Beast

I woke up in a hospital bed.

Pain.

That was the first thing I felt. Not dull. Not aching. Excruciating.

Like every inch of my body had been torn apart and stitched back together by someone with trembling hands. My ribs throbbed with each breath. My head pulsed like it might split open. I couldn’t open my eyes all the way—everything was blurry, shapes melting into white walls and blinking monitors.

The smell of antiseptic stung my nose. The distant beep of machines created a sterile symphony that filled the too-quiet room.

I tried to move.

Nothing responded.

My limbs were dead weight. My legs might as well have been cinder blocks. My arms felt foreign, like they didn’t belong to me anymore.

Something was wrong.

And then—I heard it.

A voice, muted at first, like it was floating through water, but unmistakable.

“Max…”

Another voice—professional, cold, sterile.

“Mr. Carter, can you hear me? You’ve suffered a spinal injury. The tests are in. You’ve lost feeling in your legs. There’s a chance you may never walk again.”

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t scream.

I tried. God, I tried.

But all I could do was choke on my own breath. My throat was raw, parched. My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

And then—blackness.

I passed out.

---

A Few Months Later…

I hated the hospital.

Hated the cold, artificial lighting. The muted conversations behind closed doors. The way the nurses tiptoed around me like I might explode at any moment.

But most of all, I hated the silence. Not the absence of noise—but the kind that settles into your bones. The kind that reminds you you’re broken.

I’d become a prisoner in my own body.

Worse—I’d become a burden. A relic of a man I used to be.

I stared at the untouched glass of water on the table next to me and then hurled it across the room. It shattered against the far wall, the crash ringing out like a gunshot. Ice cubes scattered across the tile like a cruel joke.

“Vanessa!” I roared, voice hoarse. “Where’s my damn drink?”

A young woman stepped into the room. She wasn’t Vanessa. I didn’t care.

Her hands trembled as she tried to pour me something from the pitcher by the sink. “S-Sir, I’m not—”

“That’s not my name,” she said softly, voice barely audible.

I turned, glared at her. “Get out. You’re fired.”

She didn’t protest.

Just nodded quickly and left.

The door shut behind her with a whisper of finality.

That’s how it always ended lately.

Six nurses in a month. One by one, they quit or transferred, citing everything from “incompatibility” to “personal reasons.” But we all knew what it was.

Me.

The anger simmered in my gut, hot and bitter. It burned, but it was the only thing I could still feel.

---

Marco’s Visit

The door opened again.

This time, it wasn’t some trembling nurse.

It was Marco.

Old, steady, always composed Marco. My family’s butler since I was ten. He’d seen everything—the rise, the destruction, the moments I tried to forget.

He stepped in slowly, dressed in his usual navy blazer, but something was different. His expression. It wasn’t blank or polite. It was tired.

“What now?” I snapped.

He glanced at the broken glass, the spilled ice, the whiskey bottle on the floor.

“You’re making a habit of this, Max.”

I scoffed. “Of what? Being abandoned?”

“Of pushing people away,” he said calmly. “Six nurses in a month. You’re scaring them off.”

“They’re weak.”

“No. You’re afraid.”

I stiffened. “Don’t start.”

Marco stepped closer, folding his arms. “What are you doing? This isn’t the Max Carter I know.”

I laughed bitterly. “The Max Carter you knew died the moment I hit that tree.”

He didn’t flinch.

“You think you’re the only one hurting?” he said. “Your father’s dead, Max. You’re still here. That has to mean something.”

The words stung more than they should have.

I turned my face to the window. Watched the clouds drift lazily over a city I used to rule. Now it felt like it had moved on without me.

“What do you want from me, Marco?”

“I want you to stop giving up.”

I closed my eyes, and the memory hit me like a freight train.

The crash.

The scream of metal, the wind roaring, the flash of headlights, and the sickening crunch when my car met that tree. It all came back in painful pieces. My hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly. My foot pressing harder on the gas. I wasn’t driving fast—I was trying to feel something.

And I felt it, all right.

I felt death press a hand against my chest and ask, Are you ready yet?

But I didn’t die.

I woke up.

And now this—this broken shell of a man—was all that remained.

---

Ghosts of a Father

“My father…” I whispered.

Marco was silent.

“I spent my whole life trying to prove something to him. And when I finally thought I might do it—he got sick. And then he…”

My throat closed up.

“You know what his last words to me were?” I asked, the bitterness dripping like venom. “He said, ‘You’ll never be good enough, Max. I’d rather sell the company than give it to a failure.’”

Marco’s eyes softened.

I didn’t want his pity.

“I could’ve saved him,” I muttered. “If I had pushed harder. If I had seen the signs earlier. But I was too busy being Max Fucking Carter. Too busy proving I didn’t need anyone.”

I looked at Marco now, my hands fists in my lap.

“I have nothing left.”

“You’re wrong,” he said simply. “You’re still breathing. You still have a chance.”

I shook my head. “A chance to do what? I can’t walk. I can’t lead the company. I can’t even hold a glass without shaking.”

“You’re still Max,” he said. “But the world doesn’t need the one you pretended to be. It needs the one you’ve been hiding.”

---

The Darkness Creeps In

Silence fell again. Heavy. Crushing.

“I don’t want to feel this way,” I whispered. “Like I’m already dead.”

“You’re not,” Marco said. “But if you keep drinking yourself numb, you will be.”

I reached for the bottle again. Unscrewed the cap. My hand trembled. I stared at the amber liquid, trying to imagine it would make everything disappear.

It never did.

Marco didn’t stop me. He just stood there, watching with sad eyes.

“You’re not just punishing them, Max,” he said softly. “You’re punishing yourself.”

And I knew he was right.

But I drank anyway.

Because some nights, the silence is too loud.

And the ghosts are too close.

And the thought of facing who I really am is too terrifying.

But somewhere, buried beneath the anger and the pain and the wreckage—I wondered if there was still a version of me worth saving.

And for the first time in a long time—

I didn’t know the answer.

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