3. Beauty's Slave

3

Beauty’s Slave

 

The difference between opinions formed with alcohol in your system and without is often quite large. Ideas that are good enough to write down with great pride and enthusiasm when drinking, will feel embarrassingly clichéd or just plain nonsense the next day. People that you meet and will definitely be friends with forever, because of your kindred spirits; will only ever be seen again in your address book or on a social network. Ultimately, any future contact with them will be forced and awkward. Most commonly though, a member of the opposite sex can be seen as everything you’ve ever wanted when alcohol tinted blood is coursing through the veins. A beautiful creature that stirs an incredible sensation in your chest. When seen in a sober state however, you’re left puzzled by any attraction you may have felt. And the only sensation in your chest is a build up of bile in the lower esophagus.

          It’s Saturday and I’m sat at a table in a popular coffee franchise. I have an over-priced espresso in front of me that has not only been served in a small paper cup (criminal). But as added insult the barista has written my name on and spelt it incorrectly: ‘Stuart’. I was always habitually early for any rendezvous and as I sit waiting for Rachel to come through the entrance. I find myself wondering if she would be as beautiful as I remember. Or if the alcohol in my system had clouded my judgment the night we met. Pretty girls rarely had anything to do with me, let alone gave me their numbers. It stood to reason that I’d got this wrong and I was about to have a date with a female version of ‘Sloth’ from ‘The Goonies’.

         We’d exchanged a few text messages since the initial contact three days ago to sort the finer details of where we’d meet and what time etc. I found her to be a little distant via messaging, never putting an ‘x’ at the end and always being short and matter of fact. Just how she texts I’d think and it never really bothered me.

          I was nervous and even though I had some tried and tested anecdotes prepared �" ones that had rescued me from a hundred previous uncomfortable social situations. I was worried the conversation may dry up at points and this would be conceived �" on her side, as a lack of chemistry and rapport between us. I was practiced at coming across well and knew the formula inside out. Ask questions about them. Listen. Ask more questions. Make inoffensive, self-defacing jokes. Listen. Get them to talk about themselves. Listen some more. This didn’t stop the nerves in any way though and they are in absolute tatters when Rachel walks through the door.        

            She looks gorgeous. My heart thuds and the nerves turn into an almost tangible fear. I feel unprepared like I’m about to run a marathon but I haven’t done any training. She smiles as she spots me and I stand to greet her. She approaches me and stands on the other side of my table. I don’t know what to do, should I kiss her on the cheek? Hug her? Would a handshake be weird? It takes me too long to think about it, to the point where the moment for any initial physical contact has gone. “Hi, can I get you a coffee?” I manage at least to say something �" a relief at this point. “Oh thanks, a latte would be great” she makes eye contact with me as she responds and her big blues almost knock me off my feet. “Coming right up”. I laugh nervously, walk around the table and pull a chair out for her. “Ooh, chivalrous” She remarks. “Well chivalry isn’t dead yet”. She smiles again and sits down. I am fascinated by her smile by its beauty. I want to spend all of my days making you smile I shout internally. She looks up at me and the realization that I might be staring hits me like a mallet. “You ok?” she asks. “Yeah… coffees… on the way”. I walk off in the direction of the coffee bar and order two lattes.

                When I return, coffees in hand my backside has hardly hit my chair when Rachel says “I’m really glad you text me, after what we talked about the other night”. Wow I think is this happening? Not only am I sat opposite a ridiculously beautiful girl, she is making out like she’s the lucky one. Like me texting her and arranging this is cause for her to be happy. “Did you read the leaflet I gave you?” She asks keenly. “Err… yeah, of course” I stumble a little. It’s not the question I was expecting, not the usual: what are your plans for the weekend? Or what are your hobbies? “Great, what did you think?” the question floats over her cup, which she has to her lips and is blowing in order to cool the molten coffee inside. “Yeah it’s good” I pause and look at my palms, now moist with sweat. “So what are your plans for the weekend?” I ask, a thinly veiled attempt to try and commandeer the conversation to a more familiar territory. I hadn’t read the leaflet and didn’t want to encourage further questions on it, for fear I might be exposed as a liar. She rummages around in her purse for something and her hand emerges with some sort of business card. She looks up at me and responds to my question in her usual joyful tone “I’m meeting my fiancé later for dinner and then tomorrow is pretty much church all day, like every Sunday”. I feel the blood drain from my face and a knife-like pain form in my chest. I’m sure she just said “fiancé” before I can ask to clarify, Rachel continues: “so this card has all the details for our church on it, I’d love to see you there, you know. To see God work in your life and the incredible things he can do for you and through you”.  Oh f**k; the horrid realization hits me. This isn’t a date to her, just some kind of Christian outreach thing. I’m merely a sheep that hadn’t been recruited to the good flock yet, not boyfriend material. I take the card from her outstretched hand and without looking at it, pocket it immediately. My mind goes to the night we met, vague memories and shoddily painted in blanks reveal a picture of me talking with Rachel. She is telling me about her church and about it’s good causes, about the positive changes I could make by accepting Jesus into my life. Enraptured by her physical beauty and impaired by the alcohol, I simply nod along saying exclusively what I think she wants to hear. I am a fool and I hate myself.

               “I think you’d really like our church, there’s a great group of people our age and everyone’s really nice.” Rachel continues before stopping to drink more of her coffee. “So you’re engaged?” I ask trying to sound happily inquisitive but hoping I’d misheard her before. “Yes, we get married next June, are you with anyone?” How could I be this stupid?  I ‘m embarrassed for myself �" I am my own laughing stock, perhaps the most pathetic sensation I’d ever felt. “No, I’m single” I mumble. “Oh, well I’m sure the right person will come along,” She sounds enthusiastic with everything she says and I envy her seemingly never-ending supply of happiness. “So what do you think? Will I be seeing you at church anytime soon?” She has a look of expectancy across her face �" a look that suits her features exquisitely. I think for a minute, not saying anything. “Look, I know how you feel. I was like you once, super cynical. Just try it once, for me and you’ll love it.” Persistence like this would normally annoy me but coming from Rachel it borders on being welcome.  “Yeah ok, maybe I will” I say with a strained grin. She smiles that smile again and at the second attempt I manage to change the topic successfully. We talk for the amount of time it takes us to finish our coffees, talk about normal things. Pop-culture and our likes and dislikes. To my bitter disappointment I find myself even more attracted to her personality than her looks. Repeatedly trying and failing to find fault with her, I keep up the pretense, smiling and nodding. Showing interest and in-turn attempting to be interesting myself.

              But I left the coffee shop that day feeling crushed. Not because of an opportunity missed but because of an opportunity fabricated in my own mind. Because I’d met the perfect girl and she wasn’t available and even if she was; for all I knew she wasn’t at all interested in me.

               When I get back to my flat, I have an hour before I’m due at work. I empty my pockets onto the kitchen table and melt into my favorite chair to begin reading; I’m halfway through ‘Byron’s Poetical Works, Volume 1’. Some of the most beautiful poetry I’ve ever read.

‘Here I can trace the locks of gold

Which round thy snowy forehead wave;

The cheeks, which sprung from beauty’s mold,

The lips, which made me ‘Beauty’s’ slave’.

The words ‘beauty’s slave’ make me smile. Tell me about it I think and take comfort from knowing that I’m not the first and won’t be the last to be made a fool by the beauty of a woman.

               As I enter work, I’m immediately reminded of the situation with Paul. He still hasn’t been in touch with anyone for the last few days. Nor can anyone get through to him. The area manager had called at Paul’s flat but there was no one there. For some reason the entire thing hangs over me like a dark cloud. Yesterday Steve let slip that they’ll be advertising his job in order to find a replacement by the start of next week. All the other staff members speculate as to why Paul had disappeared just evaporated into thin air. Theories ranged from the perfectly feasible to the downright absurd. The most common observations though, were that it was weird and it was out of the blue.  

                I’ve only been working the till for around ten minutes when Steve emerges from his office. “Hi Stewart, you alright?” I don’t answer. Steve’s way of greeting was always “you alright?” A question that didn’t require an answer. Steve squints out of the glass door of the shop. “Evening papers are here.” He shouts in his typically military manner. “Stewart, do you want ‘em?” Rather than answer verbally I simply raise my eyebrows and lift my chin. The universally acknowledged body language for ‘yes’ - I’m in no mood for talking after the coffee shop fiasco and even one word answers feel like a little too much effort. Steve looks at me in a way that suggests I epitomize all that is wrong with “young people today” and marches back to his office. I walk around the till and towards the door where a stack of newspapers has been freshly thrown, ready to be displayed on the news shelves by the entrance. I pick them up by the plastic cord wrapped around them and maneuver the stack to a more convenient position. Let’s see what today’s headlines are I think to myself. I cut the cord with my keys and remove the paper delivery note from atop the pile. As I pick up and examine the front page, a sense of pure, terrifying revulsion crawls up my spine and grips my brain. My vision blanks for a second and I have to fight to bring my eyes back into focus. The headline reads ‘Body of girl aged 13 found dumped at nature reserve’. Underneath - as clear as day, is a picture of Izzy. The picture is one of her seemingly on holiday. She has a huge smile and her big innocent eyes are lit up with excitement, a stark contrast to the headline. The caption reads: ‘Isabella Adams, murdered was found on Marton Mere nature reserve at 7am this morning by a dog walker’.

         Vomit burns the top of my throat and I have to forcefully swallow to prevent myself from being sick. The paper is dropped from my shaking hands. My head’s spinning at an alarming rate and before I can think or even know what I’m doing, I walk out of the shop.

          It’s cold outside and each breath I take is heavy and difficult. Still in shock I begin to sprint, my flat is only a couple of blocks away and I want to get to the privacy of it as quickly as possible. I sprint as though I’m running away from the newspaper. From the headline and the accompanying photo, as though I believe if I run quick enough, I can escape it and somehow it won’t be real. My feet pound the pavement in a persistent rhythm and I can feel my quickening heartbeat like a drum inside my skull.

         Upon getting to my front door the key is fumbled into the lock and I run upstairs to my flat, slam the door behind me and instantly collapse to my knees. Izzy’s image keeps flashing into my head and I double over. Kneeled with my head on the floor, I feel the coarse old carpet of the hallway on my cheek and turn my head to scream into it, tears streaming from my eyes. The floor muffles my scream, which is turned into a gasping cry. I cover my mouth with my hand and close my eyes as tightly as I can. I can vividly picture the look on Izzy’s face when I left her that day. When I left her with a monster, not knowing that I’d be one of the last people to see her alive. My knuckles whiten as I clench my fists tightly; my whole body is shaking and reacting to a sense of unadulterated despair. The like of which I’d never felt.

           I’d read stories of young girls being abducted and killed before, seen them on the news. In a strange way they’d never felt authentic though. Like reading a fictional book of a tragic story, it’s sad but has no real, lasting effect on you. This was different this was palpably real. I’d only met Izzy once but once was enough. I’d looked into her eyes and even fleetingly cared about her. And now she was gone. Her future existence, everything she was yet to achieve. Everything she was yet to become and all of her potential had been erased by the perverse whims of a vile and disgusting creature.

            What hurt the most though was that, rightly or wrongly I felt partly responsible. This feeling of responsibility, of guilt almost is what caused such a strong and overwhelming reaction. I felt that maybe there was something I could have done the day I met Izzy. Something I could have done that would have kept her alive.

             I lay in the foetal position, thinking about Izzy’s family and what they must be going through. Sarah �" Izzy’s friend, springs to my mind and I recoil in the fear that there may be a second body not yet discovered. I beg my mind to shut down, to switch off but it remains so busy that my head feels like it’s about to explode.

           My phone; which had fallen out of my pocket when I’d collapsed upon entry to the flat - and is now lying directly in front of my face lights up and begins to vibrate. It catches my one uncovered eye and through the tears I can read ‘Incoming call �" Work’. 

 

Reviews

[AprilRN1210]

another nice chapter... This one has plot twists that are dramatic and saddening...

[Jennie Baron]

I'm absolutely spellbound by this story for so many reasons. I can't think of a thing I'd change about the settings, the dialogue, the pace of the story...I'm glad it came my way. To top it all off, the reference to Byron...

[StefanC]

Thank you so much, high praise indeed. I'm very happy that you're enjoying it.
You can't go wrong with Byron :)