(NaNoWriMo) Lightly Treading:

I TURN round
Like a dumb beast in a show.
Neither know what I am
Nor where I go,
My language beaten
Into one name;
I am in love
And that is my shame.
What hurts the soul
My soul adores,
No better than a beast
Upon all fours.
-W.B. Yeats

Was it a cockroach? Or a mouse? It was some manner of sizable black blur that darted out from under the pot Yeats picked up. On the kitchen counter, there was no lack of places to hide. Ms. Bell’s cupboards were bare, with every single dish occupying every possible space in and around the sink. None of them were clean. The pot in his hand produced cloud of mold spores the moment water from the tap began to fill it. He was careful and as quiet as he could be--opening the tap just a third of the way as to not make much of a commotion.

Ms. Bell had escaped to the upstairs, slamming the door to her bedroom behind her. She had bid Yeats to return to where he came from, but it wasn’t a command he could fulfill. Certainly not unaccompanied by someone with the right authority to return him. Selina would have been that person, no doubt. But, she wasn’t here now. The best he could do was behave as a ghost. He would take care not to be seen nor heard by the Miss… He would work when she was not present to observe him. And so, this was the perfect opportunity to get started on that.

A small mouse stared up at him from underneath the overturned bowl he lifted off the counter. Well, much preferred over bugs...but even so, this kitchen was no home for it. Not anymore. Yeats remained as still as possible, watching the small, skittish creature mill about in search of small crumbs. There was no safe way for him to capture it. The moment he moved, the timid thing would be out of sight in the blink of an eye. With a resigned sigh, Yeats continued with his work, leaving the mouse to scurry out of sight.

 Work continued quietly, slowly throughout the day, and well into the night. Ms. Bell had not once emerged from the safety of her room. By the time the sun had sunk well beneath the horizon, Yeats had been able to transform at least half of the first floor into a functionally livable space. At long last, the table and counter tops were clear of any clutter, the floors were freed from the burden of empty boxes, soda cans, and half-filled bags of garbage. A lot of which was neatly packaged and placed into the living room for the time being, adding to the clutter that was already there and making it impassible.

It wasn’t all trash and rotting food that he turned up throughout the day. Underneath a pile of books was forty dollars in cash, enough money to buy some small odds and ends for Ms. Bell’s woefully vacant fridge. He had cleared out the long-expired milk, the dubious carton of eggs, and a variety of unidentifiable leftovers. He scrubbed the whole thing from top to bottom, just so it could be an acceptable place to store whatever food the meager sum of found cash could fetch. On his way out to the store, he dragged two full garbage bags from the living room with him, leaving them at the corner of the road with the rest of the neighborhood refuse.

 Ms. Bell’s street was a rather quaint and quiet one, especially beneath the stars and purple sky of nightfall. There was a distant hum of traffic from some highway hidden out of sight, behind the rows of townhouses. The lamps here emitted a warm, orange glow, and the air was warm and still. It made for a pleasant stroll as he searched for a nearby corner store. The steady click-clacking of his own claws against the pavement eventually brought him to the front of a small shophouse.

 The owner was a gray haired woman hunched over the counter, reading a paper. Her large glasses sat precariously at the very tip of her nose, but was pushed back up towards her eyes with forefinger as she looked up to greet Yeats.

 “Good evening, may I help you?” Her voice was soft, but it had to complete only with the still, quiet air.    Lifting one of his broad hands in an appreciative gesture, Yeats pointed to the large refrigerator. It occupied most of the floor space, preceded only by four shelves housing bread, some vegetables, chips, and toiletries. he cracked open the fridge and gravitated towards the fresh milk, eggs, some lunch meats, and bacon. He brought it to the counter,  but returned to the humble shelves for a loaf of bread, soap, and a head of lettuce. He would have been content with just that, but his gaze snagged on a small notebook packaged with a matching pen. It was rather small for his large and cumbersome fingers, but he picked it up anyways and placed it next to the till along with the groceries. The shopkeeper took up his items with a warm smile. “You’re a new face I haven’t seen yet. Do you live in this neighbourhood? Or just passing by?” As the lady began calculating the costs with a calculator, Yeats put down his fourty dollars, and proceeded to peel the plastic off his new notebook. Flipping to the first page, he scrawled down two quick lines before handing the booklet to her. I’m a caretaker for a house four blocks down, today was my first day. You wouldn’t happen to have any cheese in stock, would you?

“Oh, are you unable to speak?” The lady glanced from Yeats to the book, and back to Yeats again. “I haven’t seen that manner of defect in a Grem before… I can’t imagine they allow many like you to move past the assembly line, you must be very fortunate.” She handed the booklet back to him. “I’m afraid we don’t stock cheese, my dear. There’s a mini mart on the highway that might have a bit more selection for you, but don’t let that stop you from seeing me again, okay?” She showed Yeats the number on her calculator before taking up his bills and sorting them into her till. Handing him his change, she said “Good luck with your new family, sweetheart.”

Taking up his bag of groceries, Yeats nodded his thanks and started on the short journey back to Ms. Bell’s home.

--

'Dad is making bacon and eggs again...I hope he doesn’t forget to make enough coffee for me.' Sunlight peeked through the blinds and kissed Maeve’s closed eyelids. The sound of sizzling from a frying pan downstairs and the savory smells of breakfast were as unmistakable as her hunger. The small well of anticipation encouraged her to open her eyes, and a disorienting wave washed over her as her surroundings grounded her into reality.  It wasn’t her father making eggs. She wasn’t a teenager sleeping in on a Sunday morning. She was thirty years old, and she was alone. ...Except for that thing her sister left with her.

Maeve’s whole body tensed at the notion of having to interact with it. Its cat-like gaze held a severity that frightened her even more than the claws and teeth. Those eyes housed an intelligence she didn’t want to deal with. It was a stranger in her home, shuffling through her space, passing judgement on her and she didn’t have the energy to shoulder that weight.

She listened carefully for sounds of movement downstairs. The sizzling from the pan, and the clinking of kitchenware had stopped. The smell of bacon still hung thick in the air. There were no sounds of footsteps, no shuffling, nothing to give her an idea of which room the creature was occupying. She slowly slid off the side of her bed and crept her way towards the door. Turning the knob slowly as to make no sound, she cracked the door open just a sliver and peered out into the hall. No peculiar sight met her, no noises to be heard.

Maeve dared to slink past the door and carefully towards the staircase. She ducked her head down, to get a view of the living room and kitchen from where she stood. There was no one waiting for her.  There was nothing.  Nothing but sunlight bouncing off the floors and lighting up the spotless counter tops.      Nothing except a plate of bacon and eggs, and a cup of coffee sitting alone on the kitchen island. She skittered towards it, wholly expecting to be met with the imposing gaze of that terrifying creature she now shared this house with. But, as she pulled up the stool and took up the utensils next to the plate fresh cooked food, those frightening green eyes never found her. He must have been here, somewhere. No one else could have done this for her.

 She poked her egg with her knife, watching the golden yolk spill over the plate. It was perfectly cooked. There was no runny white, and no solid yolk. Her toast glistened with melted butter, and her bacon looked crunchy, but not at all blackened. Maeve dipped the bread into the egg, and took her first bite. And then another. And then another.

Tears welled up in her eyes and quiet sobbing accompanied her perfect breakfast.