Octavius (WATTYS 2016)

four | ziti

I am again, bored out of my fucking mind. 

Octavius' "within the hour" turns into four hours of me just wandering around the wing. It is bigger than the suite for the alpha beta and gamma in Moonrise. Honestly the size is intimidating to say the least, the looming ceilings and tall doors make me feel like a doll trapped outside of its dollhouse. 

I find the biggest kitchen I've ever seen, with stainless steel countertops and black wood cabinets. I could literally live inside his huge fridge, which was also steel, but so clean I can see my reflection in it. God, I look awful. The bruise on my cheek has faded mostly, but my hair is tattered, and there are dark purple bags under my eyes.

Needing a reprieve from the judgmental kitchen, I venture from hall to hall, finding two tv rooms, a dining room which has ornate greek and roman structures of marble and stone. But every doorway leads to a room as hollow as the next. Any who chanced upon this wing could believe a ghost lived in this wing, alone and wailing. 

On the walls all over the wing, there were beautiful paintings and portraits, replicas of some of my favorite artists. I traced my fingers across the golden and wooden frames, my fingers aching, missing the feel of a paintbrush in my hand. My mother had loved to paint, and she made it her mission to make a portrait of each family in the pack. She died before she could finish, so I learned how to paint and continued her work. I painted gammas and omegas alike, each face beautiful and different. I loved the complexity created with such simple movements, sweeps and glides made with a hand wrapped around the brush, how colors exploded from a sheet of snow white canvas. 

They were so happy, the portraits I drew. My heart aches for them suddenly, they were probably destroyed by now, a heap of smoke and shreds, a lifetime of work destroyed by a second of cruelty. 

Shaking my head, I rebuild my resolve. I don't trust myself enough to cry, one tear could cause a downpour lasting eons. 

I turn my attention back to the art. It was strange, that such a beast could harbor such beauty in his quarters. How could a man be a monster outside his room, then come to bed accompanied only by his art, and such beautiful and bright art. It's possible the portraits were hung by someone else, but I cannot imagine the alpha musing over surrealist brush strokes with anyone. 

As I reached the end of the hall, I arrive at my room, and of course, Octavius'. On either side of my door, there is yet another painting. But one of the frames is blank, waiting to be filled by a new addition. To the left of the door, there is painted a single red rose, with golden accents surrounded by thorns and vines.

Beauty and the Beast. I thought, touching the paint lightly. It was long dried, but looking at the bottom right corner, where the artist's signature usually laid, there was nothing. This rose had no owner. Or at least its owner didn't wish to claim such a beautiful thing.

I sigh, knowing I was once again lost in my thoughts. Curious, I turn around to face Octavius' door. It is the same as mine, black wood, with a golden handle, smudged with his large fingerprints. It is the only thing in the house that wasn't perfectly shined and cleaned.

This is the only place he goes in this whole wing. The realization jarred me. He really was the beast, hallowed away in his corner of the world, ruling everything by fear, but...yearning for something meaningful.

I shake my head at the thought and almost scoff aloud. Octavius? A thoughtful prince trapped in a beast? This wasn't a fairytale, no matter how much I longed to just pinch myself and wake up in my old bed, in my old pack, with my living parents smiling down at me.

There is only one painting to the right of his door, showing a tiny yellow bird in a beautiful golden cage. I scan the picture, looking for a door to the cage, but find none. The bird is trapped inside the only place it's known, forced to look out at the free world around him.