Freeing the Beast

Dropping the four-hundred-pound weight on the gym floor, the shirtless Nolan Clear grabs the nearest towel to wipe off his sweat. The big-muscled man then walks over to the water-cooler to sate his thirst, taking big sips of the cool liquid while sweat trickles down his naked back. Holding the unfinished cup of water in his big hand, he absently gazes out of the glass wall. From up here, in the gym-room, he can see the whole city laid out in front of him, underneath the darkening sky. Even from this great distance, he can admire the Seattle landmarks. Bright city lights, even from away still pour in through the small fotest. The Western Yellow Pine trees, tall and big enough to surround the two-story safe house he's been shut inside for years now. Despite the breathtaking view of the city, the distance almost is nearly numbing. These woods where he is are marked as private property, he's basically stranded. No one will come up here. No one knows he's here. He spends a lot of time up in the gym-room since it's the only place in the house he doesn't feel so isolated, so abandoned. This room can provide such an enticing view of the outside as it's at the top floor of the safe house and the walls are made completely of glass. So, he does more than lift weights; he comes up here a lot to reflect, to stare out into the city he loves. Swallowing the rest of the water, Nolan leaves the gym. He takes the elevator down, as the doors split to reveal the grand living room and kitchen, both almost void of funiture, he walks past through on his way to the bedroom, quickly petting his only companion's head on the way. Mal, the beautiful Irish Wolfhound he simply loves tries to follow him. "Stay, Mal, you know you can't follow me to the shower," Nolan says to Mal with his deep, raspy voice, rubbing Mal's soft, dark-grey fur. Mal whimpers but quickly sits, obeying Nolan's order as usual. Nolan's voice has that effect. Since he hit puberty, he has either scared people with his voice or has made them want to kneel in front of him. His deep, commanding voice oozes authority that inspires instant obedience, even in non-humans like Mal. Nolan makes his way to his bedroom, removing his pants and kicking off his sneakers, leaving them strewn on the carpeted floor. He slides open the glass door of his shower and enters. After pressing the button that sets the temperature to near boiling, Nolan closes his eyes, letting the water spurt at him from all directions. He shuts his eyes tightly as the searing sensation attacks his skin, the scalding pool washing him and making his skin red from the burn. To distract himself from the burning pain that he believes he more than deserves, Nolan begins to think of all the work he's done in the past year, and what he has accomplished. He has finally finished Mending Apparatus, (MA.) And, to think, just a year ago, all he had was a prototype. Now, it's all done and ready to serve the world. His creation is coming to life. All he's ever wanted. Nolan steps out of the shower, the space so full of steam that he can barely see where he's going. He snatches one of his towels and starts to dry his face in front of the foggy mirror. He stops suddenly, staring at an unclear reflection of himself. That mirror is one of the only things in the house that never fails to remind him of his shame, his guilt. As if he can ever forget. He uses his large hand to wipe the steam off the mirror and sees the reflection clearly. His face, sad and ugly, seems to get more and more hideous with every second that goes by. A whole half of his once-handsome face is disfigured beyond repair; rough skin takes one small part of his lips down and pins it to his square-shaped chin. His family has tried a few times to fix him, but unfortunately, they've found that no amount of money spent on reconstructive or cosmetic surgery can fix his condition. Besides, what is the point of fixing a dead man? Of course, before all of the surgeries, he was worse. He looked even more like a monster than he does now. But the surgeries have only made a small amount of difference, which barely shows. Nolan gently touches the part of his face that could still be considered handsome, even with the cracked-looking scar that permanently mars it. On that part, the eye is still normal; his eye is still the bright-blue color he was born with. But, on the ugly side of his face, the eye is damaged. Not only can he not see from it, but it also looks unnatural. The iris is a reddish, glowing yellow, the pupil is a freakish gray, and the sclera is an amber-brown instead of the normal white. The skin on that part of his neck matches the ruined skin on the bad side of his face. One side of his nose is normal, while the other side is enlarged. At first, he also had to become accustomed to being completely bald on that one side of his head. Luckily, a few months ago, the hair started to marvelously grow back after being missing there for so long. But, now, even with a full head of hair, he remains the hideous man his family is ashamed of; that he is ashamed of. Looking catatonically at the mirror, he wonders if he will ever be able to have a normal life again. The one he had while he was in college—the one with his many friends and a family that was proud of him. A life where he wasn't a dead man with an ugly legacy. Yet, the more he longs for that life, the more he realizes that he doesn't deserve the normal life he craves and the more he forces himself to accept the pain, the shame, and the loneliness. In a bat of an eye, he snaps out of it. Looking down and stepping away from the mirror, he shuts his eyes and squeezes them tightly like his jaw. After throwing a hard punch at his reflection, he watches absently as the bathroom mirror shatters on the floor, and warm blood drips from his hard knuckles to the floor.