She's the Beauty, He's the Beast

Chapter 1: The Whistling

SYNOPSIS:

HE was not a monster, and that was certain.

He might have bulky explosive muscles on chest, arms and thighs. His voice was throaty and rough and deafening. His face was busted with cracked bumpy fats on the cheeks, forehead, chin and under. His teeth were full of cuspids and, his claws looked sharp-edged than knives, but he – was not a monster.

He was just a pure man, who had been thirsting for love and passion.

And he was more than just lucky, to have me by his side.

Because nobody could remarkably love him like I did - forever and forever and forever. 

Chapter 1: THE WHISTLING

DAD drove me to the school this morning, instead of my sick mom. She was fine since the winter started but not until last night, when she couldn’t stop with the coughing and sneezing. I did ask her to visit hospital, the only place where we both hate the most, but she refused. Claiming herself would be better in a couple of days. I didn’t want to believe her words for this time, but I just had to. Since she always did the same to me, always.

Back to the weather, to the temperature in this wet small town country. It was rather frustrating when we started hitting the cold season. Couldn’t go out much; no heat, no sun, and I had to care more about my skin irritations. A lot of things needed a full concern.

My dad, who was on the driving seat looked restless. His cold sweating hands couldn’t stop squeezing the steering wheel. He was seeking for a self-destruction, and so was I. To avoid the thinking of, this was the most awkward moment of the entire seventeen years of living ever; sitting in the car with Dad alone without saying a single word. It was weird, and very, very uncomfortable.

“Can I put on some music?” I busted the silence, finally.

“Up to you,” he answered, short and so not convincing.

I still took it as a yes and immediately pushed the power button. After a few couple of tuning to select a nice song that fitted into this awkward moment, I chose a featured masterpiece of Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown, No Air.

It was one of my favourites. I sang along, repeated the chorus, snapping through the rhythms until it ended. And I thought I did great as a solo. Seriously.

“You sure can sing,” Dad complimented. Or at least, that was what I thought he did. Unless he wanted to use sarcasm as a way of talking.

“I know.”

Silences.

“I know,” I said it, again. With much of undefined feeling.

“I’m sure you know.”

Further silences, awkward cold wind was blowing inside the car, literally.

I dropped my head, pulling my long hair to the front, to conceal my face with it. I started to put my ten fingers assembled, letting them play together as much as they wanted. Just to show how I had no idea of what to say to Dad after the two words I mumbled just now.

“But you don’t,” I blurted it out.

“Sorry, what?” he begged of me to repeat.

“I said, you don’t, Dad.”

“Don’t what?”

“You don’t know me much.” I finally…did say the words. “As much as Mom does.”

“Oh.” He gulped down anything was coming through the throat. “I see.”

I could feel the tenses and pressures between us. The heat spiked, with anger, with rage.