Beautiful Monster Read online

  Beautiful Monster

  Also By Bella Forrest:

  A Shade Of Vampire

  A Shade Of Blood

  www.bellaforrest.net

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY AUTHOR

  Published by Bella Forrest

  Copyright © 2013 by Bella Forrest.

  This is a work of fiction.

  All characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead, other than those in the public domain, is not intended and purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, re-sold, or transmitted electronically or otherwise, without express written permission from the author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE - AMY ● PREFACE - LIAM ● CHAPTER 1: AMY ● CHAPTER 2: AMY ● CHAPTER 3: AMY ● CHAPTER 4: LIAM ● CHAPTER 5: AMY ● CHAPTER 6: LIAM ● CHAPTER 7: AMY ● CHAPTER 8: AMY ● CHAPTER 9: AMY ● CHAPTER 10: AMY ● CHAPTER 11: LIAM ● CHAPTER 12: AMY ● CHAPTER 13: AMY ● CHAPTER 14: LIAM ● CHAPTER 15: LIAM ● CHAPTER 16: AMY ● CHAPTER 17: AMY ● CHAPTER 18: LIAM ● CHAPTER 19: AMY ● CHAPTER 20: LIAM ● CHAPTER 21: AMY ● CHAPTER 22: AMY ● CHAPTER 23: AMY ● CHAPTER 24: LIAM ● CHAPTER 25 - AMY ● EPILOGUE - LIAM

  PROLOGUE - AMYDiary Entry, Amy, June 13th, 2012: I always used to picture myself in some sort of fairy tale. I had my life all planned out. I would be a famous actress, everyone would tell me my talent was beyond words. I would be able to bring tears of joy or happiness to any audience’s eyes in seconds, and be able to portray even the hardest of characters in the blink of an eye. If I were really famous, and there were tabloids written about me, they would always say I was beautiful (somehow, my hair color was always a perfect blond and I was always tall and graceful). And I would have a perfect husband by my side; who supported me, loved every part of me, and was just as beautiful. He would always be fun to be around, and we would never argue. The world would adore him too; but they would respect our love.

  And, in these dreams, I wasn’t sick. I never was. There were no endless needles or pills; no concerned looks and long hours in the doctor’s office. My purse wasn’t filled with medication; I was always full of energy, I didn’t have “bad days”. I was the picture of health and nothing could hold me back.

  Falling in love with Liam hadn’t been exactly what I pictured; but when I look back, I wouldn’t have it any other way. All those men whom I imagined as my perfect love don’t compare to him.

  Liam isn’t perfect, of course, but somehow, I love him in ways I never thought possible. His pain, his past, who he is, everything that would be considered an “imperfection” are just reasons that I love him more. What we have been through in this short period is more than any couple has been able to withstand in a thousand lifetimes.

  He is always there for me; always supports and protects me; always finds a way to make me feel safe, even in the darkness. At first, when we met, I thought he was distant, emotionless, and there wasn’t a thing in the world that could make me give him a second thought. But time heals all wounds and changes thoughts. And of course, here we are now.

  I don’t know what the future holds for Liam and me. My mortality looms every day, and every second I draw breath is one step closer to being six feet under. But I do know, as long as I draw breath I will be by his side.

  PREFACE - LIAMLiam, Jan 11 th, 2012: I had known something was different about her from the moment she walked onto the stage; looking like a startled deer. Had it been any other auditionee - and there were hundreds who showed up looking afraid - I would have immediately drawn an “x” through their name and written them off without a second thought. But she was different, and not just because she was good. She was better than good. When she spoke, the words came out as if they were natural - something I continuously tried to beat into students’ heads without much success.

  And she was beautiful, but that was inconsequential. Most actresses are some type of beauty, or they make you believe so. And this is a tough industry. It’s not seen through rose tinted glasses. If I can’t see some sort of physical beauty in them, even at this young age, then they don’t get a shot. Better they learn it here than somewhere else.

  Speaking of shots, I had certainly had at least two too many last night. It was a rough night, rougher than most. It seems closer to a full moon, the cravings always get worse. I’m not sure why, and I haven’t bothered to figure it out, but come the full moon, the urge to feed on human blood is never stronger. The alcohol helps, although it isn’t always a cure.

  Which led to that morning, and my pounding head. Curse immortality that comes with hangovers. I still suffer the effects nearly every time. And when walking into a room full of energized, over-dramatic teenagers, the symptoms double.

  I nodded curtly to a few of them and made my way toward the front of the room. Some of them called my name - no doubt they had questions about the latest simple assignment I’d given them. No matter how simple I made the homework, they had questions.

  I was leaning against my desk, back to them to try to drown out the noise, when suddenly, the pain started to subside. The room was growing quiet, and the scent of human blood was neutralized.

  I took a deep, pain free breath, turning around, proud of myself for controlling the urge. But then I saw I had done so at all.

  She was standing in the center of the now-quiet room, blushing at the curious stares. Her long hair was hanging straight down her back, her huge brown eyes that had first attracted me were staring right into my own. But it was her scent; calming my urges, that made me hold her gaze, wondering what she was, if she knew. I felt better almost instantly, swallowing to find the words to speak.

  “Take a seat, Amy.” I said, gesturing with my free hand, and she nodded, sitting down almost instantly. “And the rest of you...” I said, giving them my usual glare. They scuttled to their seats, pulling out note books. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her the entire lesson. What was she? What was drawing me to her? What story of us was just beginning?

  CHAPTER 1: AMYWrite about what you want to be when you grow up. What made you decide that? Use all the proper formatting described in the previous chapter. I read the assignment over and over again, before I clicked the start button. The thing with being homeschooled, or ‘online schooled’, was that once I clicked the start button for the test, I couldn’t do things normal students did, like negotiate for extra time to go to the bathroom, or argue my grade. I had to do it right the first time.

  I glanced at the clock, seeing that I still had about forty five minutes left before Dad came home. The assignment was only allotted at thirty minutes, maximum, which meant I could probably finish it in twenty. They always gave you too much time with these things, which was silly really, because it meant you had extra time to use the textbook and cheat.

  I never cheated, of course. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. My father had taught me that something worth doing was worth doing right, and even if he wasn’t home, his lessons rung loud in my ears. If I started this assignment right away, I could finish it and start dinner. I was planning stuffed peppers worthy of a five star restaurant - my father would expect no less - and when I read the recipe for them, I almost drooled. However, they would take some time to make, and I didn’t want him home and waiting on food, not after a long day at work.

  I clicked start, taking a deep breath, and positioned my fingers over the keyboard. Go.

  I want to be an actress. I think I’ve always wanted to be an actress. I can remember, when I was young, putting on plays for my parents and my stuffed animals in the living room. Nothing thrilled me more than dressing up in costume, making up stories, and performing at the top of my lungs. However, I think there was one day when it became more than just a chi
ldhood fantasy.

  I was nine years old, and my father and I had just moved here. After months of job searching, he finally got a job at a prestigious theater school just down the road. He was to be a cook, helping with not just the student’s three meals a day and snacks (about 50% of the school are boarders), but also the catering for the fancy theatrical events and any food props needed for the shows. It meant long hours, but that made up for the low pay. I remember him working late at home one night trying to develop a way for meat to be raw on the outside, but cooked on the inside. Whatever show they were doing at the time was not ‘appropriate for a child my age’, but he succeeded, and they put his name in the program and gave him ‘special thanks’ along with the rest of the chefs.

  One day, he asked me if I would like to come to work with him. It was national ‘take your child to work day’, and workplaces all across the country were participating. It sounded much better than being at my tutor’s place all day (in those days, I was tutored; it was just a few years before we discovered I could get a good education online), so I agreed. I was surprised that he would let me out of the house for so long. You see, the other thing you should know about me, is that before this, I hadn’t dared to really have dreams. My mother died of AIDS when I was just a baby, and while my father was lucky enough to escape being infected, her blood runs through my veins. I was diagnosed as HIV positive when I was barely a week old.

  My father has always been overly protective of me, keeping me homeschooled, warning me not to exert myself, barely letting me be in contact with other people. And while I understand his concern, things are different now than in my mother’s time. People with HIV can survive for years living a normal life, and even once the virus becomes full blown AIDS, ten or twenty years are not unheard of. I try not to think about when that will happen, because it’s inevitable. For now, I have mostly good days. Lonely, but good days.

  Anyway, I’m getting off topic. The point is, the next day I was up at the crack of dawn, dressed in my best clothes, making my hair as neat as possible, excited to go to work with him. We left earlier than he normally would, so that we could walk together. I was practically bouncing off the walls.

  The school was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen: historic and sturdy on the outside, and the walls inside were filled with colors. There were murals, art work, and old flats from shows mounted on the wall. There were hundreds of black and white pictures of the students in various plays, their costumes and makeup outstanding. I had never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. But that wasn’t the best part.

  Dad had me sit on a stool with him, watching him take orders and cook up breakfast for the two hundred students about to arrive at the cafeteria. But when breakfast was over, he winked at me and told me this was the best part of the job; that he could take long breaks in between. He led me down the hallway to the grand theater which was placed in the center of the school. Putting a finger to his lips to signal that I should be quiet, he opened the door and snuck me into the back row. On stage, the lights dimmed and the sound track played. Rehearsals for that year’s production were just starting.

  This is when my fate was decided. I don’t think I closed my mouth the entire time we were there. I didn’t say a word, it just hung open in awe. That year they were doing a musical - Les Miserables - and their opening night was just days away. The actors were ready to perform, with their lines memorized and dance steps learned. I watched, as if in a dream myself, as they entered the stage, one by one, their costumes grand and elaborate, and their performance spot on. I cried when Fantine perished, and clapped when Cossette was safe. I sat on the edge of my seat, my hands over my eyes, as Javier ran about the stage, looking for his prey. And when it was over, my eyes were sparkling. I was on my feet, applauding and cheering.

  “Did you like that?” Dad asked, beside me, reaching out to stroke my hair. And then I turned to him, and sealed my fate.

  “Dad, I want to be an actor.”

  It was out of the question, before the words even left my mouth. He was too protective of me. I was too fragile. The tuition fees were too high, even if I stayed at home and became only a day student. They had a rigorous audition process, and students from around the world came to try out - having been trained and performing since they could walk. Students that were to grace the stages of this school would go on to appear in Hollywood; their names in lights. They would sing on Broadway and at the Metropolitan Opera, they would tour the world. Their parents were wealthy, perhaps successful actors themselves. This was not the school for a chef’s daughter who had a dream, and nothing more.

  That was nine years ago, and I haven’t forgotten a moment of that day. Although it may not be a reality, this essay asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, not what I was going to be. Every year, I watch the Oscars with the knowledge of one who has seen the films a thousand times. I download bootleg copies of West End performances, and order theater textbooks from university bookstores, even though I’m not enrolled in their courses. I think every single one of my pleasure reads is about actors, about the stage or the screen. I still memorize monologues and I post them on YouTube, although no one ever watches. It doesn’t matter. The pure joy of doing that is enough for me.

  My father thinks that this was the last I knew of the school. Sure, we go to see the shows, and I occasionally talk to him about the actors we’ve seen there. But to the best of his knowledge, I spend the rest of the time at home, working hard to get high grades, and go to a good college. He wants me to be a writer, or a researcher - perhaps a historian - with a Master’s degree or a PHD. He wants better for me than what he has - only an 8th grade education and minimum wage to support us. He hasn’t taken me to work since that day when I was nine; it’s as if, even then, I was outgrowing his profession, I was better than that. He wants me to find something unstressful that has flexible hours that I can do from home. But home is the last place I want to be.

  At least twice a week, I wait until I know he’s busy in the kitchens, and I sneak in to the school. I could navigate the route in my sleep by now. The classrooms are mini theaters in themselves, and there are so many observers and auditors; local drama classes coming for field trips, potential students, that no one notices if I sneak in. I always sit at the back, knowing where to hide out of the light. I could watch for days on end, listening to the lectures, watching the rehearsals. By the time we go to see the shows, I know every line and step off by heart. I can sing every note, bring every emotion forward, and recite every line. I try to follow along with my age group, so I never look too suspicious sitting in the back row. The lectures and lessons are different from year to year, and I always take notes. I have notebooks full of them, hidden under my bed upstairs. Although sometimes, it’s a pleasure to watch the first year students, just six or seven years old, acting out performances well beyond their years, without even breaking a sweat. I know the theories of Stanislavsky and Uta Hagan like the back of my hand. I know stage right, stage left, upstage, downstage, backstage, everything. I can listen to almost any Shakespeare quote and tell you who said it, where it’s from, and what it means.

  Most of the students, they don’t stay the full twelve years there. They enter late, or leave early, either for fame and fortune, or for broken dreams. Some of them barely make it a year, the classes are anything but easy, and the directors are as hard on them as they would be to any professional actor. I probably have been there longer than any of them, with nine years of sneaking in under my belt. I long to be in front of an audience of more than my stuffed animals and five people on YouTube, to try to apply what I’ve learned.

  But I’ve learned to face reality. I’ve not been able to go to the school for a week or so at a time when I’ve been ill myself, and I realize how lucky I have it. When my energy is low, I just have to open my laptop. But when I finally do make it back, I feel so full of life. The school rejuvenates me.

  So that’s what I want to be when I grow up, an actress. And
that was the day I decided it forever.

  I hit save, and spell check, re-reading quickly before I hit submit and ended the test. I wanted to forget writing it as soon as I was done; bringing back up those feelings was going to stick with me. As soon as I saw it was submitted, I shut down the computer and got up to stretch. I had been typing for four straight hours, finishing most of my assignments, ahead of time as usual. But now, Dad would be home, and I wanted to get a head start on dinner.

  Most of my ingredients had already been prepared, in the professional way that he had taught me. I had learned about food safety before I learned not to stick my fingers in light sockets. I couldn’t help putting some in my mouth as I was preparing it, everything tasted so good today. Some days, my appetite seems to leave me, but at that moment it had returned with a vengeance.

  Just 62 days until Oscar Nominations posted! My phone beeped with a text from my friend, Sarah. Sarah was my kindred spirit, my best friend. We had met online via a forum where we were discussing actors and movies, and exchanged phone numbers the next day. Despite having never met, we texted each over several times a day with little updates and messages.

  I smiled, typing back a huge smiley face, and then went back to stuffing peppers. Dad had warned me that this was my one downfall in the kitchen; my phone. I teased him that one day, I would make fried cell phone, and his face told that he wouldn’t put it past me.

  Is your Dad home yet? Does he know who is cast in this year’s winter performance? That beautiful HBO-pretty Luke you wrote me about?

  I glanced at the clock before replying. Although I couldn’t attend the school, I badgered Dad for information, and always saw every performance they put on. This year, the most promising of all was a senior named Luke, who had the lead in every show. The last show’s program said he already had an agent and would be moving to LA as soon as his schooling was done.