he replied.
Wait, Margalit thought to herself, this can NOT be happening.