There isn’t a beginning for us to start at, so wait patiently with me for however many months to pass and turn into the right years gone wrong, the ones your mother warned you about, they don’t bear counting, so don’t bother asking, until-
-and though Emma did not believe in superstition or signs or even, particularly, in the strange foreshadowing that had followed her all her life, the brilliant black eyes flashing down at her, the weight on her chest, was undeniable and awake as the room around her. And you, closet, and you floor, are you awake too? And if you are, can any living thing sleep through these jubilant witching hours? Emma would later allow that the question warranted a slew of well considered answers, but the moment and the cold push of a wet nose against her chin called for more decisive and immediate action. She yipped-a noise unfamiliar to her ears, but that her vocal chords knew the precise timber and frequency for, as if they had been training and waiting their entire lives to get that call, now boys, now’s your time. Something sharp tore through her nightgown, found skin and ripped hard to the right with the weight, propelling as hard as it was holding fast. Mike bolted upright next to her, “Jesus, what? Who, what’s happen-“
Emma threw her arm up and out, an instinct more than an action, and the suspicious black lump flew across the room and hit the wall, hard.
“What the fuck, Mike?”, she said, sitting up and clutching at the bleeding welts she at last had time and presence enough to feel. The pain was sharp, but less oppressive than the heavy fear that muddied her fight, flight, stay put senses into a frenzy of kinetic stasis, a constant shaking that threatened to vibrate her over the edge of the bed.
Mike fumbled through the dark. Sleep weighed a cool, seductive gravity in his eyelids, his night vision more myth than reality. The righteous sleep like the dead, Emma thought wryly, with similar utility and practical function. She snapped on the lamp beside her and let her eyes adjust to the bitter burn, 40 watts of illumination when all you want is ignorance. But bliss is for the young, and I am not so young anymore, she thought, resting her hand over her kicking stomach. Oh good. At least we’re all awake now.
Mike had grabbed a paperback copy of “Cat’s Cradle”, held in the defensive posture of confused desperation recognized and acknowledged since time memorial. “What’s happenin-oh Jesus, what happened to you? Are you ok?”
Emma rolled her eyes, and found with some minor key relief that she was still able to register irritation, even in that heightened, troubled state. Oh, these small favors, she thought, as Elise kicked staccato and arrhythmic against her kidneys, a fiendish jazz musician manically determined to reduce her mother, already close enough to pissing herself from fear, into a sopping, salty mess. What a time to have to pee, she thought, and almost, instinctively stood up to race for the bathroom. A fat drop of blood hit her hand before she could feel the cold of the hard wood against the soles of her feet.
“Yeah, I’m great”, she said, raising an eyebrow.
“What did that to you?”
“I don’t know, there was something on me.”
“Something on you?”
“Yes! Please find it!”
“What is it though?”
“I don’t know what it is, Michael, other than still in this room.”
“It could have run awa-“
“It did NOT RUN AWAY.”
She gestured emphatically towards the corner, where a black mass trembled in the shadows.
“It must be a raccoon. Or a squirrel.”
Emma sighed. “I don’t care what it is, get it out. Please.”
“What if it bites me?”
Emma gestured to her chest, knicked and torn, an oozing, bloody mess. “Sorry, but you lose this coin toss.”
Mike sighed. “Maybe we should call animal control.”
Emma’s enthusiasm for sharing the room with her attacker was waning in exponential degrees and sweeps, and as appealing as waiting to see if an entirely unpredictable and unstable compound would rise felt, she grabbed Mike’s arm. “Just shoe it out. Please.”
Despite being well equipped at all times with rational arguments and a litigators passion for pedantic speechifying , the “please’ broke through Mike’s carefully achieved stillness. He stood slowly and crept towards the corner. The creature had secreted itself into the angle, obtuse and welcoming, created by the open door and the wall and as Mike approached, it pushed itself deeper into the vertex, softly sealing the room, and spilling light over it’s small body and revealing it’s true form…
A puppy.
Trembling and matted, covered in mud that flaked crisply onto their floors, the autumn of all discontents given over to ennui and fear.
Mike looked at her. “This is what attacked you?”
Emma pushed herself further up the head board. “He could be rabid. Look at him, he’s filthy!”
But she felt herself soften; he and not it, now. He, a frightened thing, reacting to fear. He, slowly coming further into the light to gently nose at Mike’s lowered hand, then to nuzzle softly into it. He, who had been resting on her chest, and had mirrored her own fear back to her.
“He can’t stay here, Mike.”
Mike rubbed his floppy ears and said “What do you propose we do with him? It’s 2 in the morning.”
“Yeah, and by the way, how did he get in here in the first place?”
Mike shrugged. “We were painting earlier. We must have left a window open.”
Emma had, since the beginning of her courtship with Mike, experienced brief but intense moments where she knew with an unspeakable and unnamable clarity that she was a stranger to him, an alien being wearing the skin and sighs and speech of someone familiar, someone he believed he knew beyond the pale, but who was, instead, something of a reverse hermit crab; the shell remained for different versions of Emma to pass through and inhabit as she grew and evolved.
There was no other explanation as to why he would ever suggest she would go to bed with a window still open.
But even exhausted, frightened, absolutely hemorrhaging with urine, she bit down on the impulse to loose the poison from her tongue to remind him that while HE may leave windows open all night in October, she sure as hell didn’t.
Temperance, she thought. Temperance and calm.
“The windows weren’t open. He must have gotten in some…”
She swallowed the other way well before it crossed her tongue, already too late, and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, arose a murderer, stepping gingerly over the ashen corpse of sleep, rest in peace, resting in peace, long live awake and chaotic, awake and rampant, awake and a jangled, blasting, barrel of nerves.
Who needs sleep anyway?
Well, Mike did, of course and obviously, yawning his arms into cartoon windmills, his jaw unhinged, can you even imagine being this sleepy?
Emma sighed, measuring steps in regret and mistakes and memories of the times that she didn’t but should have and vice versa, stretching back to the womb and maybe earlier, to being an egg, to being a moment of passion in the backseat of a car, an adored unplanned for dribble out between her mother’s thighs, and she made it all the way up to petting the Emerson’s dog, the one with the reputation for biting little girls, before she glanced out the window and caught the first glimpse of the woman.
“Well, shit….” She said, and Mike made his way over to her with far less urgency than she felt the night had in general warranted, a no, nothing particularly out of the ordinary has happened here tonight, why do you ask, kind of pace.
The negative had begun to fade by the time he reached her side, but the outline was still there, a slim, strangely angled creature with twilight hair that suggested the kind of itchy dying finger that got activated at the earliest hint of internal crisis. She was shuffling clumsily into the dark, looking nowhere near the window Emma and Mike currently peered through, but waving, slowly, fondly.
Mike furrowed his brow. “Should we call the cops?”
Emma shrugged. “I’m not certain, but I don’t think that standing on the street at 2 in the morning is a crime, no matter how weird it is.”
“So no on the cops?”
“Let’s go with no.”
A cold, moist nose pushed into Emma’s hand, and she felt the crumbling dust of a dirty muzzle crumble against her palm.
“This animal is filthy.” She said, not particularly to Mike, just to the night, to the assembled presence of the room now 3 and a half, only two who understood, but 4 who listened. A declaration with no realized intent behind it, though the pregnant and itching hope that perhaps her husband, seeing the distress his exhausted wife was in, would chuck her chin, say “sure, toots, I’ll wash that critter”, and get down to it. It was idle, and based in no real sense of opportunity or chance; Mike was already crawling back under the covers and nestling into a cozy little ball.
“You’re going to sleep?”, Emma said, but the question mark was a courtesy, a tip of the head to the idea of asking, pit against the reality of her husband’s eyes, already heavier than they had any right to be.
“Hmmm….if we’re not calling the cops….”
“How can you sleep right now?”
A spirited kick tremored agreement throughout Emma’s entire ribcage, and she patted her ambitious bump, a kung fu master already and not even out of the womb yet. She may not have appreciated the vibrations in that precise moment, but the affirmation of a tiny foot-a tiny foot that she created, that she was housing and protecting and growing with only the resources her own body provided-helped mitigate the cold, metallic taste the strange events of the evening set bubbling in the back of her throat and coursing disease and uncertainty through her veins. She was not alone, not in this world, not in this house, not in this body.
Mike pulled the covers back on her side of the bed. “What would you have us do instead? You said you don’t want to call the police…”
“No, I don’t want to call the police. But you could stay up with me. Keep me company while I figure out what to do with this ridiculous critter…”
A deep, cavernous sigh, hard wind rushing through an abandoned coal mine, and Mike slowly threw the blankets off.
Allies are born through the dullest of circumstances, and plop, plop, plop, the pup padded over to Emma and nuzzled close against her leg. She absently reached down and ruffled its fur, only to immediately recall the mysterious stiffness, and the abundant whats and whys that she wasn’t entirely sure she was prepared to consider that evening. He was right, though, of course….
“No, never mind.”
“I’m getting up.”
“No, I don’t want to have to force you to.”
“No, I want to.”
But the room was becoming suffocating; the musty smell of dog and three quarter truths rendered acidic and ruinous was more than Emma’s stomach could stand. She held up her hand and said “go back to bed. I’m going to clean this dog. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Mike gave her one final, perfunctory “are you certain?” look, and at least waited till the final decline of the nod before he fell backwards into the bed.
“It’s not always like this”, Emma said, leading the wriggling dog into the bathroom. She ran warm water, filled the tub halfway and considered briefly how important it was to use pet specific shampoos on animals. The question was moot; and anyway, she thought wryly, the line of demarcation between men’s shampoo and dog’s couldn’t be that great.
“Alright, buddy. Let’s get you into the water.”
He put up little resistance, eagerly pressed into her hands, starved for touch. The water was pleasantly warm, and though Emma did not actively know the general canine party line on hot water, she made it a temperature she herself would find pleasant and hoped for the best.
A predicted cloud of filth spread oil slick rapid through the water, and Emma sighed, leaning into the promise of an arduous task and a long night, rest your thumbs, I’ve got this one, and began to run her fingers through the thick, matted fur.
The water turned brown, then black, then opaque, and she refilled the tub 3 times, before the muck and murk subsided, and the brown turned to a stale, rusted red that bloomed slowly into an anemic pink.
Emma sat perched precariously on the side of the tub, the mutt staring at her with his tongue lolling happily out of his mouth, licking at the tender fingertips that had provided such nice scratches and rubs. The first, she was beginning to realize, in quite some time.
Little friend, she thought, where have you been?
Chapter 2: In media res
14 Saturday Apr 2018
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