The Beast and Me Read Online Free PDF

perfectly.
    You don’t feel it when you cut yourself and the pain surprises you. Paper cuts are the worst. Being mauled is even worse. This feeling when your skin gets ruptured, and claws tearing through your flesh, it’s like that paper has been replaced with a rusty old nail.
     
    They didn’t do anything to stop it. They were deaf to my screams and I didn’t recognize my own voice, I still don’t. Now, as I look at my injuries, when they exchange the bandages, they don’t even look that deep, but the pain, the memory, went deeper. I never felt anything like that before. And I don’t want to feel anything like that ever again.
     
    They would watch it kill me. I know that. I knew it when I cried out in pain and nothing happened. And it continued to hurt me, trembling, snarling. I have no idea how I could notice that with blood streaming out of me. No one made it stop, even my screams didn’t. I don’t know how, but then... I think I started whispering, speaking to him. I mean, I could barely bring out words, but I tried. I fought so hard to not scream and turn this into sounds that would help me. So, I hissed, turned it into a hush – as insane as it was – and it... he... responded to it. Maybe... the tremor he went through, this transformation, or whatever, was over and that was the true reason, but then I believe it was me. So, I continued.
    “It’s okay”, I told him – even though it damn sure wasn’t. “Relax. Breathe.” I guess I told him a hundred times until he stopped, pushing out words instead of whines.
    Out of nowhere he let go of me. I don’t remember how long it took until I could hear it stumble away from me as I passed out.
     
    Still, I am not sure if what I recall after that were just hallucinations of a drugged mind or if I hadn’t been in a coma at all. It’s all just a blur. It could have been weeks.
    After the pain I went through I would have imagined that my recovery would take much longer than two weeks, but the doctor says the stitches will be gone in six days. 
    The cuts are stapled, not stitched actually. Strange.
    I’m not sure, but somehow it feels less painful when I move, maybe they just gave me a bigger dose of painkillers.
    I cannot feel grateful for being saved, not even towards the doctor, even though she is really nice; seemingly. After all, I am still their prisoner and somehow that word doesn’t seem to fit. I got my first visitor today. But you can’t call her that. She has been rather just someone to check on me. I guess I am just another subject, apparently valuable enough to be saved.
     
    At least until I am healed, I live in the brighter, whiter section of this complex. It really looks like a hospital room here. Like an intensive care unit.
     
    The meals are the same and I have more company than before, when I do count the doctor who checks up on me and the nurse who changed my bandages. But I don’t talk to them. They do. The usual things like “try to sit straight”, or “open your mouth”, and that my vitals are getting better, but that’s it. I doubt that they would answer my questions anyway and I am still sleeping a lot.

Day 23
    I got my first real visitor today. I guess they were maybe visiting me while I was held in a coma, recovering, but this a real visit – well, you know what I mean. This guy even knocked. Of course he didn’t tell me his name but he was wearing a doctor’s overalls and I just knew that he was one of those people who had been there. Of course he knew my name, and naturally he didn’t feel obliged to address me as “Miss” or something; he called me Meg, and he spoke like a man who was used to giving orders that were followed without questioning, and being respected without having to prove anything. I can’t help myself but believe that I have met the one who ordered my abduction, who handpicked me for this, who is to blame.
    “I am quite pleased that you have healed so well”, he said with a smug smirk that