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Beast

By

Tim J. Vickers

My thoughts aren’t mine anymore. The man I was is coming back. I’m afraid of what he will do.

I thought he’d died when he shot himself in the head. When I woke up they told me if the bullet had gone half an inch lower it would’ve killed me instantly. They said it was lucky enough structure survived for stem cells to rebuild.

I didn’t know the man who picked up his pistol two years ago, since those cells could only repair his brain, not his mind.

But now his memories are coming back.

I learned to walk in my first year. Talking came easily in the second, since that part of his brain was undamaged - but it was just after I spoke my first words that his dreams started. Dreams of a child curled up in bed listening for feet on the stairs, dreams filled with pain, fear and shame.

Now his dreams don´t stop when I wake. His childhood is coming back, along with the twisted hate it brought to him.

I found myself standing outside the school playground yesterday. Watching, waiting, wanting. I know what he will do, but I know how to stop him. Just half an inch lower – I´ll do it properly this time.

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