Free The Beast by Shantea Gauthier

Harold had said that it would make me stronger and heal my wounds. Maybe I was holding onto it in case I ever wanted to call him. He had promised that he would come if I called.
                  And then he broke my window.
                  "Come on, Jade. You can wash all day and it still won't make you as gorgeous as me. Do the best with what you have."
                  I smiled and shut the water off.
                  I called out sick from work the next day. Jack and his brother helped me move the larger things I owned under Sandra's supervision.
                  My bed, couch, desk, and table went into the shed in Sandra’s yard. My dresser went into one of the guest rooms and all that was left were a computer, a few boxes and my clothes and linens.
                  I'd been on my own for almost ten years and everything I owned fit into a truck bed and two cars. Even my kitchen was bare, except for the beans, pasta and sauce. The garlic bread was stale and was thrown in the trash along with some old clothes and towels that had been long forgotten. Everything was moved in just a few pickup truck loads. It was a little sad to think about.  I’d always thought that having few possessions would make it easier to travel, but the occasional visit to Tijuana wasn’t exactly what I had in mind as “travel”.
                  Sandra paid the men in beer and flirtation, which we all shared, and after what felt like too little time she announced that she had to work in the morning and it was time to go to bed. I went up to the guest room that was now mine.
                  On the unfamiliar comforter, I turned the little vial over and over, studying it. I opened the stopper and smelled the contents. It didn’t smell like anything. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the man had smelled so good, I had expected that his magical blood would have carried some of it.
                  Hesitantly, I put a finger in place of the stopper and tipped it upside down. When I flipped it back over and removed my finger, there was a bright red bead of blood.
    I smelled it again. Still nothing.
    I rubbed my finger and thumb together, spreading the droplet thin across my fingerprints.
    It didn’t seem magical at all.
    Absently, I wiped my fingers down my bare stomach, a bad habit I’d learned from Sandra. I felt a strange sensation that wasn’t the pain I should have expected. When I looked down, it was as though I had just erased part of the scratches across my midsection.
    I let another drop out and did it again. I felt it speed through the healing process. It went from angry and hot to tingly and itchy to nothing. Excited, I was ready to do it again and again, drop by drop until I was completely healed. I was sure that I’d have to live with scars, but the blood left nothing behind.
    Harold’s promise came back to me. Drink it and it will heal your wounds.
    In an exalted rush to be freed of my ugly cuts, I raised the open vial to my lips.
    I let it down again without drinking. I was the girl who would watch the bartender open my beer and then never let it leave my sight. I read the packaging on everything before I ate it, even though I didn’t always stick to what was good for me afterward. I couldn’t bring myself to drink it. The fear that it might not have been blood was replaced by the horror that blood was the best case scenario here. It might heal the physical wounds, but what else would happen?
    I put the stopper back in the opening and slipped it under my pillow. I would keep it close. For emergencies.
    And then, I slept
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    chapter 6
     
     
    I arrived at work to find that, as promised, my cubicle was gone. Bob refused to let the change get him down and had signs taped to his computer monitor since he didn’t have walls.
    The whole building buzzed with the latest news of the serial