Kelly Hashway - The Monster Within

No one even noticed me standing in the doorway. They were all into Mr. Ryan’s reading. I saw a few girls practically drooling and realized it might not just be Mr. Ryan’s voice that had them so mesmerized. He was young with dark, almost black hair, like mine. Even though he was sitting I could tell he was tall and in great shape. Yes, I might like English lit this year. Not that I had a crush on Mr. Ryan or anything. He was a teacher and that made him old in a completely different way. But he was easy to look at and listen to.

Finally, he shut the book and smiled. “Writing like this captures your heart and doesn’t let go. It’s like—” He turned and saw me for the first time. “Well, hello. Let me guess, Samantha Smith. New transfer student from…” He held his hand up. “Don’t tell me. I know this. Phoenix, right?”

I nodded. “You got it.”

“Any seat is fine. I don’t assign them. I want my students to feel comfortable. You can’t absorb great literature if you aren’t comfortable.”

I looked around, spotting an empty seat by the window.

“Grab a book on the back shelf.” He pointed to a bookshelf filled with not only school-approved books, but novels I’d buy if I saw them in a store. When I got really sick, Mom bought me a Kindle, and she let me load it with books. I wished I still had it. It would make staying awake at night a lot less boring.

“Have you read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde before?” Mr. Ryan asked, breaking me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah, back at my old school.” I sat down with my novel.

“Would you care to pick up where I left off in the reading?”

Why did teachers always like to make the new kid read aloud? Did they think it would make the other students accept us? Because, really, it just made everyone look at you like the new school freak you were.

“Um, I don’t know where you were.” Lamest excuse ever.

“No problem,” Mr. Ryan said. “We are in chapter nine. Um, Mr. Milton, will you please show Ms. Smith the correct page and passage?”

The redhead sitting next to me leaned over and took my book, opening it to the page. He pointed to a paragraph. “There.”

“Thanks.” I wanted to sink into my seat and die of humiliation. Not only was I the new girl who had interrupted class, but now I had to read out loud. The girls in the front row glared at me. Thanks to me, they wouldn’t get to listen to Mr. Ryan’s hypnotic voice anymore. I cleared my throat and began reading, eager to get this over with.

“He put the glass to his lips, and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I thought, a change—he seemed to swell—his face became suddenly black and the features seemed to melt and alter—and at the next moment, I had sprung to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror .

“‘O God!’ I screamed, and ‘O God!’ again and again; for there before my eyes—pale and shaken, and half fainting, and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored from death—there stood Henry Jekyll!”

I stopped, unable to read any more. It was too familiar, and not because I’d read it before. It was too familiar, because it was me. Or at least it could’ve described what was happening to me. Restored from death, pale and shaken, gasping with open mouth. It was what happened to me before…I stole the life from someone.

“Ms. Smith, is everything okay?” Mr. Ryan looked sympathetically at me.

“I-I’m sorry.” I let the book fall from my hands and ran from the room. I tried to ignore the whispers of the other students. I had no idea where the girls’ bathroom was, so I kept running. I found a stairwell first and decided that was a good enough place to hide. I flung open the door and ran down to the landing in the middle of the stairs. I sat down and buried my face in my knees. Life wasn’t supposed to be this hard, was it? I’d thought after having cancer, nothing would be difficult. Didn’t the universe owe me something? Or was this my punishment for giving in to what I’d become? For taking human life instead of letting my own drain out of me?

The bell rang, forcing me to wipe my tears and get up before I was trampled by hundreds of students rushing to their next class. I checked my schedule. French? How had I not noticed that before? I’d never taken French. I contemplated going to the guidance office and telling them there was a mistake. But they’d check my records—well, Samantha Smith’s records—and see there wasn’t any mistake. I wasn’t going to figure this out in the three minutes between classes, so I headed in the direction I thought French was in.

I turned the corner and bumped into a girl with a stud in her nose. “Watch it!” she yelled, giving me the evil eye.

“Sorry.” I found my classroom at the same time the late bell rang. Just great. I was going to have to enter the second room of the day with all eyes on me. I was reaching for the doorknob when I felt the first tightness in my lungs.

No! Not again! Not here! I turned and scanned the hallway. It was empty. Through the window in the door, I saw the teacher notice me and walk toward me. I took off, running back down the hall the way I’d come. I had to get away from everyone before I could take another life. It registered what that would mean. I’d die. Again.

Still, I pushed my legs forward, feeling the wobbliness creeping up them. I was losing control of my body. I managed to make it to the stairwell again, slumping forward as I pushed the door open. I fell to the floor. I was trapped. Too weak to pull the door back open or climb up the stairs. This was how it would end. My lungs tightened, making me sputter and cough. I watched my fingernails turn blue as my body went cold. “Ethan.” I wished I could see his face one last time, but at least this was the end. I would rather die than kill again.

The door opened behind me, and a guy nearly tripped over me. “Whoa!” He caught himself before he fell on top of me. I tried to back away, to keep him from touching me, but I couldn’t move.

“Hey, do you need the nurse?”

I couldn’t speak or even shake my head, and I cringed as he stepped closer. I had to warn him to stay back. Not to touch me.

“Come on. I’ll take you to her.” He bent down next to me. “Do you think you can walk if I help you?”

I felt the warmth radiating from his body. His leg was right next to my side, and I could feel it warming my hip. He reached for my hand.

“No,” I choked out.

He must have thought I was answering his question, because he said, “Okay, I think I can carry you.”

Before I could even attempt to protest, his arm wormed its way under my shoulders. My chest didn’t feel so tight anymore, and I tried to resist the urge to touch him as he scooped me into his arms. I stared at the artery in his neck. With every pulse, it called out to me. My fingers had a mind of their own and were working their way, crawling up the guy’s shirt. They found his neck and rested on his artery.

“Wow, you’re freezing cold,” he said.

I begged my brain to fight against my movements, to regain control, but my other hand was tugging at the guy’s shirt.

“Am I hurting you?” He repositioned me in his arms.

My hand found his skin and worked its way to his chest. The guy started to say something, but a pained look came over his face. I closed my eyes as his life flowed into me. He wobbled and fell to his knees, but I held on. I was holding him up now. Slowly I was returning to normal, and he was dying. Desire to live compelled me to hold on. Only one of us would survive. The monster within said it would be me.