2:38 A.M.
by BeeDrew
This story originally appeared in the now out-of-print fanzineHeart of the Minstrel I, in 1990. Beauty and the Beastand its characters are owned by Witt-Thomas Productions and RepublicPictures. This story is presented merely for the enjoyment of fans,and won't make much sense unless you've seen the episode ThoughLovers Be Lost.
My baby wakes me with a roll and a kick. I push myself up on oneelbow, eyes seeking the blue glow of the clock on the besidetable.
2:38 a.m.
Gently I rub the taut swell of my stomach, trying to calm therestless baby within. I speak soothing nonsense words to it, asthough it were the child I comfort, instead of myself.
Lying here in the quiet, interminable spaces of the night, Iwonder what I could have done to prevent this.
Nothing, a small voice whispers. How and where could I haveskewed events in a different direction? Should I not have lovedVincent, not have conceived his baby so my captor would have noreason to hold me? Should I have turned away from Joe, lying therebroken in his hospital bed?
No, and no. I made my choices out of the deepest part of myself;out of love, and truth, and duty. I could not be less than I am--lessthan Vincent has helped me to become--in these two crucible yearswe've had. Together we have walked through fire, and become in theburning something eternal, unbreakable. . .something that has neverbeen.
I have not one regret, except that I never told Vincent he is tobe a father.
A thousand times I've cursed myself for letting the chance passby. Another time, I said, never imagining it would be our lasttime together. He was so despondent, mourning what he'd lost, and Iwanted to tell him in peace, in love--I wanted his first moments offatherhood to be joyous. Now he may never know at all, because Ipushed it too far, took one too many chances. . . . How could I haveguessed that John would betray me?. . .Oh, Vincent. We were so closeto our happy life.
It has been about six months, as closely as I can figure. I keeptrack of time with tiny scratches in the wood of the headboard, butthose first days were drug-hazed. My window tells me it's fall now--aseason blazing with color as the world dies into winter. It wasspring when he took me.
I still marvel that he has succeeded in this. Between them Joe andVincent--even Elliot--must be tearing the city apart. But they can'tfind me, since I am in none of their worlds. I am in hisworld.
His name is Gabriel.
I heard one of the guards say it as they escorted me--with forcedgentleness--back to my room after one of my attempts to escape. Ijammed the door lock with a tine broken from a fork and got halfwaydown to the next level before they caught me. Doubtless they hadsecurity cameras--I guessed as much before I began--but I had to try.Now I eat with spoons, and one more hope is dead.
In the beginning, struggling against him seemed important. Ifought the drugs, the questions, the examinations, because all thetime I believed that he could not really succeed in keeping mecaptive; that if I kept fighting, he could not tear away my will, mypower over my own destiny.
Now I know he can.
He has stolen almost all the choices, leaving only these: Live, ornot. Give life to my child, or not. And like the very bones of truth,I realize that it's not the struggle that's important, but survival.Gabriel intends to kill me as soon as he has my baby in his hands--Iknow this; I can feel it, and I'm frightened. I'm too large for sixmonths--I don't think it will be long now. Don't be so impatient,little one, I want to tell the tiny life within. Don'tstruggle so to be free of me. While you're inside my body, you'resafe. I must survive long enough, somehow, to tell Vincent thatwe have a child, so he can protect it if I am not there.
Vincent. It is Vincent who keeps me alive now. I breathehis name like air, whisper it like a talisman against fear anddespair. It's strange--I am more free to love him now than ever.There are no distractions, no conflicts between his world and mine,no limits other than the physical. I can simply lie here and love himwith all that I am, and cherish him in my heart as I cherish the lifehe placed within my body.
I doubt he remembers it, our night together--when life was bornout of death, and we conceived our baby. He was so far from himself;he was submerged in that other side--the side he fights, the side hedenies. The side he finally let me love. I've wanted to love thewildness in him for a long time. At last, in weakness and pain, helet me see and touch the beast. And as I have always known it would,our love gentled him, tempered that raging power even in passion. Ournight was beautiful, so beautiful that it's almost painful toremember, lying here apart from him.
In the days that followed he reclaimed himself, becoming again theVincent I know best--but not entirely. He was changed. His descentinto darkness formed a chasm so wide between what was and what isthat he can't remember his passage from one to the other. And thebond is gone.
Without it, I am truly alone--cast back on my own strength, andforced to test it as I never have before. Our love lives, but thebond is dead . . . a memory only, that sweet resonance. Forged inpain, it was lost in pain. How glib I was, dismissing his anguish atits loss. I told him to have faith that it would return, that perhapsit was no longer needed. My words mock me.
Perhaps, though, this aloneness is right, and fair. Who can growwho never faces herself, without another to be lost in? Who can bewhole who has never stood apart? With hours of thought and searchingbehind me, I now know so much that could have helped us, had we beengiven time.
I began to know the truth when Spirko threatened Vincent. I saidto Father, What he does, he does in my name. But it was morethan that. A part of Vincent's ferocity and power belongs to me.These are my hands, I told him, to soothe his pain. And theyare no less mine in violence than in love. He did not kill for me. Ikilled through him.
The knife attack was a watershed, an unheralded split between girland woman, and the rape of my spirit forced me to choose a newpath--one that bonded us in all aspects, dark and light. The darkerface of the bond has always been there, but I refused to see it.Vincent, once again, took up the burden of guilt and shame. Ibelieved I was stepping outside the circle of my father's protection,learning to stand on my own two feet.
And so I was--but I was also stepping into Vincent's protection,into his care. Without realizing it, I brought with me intact thatfeeling of a charmed existence: It can't happen to me, I'm safe,I'm secure. It was as if the power over myself that I lost inthat van had come back to me. It came back large, strong, and clawed;I could call it at will, and it was ready to defend me until death. Iheld to that feeling even as I learned to love Vincent forhimself.
Looking back, I know he didn't fight all my battles--but heshouldered more of the risk than was good for me. There was notenough fear left; I had such faith in him and myself that any riskseemed justifiable. It was a grave mistake, for which he paid, mypoor Vincent. He paid dearly, and so do I.
My deepest fear is that our child will pay, as well. I know it's aboy, Vincent's son; my heart's dearest wish. He is strong, kickingbeneath my ribs. Sometimes I feel as if my whole body pulses withthis new life, and I stand still, and wrap my arms around thatfeeling, and think of my baby's father.
I have to fight to hold on to the thought of Vincent; to stop thefrantic maelstrom of my thoughts when they turn to darkness--a soft,velvet darkness that seeps through my soul, robbing me of hope. Hewill never come for you, it whispers. Your baby will know noother father than Gabriel. The panic, the pain of it--
But that's not what I believe, in my heart, where my faith inVincent lives. He will come. I know he will. So I wait. Sometimes Iam calm; sometimes I give in to anger and frustration. I had a life!A life full of purpose and family and love and work. Now I have thisroom, and my baby, and memories. And I wait.
He knows it, the man who holds me prisoner. That's why he's givenme the clock. There's nothing else in the room that isn't necessaryto maintain and safeguard my body--sheets and a comforter to warm me;a light so I don't stumble and fall on my way to the bathroom. But Ihave the clock, to remind me that I am only marking time until thebaby is born.
In my world, I was a person of importance--wealthy, successful,loved. Here, I am less than human. I'm an animal--a breeding female,ripe with life for Gabriel to harvest. And in realizing this, I'vefinally come to know Vincent's torment. All his life, he's beenregarded by some as subhuman, unworthy of respect. Is this what hefeels, this hopeless horror?
His world has always been contained by walls and ceilings, itslimits painfully visible. Like Vincent, I am so close to life andfreedom--but they are beyond my reach.
Still, I've learned to cope. The first months were horrible,beyond imagining. After the drugs wore off I felt as if I were beingslowly suffocated. I talked to myself, I paced, I raged. WithoutVincent, I would surely have gone mad. But I didn't, because he readto me.
While we were together, we read for many hours. Beginning withDickens, we explored far and wide through words. I reach into myself,and his voice comes to me clearly. It was the first part of him Iknew, the first part I loved. And I remember so much, because I needit so desperately. Vincent's voice drives back the roar of thesilence in this room, when seconds are hours and minutes areyears.
Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage . . .Theking of all the wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someoneloved him best of all. . .One fire burns out another's burning, onepain is lessn'd by another's anguish. . . .
Snippets only, scraps of our life together. Sometimes, though,it's as if I've fallen into a waking dream. I feel I need only turnmy head to see him beside me, reading whole passages.
When love beckons to you, follow him,Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
As the north wind lays waste the garden.
A full moon hangs outside, filling up the wide window. Silverlight spills into my room, but the vertical blinds block it, layingbars across my bed. Across my soul.
I rise, ponderously, and go to pull the blinds aside. Unfetteredmoonlight washes over me, and I wonder if Vincent is standingsomewhere, looking up, sharing this moon with me.