Hello, Whorror Baby.
Congrats on finding this page. That means you were selected to not only ARC read my Gatsby Retelling in March, but it means you are the recipient of my PR Mail, which means I like you extra.
Enjoy chapters 1-3 UNEDITED of Beautiful Little Freaks, and when you’re done, tell all your friends about it so we can get the hype up.
stay rad, stay groovy,
Tylor Paige
Beautiful Little Freaks, Chapters 1-3
Chapter 1- Daisy
“Gatsby…”
“Daisy, you shouldn’t have followed me.” The boy I’d just spent last night with shook his head. He ran his hand through his shaggy, bright blonde hair, tugging on it as he turned and paced. “Daisy, you shouldn’t have followed me,” he repeated.
I looked down at the body of a strange woman. A knife firmly planted deep into her chest between her breasts. Deep red slowly soaked her crisp, white blouse.
“I’m so confused.” My words came slow. I stepped around the dead body and tried to go to Gatsby, but he stepped back, shaking his head more. I stopped short, my heart seeming to shatter in real time.
“You need to go.”
“Gatsby— please…” I pleaded. Tears coming to my eyes fast and hot. They streamed down my cheeks as my chest constricted with pain. This wasn’t happening.
Gatsby’s beautiful green eyes shone with his own tears not yet spilling. He kept shaking his head and backing away.
“I told you not to follow me. Now…” his eyes flickered to the body on the floor. “Now everything is fucked up.”
What did that mean? I didn’t understand any of what was going on. Just a few hours ago, we were in bed, sharing the most intimate of things with each other. Our bodies entangled, our hearts bleeding together, our love overflowing.
The scene in front of us was a stark contrast to what had taken place before. It felt so far off, I was unsure now, if it had happened at all. Was it all a dream? I hoped it wasn’t. Because if that was a dream, then that made this real, and I couldn’t take the look Gatsby was giving me.
Please, make this the nightmare.
“Why did you come here?” I asked. “Who is she?” I motioned to the dead woman. She didn’t look familiar. Although with me being trapped in my home for years, it wasn’t all that of a stretch for me to not know her. This house however, told me she was someone important.
“Daisy,” Gatsby moaned. He was losing his mind. “This was all wrong. It went all wrong!”
“So explain to me then what was supposed to be right?”
He opened and shut his mouth, swallowing.
“Daisy, you need to go. It’s about to get bad here, and you can’t be here when it does.”
Could it get any worse? There was a dead woman lying in the middle of a large, dining room in the heart of a giant mansion.
“Who was she?” I asked again, my voice cracking. I looked back at her face, her eyes wide open in shock. She was older, maybe thirty years old to my mere eighteen. She was pretty too, with shiny red hair and striking features. She was tall too.
Everything that I wasn’t, essentially. Was this his…
“Did you love her?” I turned back to Gatsby. Had I been betrayed? Had I fallen for this boy online, run off with him the moment I was a legal adult, given him my virginity, allowed him to…
I lifted my arm, the sleeve of his oversized t-shirt I’d taken this morning sliding down to reveal the tattoo he’d given me last night.
Beautiful Little Flirt
This weekend had been a myriad of permanent decisions I couldn’t take back. All of which up until just now I didn’t regret. But the expression in Gatsby’s eyes as he flicked from me to the dead woman shattered me in a way I’d never thought anything could.
“Love?” He stopped pacing to look at me. He hurried over, placing his large hands on my face, cupping me gently, but firmly. “Daisy, the only person I’ve ever loved is you. Don’t for one fucking minute think otherwise.”
I tried to look away but he lifted my face, forcing me to stare deep into his eyes. He was so handsome, so beautiful, everything about him was perfect. I’d never seen such a handsome face with the soul to match.
“I didn’t know her personally. I was—” he froze, letting go of my face, he sighed deeply and tugged on his hair again. “Daisy, you have to go. You can’t be caught here when the police show up.”
“You can’t either.” I reached for his hand and tried to tug him toward me but he dug his feet into the floor. “Come on, you’ll come with me to New York. I’ll wipe the knife down and no one will know what happened.”
He shook his head and pulled his hand away.
“I can’t. As great as that sounds… I can’t. I—” he huffed in frustration, as if his tongue was tied. He stared off for a long moment, and then his expression hardened. He looked at me with cold eyes. “Daisy, you need to go. If you don’t go, when I get arrested, I’ll plead guilty.”
“Gatsby.” I shook my head in disbelief. What did he mean, get arrested? He was going to purposely get arrested? My chin trembled, and the tears returned. Why would he do this?
“Please, Daisy, stop asking questions. I can’t answer them. I just need you to get the fuck out of here. Leave now, before anyone sees you. If you leave now, I’ll fight at the trial. I’ll plead innocent, and fight to get back to you.”
I shook my head and backed up, tripping over the body. I stumbled, but caught myself on the large, oak table. I gripped the edges and looked around. This was a nightmare, I decided. None of this made any sense.
How had he even found this place? I’d followed him all the way from our hotel to this large mansion. He seemed to know exactly where to go, and how to get past the large gates. He walked in cautious, but also confident in where he was going. He was hiding something from me. I only knew a small fraction of the story, and I’d inserted myself, screwing up whatever plans he’d had.
“You can’t go to jail. You’re supposed to join the military.” I sniffled, wiped my cheeks, and continued. “That was the plan, remember? We were going to run away together, and then you were getting on the bus to join the army, and I would go to New York for ballet school. And after your four years, you’d join me in New York. You’ll find a tattoo artist to apprentice under, and then eventually open up your own shop, and I’ll be get be a prima ballerina at a company, and we’ll live happily ever after. Gatsby, this was the plan!” I shouted, stomping my foot like a petulant child.
His sad eyes told me that this was never the plan. He’d deceived me. This— this dead woman in this fancy mansion, that had been the plan. But why? Why get arrested on purpose? Why go to jail? Why not just come with me?
“Daisy, this is your last warning. If you don’t leave, I’ll let them fry me. This is a death penalty state. Leave.”
“And what? Forget you?” I cried! “Am I supposed to pretend I wasn’t here? Just go on, be the next prima ballerina, become famous, and forget everything? I can’t, Gatsby.” I collapsed, dropping to my knees, sobbing. I could never forget him. Until my last breath, his name would fill my lungs.
He sighed deeply and returned to me, crouching beside me. He lifted my face again, holding my chin.
“No, I don’t want you to forget me,” he whispered. “I want the opposite, actually.” he urged me to stand, and took me into his arms. I relished the feeling of his warm skin. I memorized his hard muscles, his scent, and everything else about him. I knew this would be the last touch we’d have. He pulled away just enough to place a kiss on my lips, allowing me to be the first one to pull away.
Wiping a tear away with his thumb, he stared deep into my brown eyes.
“Daisy, listen to me. I need you to leave. Go to New York, become the famous ballerina you’re destined to be. I need to stay here. I don’t have much time, and I have stuff I have to do. I’ll come for you when I can.”
I shook my head. “How will you come for me if you’re arrested?”
“I can’t explain, but I will. Just— wait for me. Okay?” Gatsby’s green eyes suddenly flooded with a look of pure desperation. “Don’t forget me.”
I gulped, and nodded.
I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. I knew he was right, in my heart of hearts. Gatsby had always known the right thing to do. He had a plan, and I had to trust him.
I stepped out of his arms and walked to the door, pausing to turn back one last time before I left forever.
“Daisy?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t believe what the news is going to tell you about me.”
Chapter 2- Daisy
Three Years later
Emile Dumas- Cannibal, Gets Death Penalty.
The words on the page sunk my stomach. I put my phone down and stared into the empty space ahead of me. I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and raised my screen again to read the full article.
Emile Dumas, 21, was determined guilty of First-Degree Murder by a jury this afternoon. He was also found guilty of desecration of a corpse, for consuming his victim, Jessica Wolfsheim, post-mortem, three years ago. Dumas, the guilty man has been remanded back to San Quentin State Prison to await his sentence.
Emile ‘Make-a-meal-out-of-you’ Dumas became infamous after his arrest barely twelve hours after his crimes. The crimes itself, which were deemed ‘aggressive cannabilism’, made headlines across the country. However, what made his case popular, was how conventionally attractive the murderer is.
“What are you reading?”
I looked up at another dancer, Aurelia. Her gray eyes were large and concerned. “Are you okay?”
I blinked rapidly. My lashes were wet, but I’d been able to contain my tears. I’d cried enough over the last three years. Inhaling deeply, I forced my emotions down, not wanting to ruin my stage makeup. I set my phone down and turned the screen off.
“I’m fine. How much time do we have?” I looked toward the clock, but my mind was elsewhere, and I wasn’t really looking at the time.
“About half an hour before warm ups. Someone had said you saw something on your phone and jumped up from your vanity table and ran in here. I got volunteered to check on you.” She attempted a playful smile, but we both knew it was fake. Aurelia wasn’t my friend. I had no friends in this ballet company. Still, I forced a smile back and nodded.
“Thank you for checking on me. I’ll be okay. I just got some news that I wasn’t prepared for. If it’s alright, I’d like to be alone for a bit. I won’t be late for warm ups.” I promised. Aurelia put a hand on my shoulder. I turned to stare at it and we both felt how awkward the attempt at affection was. She quickly removed her hand.
“Good, because Madame De La Rosa would have everyone’s skin if her prima ballerina was missing. Are you really okay? I know we’ve never been close, but I can sit and listen if you need someone to talk to.”
I stared at the girl. This was probably the most genuinely nice she’d ever been toward me. Aurelia wasn’t ever cruel, like the others, but she wasn’t friendly. Being my friend was highly discouraged within the company. Did I take her up on her offer?
I hadn’t told anyone my secret. I’d kept complete silence for three years, and now that he’d been sentenced, it felt like the floodgates on my heart were starting to crumble.
I could use a friend. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to stay so I could tell her everything, but a scream came from the back of my mind.
If you tell her, she’ll tell the others.
I tightened my lips and pushed the need to confess down. I shook my head. “No thank you, Aurelia. I promise, I just need some time to process things. I’ll keep track of the time. I won’t be late.”
She didn’t want to go. I could see the weariness in her expression. She wasn’t wrong. Madame De La Rosa would take her anger for me out on the entire company. I wouldn’t let that happen. She stared for a moment, and then left, closing the door behind her, leaving me alone in the costume shop.
As soon as the door clicked shut, I scrambled for my phone, scanning the article for where I left off.
Dumas, with golden hair and striking green eyes, received many fans who proclaimed him innocent, simply for how tall (6’3”) and large his muscles are (230 lbs).
A photo of Emile was underneath the words, making my heart stutter. He sat in his orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, looking absolutely miserable. And even like this, I couldn’t deny how beautiful he was. It was his curse.
Gatsby.
I stared at the image for far too long before forcing my finger to keep scrolling.
Raised on military bases primarily by his mother, Monica Dumas, Emile left home on foot April 10th, and was arrested by police the evening of the 11th, having murdered and eaten pieces of billionaire heiress, Jessica Wolfsheim.
My stomach turned and I had to close my eyes over the picture of the woman. She had been 30, with bright red hair and freckles all over. She wore pearls and white blouse over a black blazer in this photo. She looked just as she had the day…
Her lips were painted red and her smile wide. To the rest of the world, she seemed an innocent victim, but to me, the photo was unsettling. I knew the truth about her last moments. She wasn’t as innocent as the article claimed. But… canniblism?
He didn’t do this. He couldn’t. Not… not my Gatsby.
But they say he did.
I forced myself to keep reading.
Dumas went to her home, and managed to get through the heavily secured gates where he proceeded to stab her with a knife. When police arrived, her body was found missing her heart and other vital organs. Upon investigation throughout the mansion, her body was found in the kitchen, while the organs were found in the dining room, her heart cooked and half eaten. Dumas, while claiming innocence, was the only person found inside, and the only person to be caught on camera entering the mansion that day.
Emile has maintained his innocence since day one, and when asked if he had anything he wanted to say after receiving his death sentence, he continued his rhetoric.
“You can toss me on death row, but that’s not going to make me suddenly confess to crimes that aren’t mine.”
The guilty man has spent the last three years stating over and over that it wasn’t him that committed the crimes, but her younger brother, Dennis Wolfsheim. Wolfsheim was investigated, however, it was deemed impossible that he could have killed his sister. The youngest and now sole heir of the Wolfsheim fortune has an aggressive form of muscular dystrophy, and has been wheelchair bound for over a decade. Despite these facts, Dumas sticks to his story that it was Dennis, not him, that ate the woman.
Now that he is officially sentenced, Emile Dumas will await his execution date in maximum security. He is still getting fan mail from true crime enthusiasts and people pleading for his attention. It is clear that despite his crimes he was found guilty of doesn’t dissuade his fans of trying to get him out of prison. Some even have plans for if he gets out. Reporter, Bruno Laferte, spoke to some of his ‘fans’ outside the courthouse this afternoon after Dumas’s sentencing.
“Emile is innocent!” Kasey Lombard proclaimed while holding a poster with the words ‘Emile can eat my’ above a hand drawn cat. “How could you look into those gorgeous eyes and see anything other than his innocence?” She then proceeded to tell the reporter the same thing the defense had used as the main reason Emile was innocent. He had no history of violence.
Despite fierce arguments from Emile’s lawyer and the man himself, he was deemed guilty buy a jury of his peers and will spend the rest of his life behind bars.
A tear fell onto my screen and I blinked. And the pain hit me all at once. I burst into sobs and dropped to the ground. I laid my arm on the bench and allowed myself to cry and let out all the anguish I’d held onto for the last three years. Gatsby, my one and only true love, had been convicted.
Put on death row.
His crime had been so bad they decided he needed to die for them.
And I had loved him.
No, that was a lie. I still loved him.
I was no better than the fan girls at his trial. I was in love with a man I thought I knew. Some fictional idea that I’d built up in my mind. Behind the screen, he’d created a false identity, convincing me of his inner beauty before I saw his outward, but it was all a lie. He wasn’t Gatsby. He was Emile Dumas.
And Emile Dumas was a monster.
Emile Dumas ate people.
A sharp knock on the door forced me to reign in my emotions. I stood quickly and grabbed my phone. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and hurrying out to clean up my face and fix my makeup before my performance.
The show must go on.
Chapter 3- Gatsby
One year after sentencing.
“Let’s try this again, Dumas.” Hawkins clipped. I glared at him from my seat, unable to move. I drummed my fingers on the arms of the chair I was handcuffed to. The psychiatrist laughed, and raised the crinkled news article to his face. “This is what has you so worked up? Enough to try to to assault a guard? Tsk, tsk.”
A low growl came from deep in my throat. He looked up and raised his eyebrows.
“Emile,” he warned. His eyes flicked to the mask covering my mouth and cheeks. “Would you like me to read the article aloud so we can deconstruct why this upsets you so?”
My chest rose and fell heavily as I tried to steady my rage. I didn’t want him or anyone else to know a damn thing about me. Everyone just wanted to dissect me, figure out what makes me tick.
Figure out why I did what I did.
“Prima Ballerina’s Proposal Steals the Show: Ballet Royalty Engaged to Heir and Owner of Famous Theater,” he read the article’s title. “There’s a photo attached. She’s quite pretty.”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Like I didn’t know that? I knew every line of her face. I dreamt about her every night. Her dark eyes, her long, brown hair, her dimpled smile.
Not getting a good enough response from me, Hawkins continued on.
“Following a performance of the ballet, Coppélia, Max Stanton, ran onto the stage and publicly proposed to prima ballerina, Daisy Lovelace.
My jaw ticked, and for the first time since I’d been given the muzzle, I was grateful for it. He couldn’t see my reaction to the painful words.
She’d changed her legal name.
It was like being shanked right in the organs. I almost felt that a good stabbing would be less painful than what he’d just read off. I’d gotten the article slipped into my cell this morning, and I was still struggling to fully comprehend what the paper was telling me. My Daisy, was getting married. To someone else. To this Max, guy. Who the fuck was he?
“Max Stanton is the oldest son of the influential and wealthy billionaire, Alfred Stanton. The family is known primarily for his ownership of the historic, Revelle Theater. After taking ownership from his father in the 80’s, Alfred went on to grow his wealth through investing in real estate. However, the Revelle Theater remains the crown jewel of the family’s legacy. Last year, the ownership was passed down to his son, Max (22), after Alfred’s retirement.”
My breathing must have gotten louder, because the shithead paused and looked over. “Maybe it’s not her that triggered you, but him.”
Bingo.
“Do you not like Max Stanton? This rich billionaire? I mean, it would stand to reason, considering your last victim.” He wasn’t talking to me, but at me. If I wasn’t so furious, I’d laugh at him. Hawkins, while claiming to have a degree, the pretty paper hanging on his wall and everything, I didn’t believe for a second he was. I could do his job. He set the paper on his desk and leaped up.
“Yes, that’s it. You grew up struggling for money. Your mother said so in her tell-all book. Which, by the way, was an instant bestseller. Not that you seem to care. I got a signed copy.” He picked up a book and waved it. I turned my head but not quick enough to miss the photo of my mother and I on the cover. My stomach twisted in nausea. I swallowed the vomit down.
I didn’t want to throw up with a mask over my nose and mouth. Sick or not, they wouldn’t be removing my mask until I was back in my cell. Hawkins didn’t pay any attention to my reaction to the mention of my mother. That would have told him more than the article he was focusing on. I snickered, thinking about it.
What a fucking moron.
“You take ‘eat the rich’ literally,” he said in a very matter-of-fact tone as he went behind his desk to scribble it down. While I hated the fucker, I could admit that it was a good tagline. I could see the Youtube true crime channels popping off with it.
There was a loud, firm rap on the door. Hawkins looked up from his notes, bored.
“I’m done.”
Two guards, Verveen and Parati, barged in as if they were expecting me to have gotten out of my restraints. The door hit the wall with a loud thud and they quickly unlocked my handcuffs from the chair and linked them together, leaving me in two pair. They fixed my feet shackles as well so I could walk back to my cell.
“Anything else?” Verveen asked Hawkins. Hawkins looked up at me and I glared back.
“Do you have anything you’d like to say, Dumas?” Hawkins goaded.
Give me my paper back, I thought, but chose to not say anything. If I did, he’d light it on fire in front of me. I couldn’t risk that. I’d find a way to get it back later. It had her picture on it. Without another word, I was shoved out of the room and escorted back to my confines.
They shoved me inside my cell and I went through the routine of taking off my leg shackles, then my mask, then the wrist cuffs.
“You better now, Dumas?” Verveen snickered.
I said nothing, and instead turned and went to my cot. I laid down and stared up at the ceiling.
“You keep squawking in here like you did this morning, and we’ll have to take you to solitary. You upset your neighbors.”
“I doubt Chip or Scott are upset.” I got up and went to the bars. Gripping them, I pushed my face against the metal. The guards leaped back. Their faces paled as I grinned out at them.
“You guys mad at me?” I called to my neighbors on both sides.
“Fuck no!” Chip yelled back.
“Why, should we be?” Scott replied. “You’re not trying to eat us.”
“True. According to Hawkins, I’m only interested in the rich.” I quipped back.
“Well then you’ll go hungry here.” Chip cackled like a hyena.
Verveen stepped forward and rammed his baton into my abdomen, shoving me back. “Stand down, Dumas. You step up to those bars again and we’ll put the mask back on,” he warned me. “You’ll only take it off for meals.”
I did as ordered. Out of all the shitty things I had to deal with in here, the face mask was the worst part. It was the uncomfortable and hot, although, it did make me appear much more terrifying than without.
“Get back to your bed. Lights out soon.” He waved his baton at the cot. I laid down, putting my hands behind my head and closed my eyes to wait for them to disappear. It took an achingly long time for them to shut the lights off and do their night rounds, but finally, I had some privacy. I stood and dug under my bed. I ran through the pile of legal papers until I found the page I’d written this morning. Word for word, the article that Hawkins had taken from me. I went to the window to read the article by moonlight.
Lovelace and Stanton have been dating for the last year, so the public proposal was no surprise. According to undisclosed sources, this proposal came shortly after Stanton purchased a 10,000 square feet mansion on Lake St. Claire. It is presumed that he purchased the multi-million dollar home as an engagement present to Lovelace.
I ran my tongue over the front of my teeth, absorbing the information. He bought my Daisy a mansion. Did he think she wouldn’t be interested otherwise? Maybe it was my own wishful thinking. That she didn’t really love him, but the money he came with. But, the article stated that they’d been dating for a whole year, contradicting what I’d wanted to believe.
I read the dates again. Did she agree to date him only after I was deemed guilty?
One could only hope.
Daisy is no stranger to wealth and fame either. The prima ballerina comes from a long line of ballerinas. Her parents were both esteemed dancers before their untimely, separate deaths. Magdalena Lovelace, was murdered by a fan when her daughter was an infant. Daisy’s father, Juan, committed suicide five years later, after a motorcycle accident left him paralyzed from the waist down. She was raised by her paternal grandmother, Lolita Lovelace, another former professional ballerina.
“Ballet is in my blood,” Prima Ballerina, Daisy, says. “There was never any other option for me. My soul was drawn to it, like Gatsby, drawn to the green light.”
I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the stone wall. I could almost hear her voice. Dance was in her blood, correct, but did it have her heart? No.
I did.
The last sentence of the article told me everything I needed to know. She was calling to me. I knew it in my bones. That quote wasn’t for the news. It was for me, and me alone.
She was still my Daisy; and I was still her Gatsby.
I slid the paper back between the others and went to my cot. I ran my hand under the frame and pulled my box of contraband from where it was taped. Silently, I went about assembling my tattoo machine. I flicked the switch and it hummed to life. I said a silent prayer to a god I never truly believed in and dipped the needle into the ink.
Fucking die already, Dennis.
I dragged the makeshift machine against my flesh, slowly, carefully. I had nothing but time to perfect the art form, and had grown to crave the pain of a new tattoo. With only the moonlight to guide me, I worked through the night until I was satisfied that it was perfect. Putting everything away and hiding it once again, I lay back in my cot and breathed a sigh of relief, as I was as calm as I could be for now. The moth resting on a tiny lantern on my thigh would serve to ground me to my goals for now until I saw her again.
Until they put the final needle in my arm, I’d never give up on us.