by T Shadow
He’s opened one eye and is staring at me upside down now, his mouth is opened slightly so it might have looked like a smile, but it’s the wrong way around so now it looks like a snarl. Yep. Someone’s hangry. You know, so hungry it’s made them angry? Hangry.
If Lucius could sentence me to the metaphorical dog house, he would have. I don’t often forget his food, but when I do, the next world war is on the horizon and iminent. I’m not looking at Lucius until I’ve rectified the issue. If I have a staring competition with him, it’ll only get worse, and it will end up with him chasing me around this small cottage and nipping my ankles. I’ll only be prolonging the inevitable.
The fridge has all of Lucius’ favourite foods, so I’m getting out the chopped chicken and some diced boiled carrots. Lucius’s favourite dinner by far. I’m adding the small dog kibble to the bowl for some extra crunch. Lucius only gets the best, because if he doesn’t, I sure as hell know about it. The food bowl finds itself next to Lucius’s upside down chops, and slowly a tongue pops out between those relaxed jaws. I’ve won, and I know it. For now, at least.
Lucius is sorted out, and it’s time to sort myself out. I’ve got a long day at the store tomorrow, and way too many books to sort out in the literature section. Shrugging out of my coat I go to my bedroom. The walls are all shades of grey and there’s pretty white furniture, my bed and my dresser as well as an obscene amount of glass ornaments. They litter all available surfaces, which leaves no room for anything else, but that’s fine by me; I’m a hoarder by nature.
My clothes are in a puddle on the floor where they’ve fallen off of my body. I normally sleep in an oversized t-shirt, but that seems like too great of a feat tonight. The choice to sleep in my underwear is logical and easy, so as soon as those clothes are off, I’m crawling into my king-sized bed and slipping under my cotton sheets.
Fresh sheets always smell better.
This little house is my safe haven. My sanctuary. I’m here, surrounded by the things I love; like Lucius and my knick knacks.
Just as I’m dozing off, I feel a thump as Lucius lands his lard arse onto the bed, but instead of sleeping at the end of the bed like a good little fox, he walks straight up to the pillows and plonks his butt down on ‘his side’. His side happens to be half of the unused pillow, and half of mine. I’m sharing my pillow with little fox toe beans, tail and butt. Without further ado, I guess it’s bedtime for both of us.
Thank God I locked the front door.
The sun shining through my curtains is similar to the white light that people experience moments before their pulse flatlines and they enter the afterlife. Why you ask? Because I currently feel as if I’m on my deathbed right now. Alcohol doesn’t affect me too badly, but considering it’s the early morning and I did drink last night, it only makes the start of my day much worse. I’m a groggy individual in the morning, every morning. Thankfully, I don’t rely on caffeine to get me going.
The morning after always varies, but there’s always a consistency or control. The ringing in my head for instance, is the control in this science experiment called life and my eyes burn like I cried a river. Considering I didn’t cry last night, I know that’s impossible. Maybe some of Lucius’ hair got into my eyes during the night. Considering it’s straw-like texture, it itches like a bitch. Now I don’t even want to open my eyes, but I know that I have to deal with a ton of books to reshelf at the store and finances to ignore, but also a cranky, hot-headed red fox.
Speaking of the fox, the dastardly animal is on its back, toe beans in the air, his caution to the wind, on the pillow right beside my head. If I open my eyes, what’s the probability that I’ll have a pair of balls beside my face? I crack an eye open slightly, getting assaulted firstly by the light which triggers a blinking response, which wakes me up far too quickly. Lastly, I’m cursing myself for opening my eyes in the first place.
“Fucking stupid sun and its beams of lava flames!”
After growling at the sun for being assaulted, I assess my surroundings, and any problems that I might face. So far, Lucius is laying with his butt in the opposite direction of my face, so that’s beneficial; now the only issue is attempting to get out of the bed without disturbing the temperamental mammal.
An unearthly groan, akin to that of a hungry, malnourished and underfed zombie, leaves my mouth. As I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wriggling out of the entanglement of sheets, my bare feet meet the cold comfort of the wood flooring. The cold distracts my thoughts, and a soft yip breaks the hold that the cold has on me. That soft yip could be interpreted as a “good morning” or a “yay you’re awake”, but to me, it’s a ten second warning. Ten seconds to get out of this gorgeous bed and get some food in that damn bowl again. My legs haven’t recovered from the last ankle-biting endeavour.
“You’re such a fucking little bastard!”
With a new-found purpose, mainly that of preventing further maimings, I leap to my feet and dash to the kitchen. Eight-ish seconds left. I’m grabbing the chopped chicken from the fridge again and this time some cold green beans, when I hear four paws complete with four sets of claws hit the wooden floor in the bedroom. Four seconds.
I’m no good at this.
Ignoring my fight or flight response, I grab the dog kibble and leap onto the kitchen side, in the most ungraceful way, nervous for my ankles.
The sound of tiny padded feet is getting closer now. The clicking of Lucius’ nails on the floor is the only insight to his proximity, which is slowly gaining speed and covering distance at an alarming rate. It sounds like Lucius isn’t fully awake, I can tell because his steps are inconsistently paced, but he’s aware and ready for breakfast. I’m stirring in the kibble as fast as I bloody can, but by Lucius’s standards, it’ll never be fast enough. I’m still stirring this luxurious interpretation of a dog dinner together when I hear that the infamous padding has stopped. I feel like I’m the victim in a horror movie when I slowly raise my eyes from the bowl in my hands to the hallway, where in the darkness, I spot two yellow eyes staring back at me. Damn it. If Lucius was a human, he’d be a weird human who hides in the shadows with a collection of sharp pointy things; if he was a supernatural creature, he’d be a wraith. Waiting to steal my soul without remorse.
My eyes flit knowingly from the bowl I’m clutching between my shaking hands to Lucius’ predatory stare. A staring competition with a fox isn’t the weirdest thing I do. I’m looking like a bloody idiot sat atop the kitchen side. The snort that escapes me is beyond my control, but Lucius is looking for a fight, and that snort, is an open invitation. Thankfully, the placemat for Lucius’s bowl is directly beneath my feet. I’m no acrobat, but I’m gonna have to pull off some serious moves to remain on the counter, whilst attempting to put his food bowl down, and avoid getting bitten at the same time. Did I mention that I’m as flexible as a ten foot barge pole?
He’s still staring at me. If I’m an inexperienced stalker, Lucius is a master stalker. I guess it’s in his nature, but it’s unfortunate as hell. Every time I look away, that little bastard has moved a few steps closer. I don’t understand when our roles were reversed, but it might have been when I spent all of my time at the shop instead of at home. In my absence, Lucius has claimed this home as his domain. In fewer words, he’s the master, and I’m the dutiful servant. In order to attempt to satisfy Lucius’ carnal desires, I’m flattening myself to the counter top, whilst attempting to put this bowl down. I mean, all I can think about is our unusual dynamic. Lucius against me. Me against Lucius.
As soon as that metal bowl hits the placemat with a dull thud, Lucius is lunging with a renowned vigor, the hunter capturing the prey. He has a demented version of being a hunter, considering he doesn’t have to work hard, considering its dead, prepped and served on a silver platter. I’ve snatched my fingers back before his teeth connect, and I’m sighing with relief that I get to keep all ten of my digits.
“Dastardly fox.”
Lucius is looking up at me
with a snarl, annoyed over the insult, and naturally possessive over his food. He acts like it’s his last meal on earth as he knows it.
Now there’s the issue of getting off of my kitchen side, and saving my ankles from getting attacked in the process. I play up the idea that Lucius is a fox with anger issues, but he can sometimes be the sweetest little cuddle buddy in the world. Breakfast however is not a scheduled cute and cuddly-time. I’ve got little bastard Lucius instead.
My body isn’t laying on the side anymore, it’s sitting on there, and I’m ready to pole vault myself over Lucius, and race to my bathroom to start getting ready. Lucius and I have been having this breakfast fiasco for at least ten minutes, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.
Ready... Set... and I’m leaping. My feet have left the cabinet and have landed five feet behind Lucius. Touchdown. I’m in the clear zone, just double checking that Lucius is still eating before heading off to my bathroom. It’s nothing special, it has a two man shower, a sink and a toilet. As well as a few beach ornaments. I mean, I don’t live near a beach, so I have to make my own. I give myself a little shimmy when I see myself in the mirror. The ornaments fill me with glee, even though my home looks like what a typical grandma’s home would look like. You know, every surface is covered from edge to edge with ornaments I don’t need, they just hold “priceless, sentimental value”.
“Look at this trove, treasures untold..” picking up my hairbrush, I’m singing into it like a thirteen year old in their bedroom. “How many wonders can one cavern hold?” Cue the dramatic solo “Looking around here you’d think... she’s got everything!” I glance at my watch, and it’s telling me its seven forty five, and the store opens at eight thirty. Damn it, now I’m rushing both my little mermaid fantasy and getting ready.
My hair is vibrant and ginger, but it’s also as straight as an arrow. I run my brush through it anyway, to rid it of the bed head vibe. I look stereotypically Irish, but I can assure you I’m not. My face is dusted with freckles, and my eyes are an odd shade of green. Not a deep emerald green, a light green instead. I’m not a massive fan of makeup, but I do put my signature winged eyeliner on. I’m not your typical book store owner. I’m more your ‘I’ll shout at you from the counter if you mess up my stuff’ bookstore owner. I can imagine the dating sites now “bookstore owner, librarian tendencies, requires silence, has mild OCD and has more anger issues than a trapped possum”. Librarian book store owner with anger issues, avoid at all costs.
Bathroom matters finished with, I run to my wardrobe and throw on the first things I see. Denim blue jeans? Check. Black catbus t-shirt? Check. A pair of all white Converse Chuck Taylors? Check. I mean, I look like an emo hipster threw up on me, and I don’t look a day over twenty-one. But that’s fine by me, I want people to be unsuspecting and unknowing. Shouldering my bag, I run to the front door, and I stop in my tracks to give Lucius a little head rub before heading to my store. It’s my second baby in this world.
I don’t drive. I’d rather protect the environment, but thankfully the bookstore isn’t that far away. It’s on the edge of town in a semi-modern building. The sign on the outside is grand on its own, and punny in its own right. Only true book worms would ever understand it. “Nevermore than enough books” is filled from top to bottom with different genres of text; you have prose, drama, poetry. Historical texts, biographies, cooking books, and I have a little section dedicated to the Learning for Dummies books. I could never have enough books. You’ll never find a book long enough, or a tea good enough to suit me. That is how the saying goes… doesn’t it?
The thirty minute walk to the bookstore flies by, and thankfully I end up at the bookstore a few minutes before opening. I have nothing to worry about, everything is done, bar the shelving, I just need to put the money in the till from the back office, and open the damn door. Which is what I’m doing right now, opening the damn door.
The lock is old, so it sticks all the time. Which is fine, it just needs a firm shove. The key’s in, turned and I give it a hard shove, but the damn door stays closed. In a series of unfortunate events that make up my life, my head bounces off the glass in a flurry of copper strands, the pain is miniscule, but I can feel a bruise forming on my forehead. Great. So much for perseverance.
With another hard shove, the door flies open, and the force of it throws me forward. I follow in its trajectory, staggering in behind it off balance and flustered. But my rage is quieted as I peer into my sanctuary. Inside the bookstore, my favourite poem, The Raven, by the famous Edgar Allen Poe coats the walls. There’s fragments of the poem on every wall. Not necessary in order either. It’s the way I like it. The ending lines “and my soul from out that shadow lies floating on the floor” follow me as I walk towards the back room where my small office lies. I made this bookshop a reflection of my true self - complicated with a crowded and overflowing mind. I calm down when I read, and that’s why I feel like all books can call a soul. Maybe that’s why the poem fits in so well in the bookstore.
The inside of my bookstore is not your usual dark and dingy bookstore. The walls are all coated in some damask green wallpaper, and the bookshelves are light coloured to add some light into the room, as there’s so few windows. There’s odd armchairs and a few sofas dotted around the shop as well, in case customers want to read before they buy. It’s a quiet book nook for introverts and adventurers alike.
I get into the back room, with a bruising head, a raging headache, and a bad start to my day. I sit there and groan at the amount of ‘work’ I have to do. I’ve got a lot of ‘jobs’ to take care of and a lot of shelves to fill. Thankfully the lessons from Mika on modern day functions helped with the day-to-day running of the bookstore. We now had the ability to order online and receive orders, which lessened my workload a lot. Couldn’t do that a few years ago.
Mika makes sure that I’m up to date with all the communication techniques, the lingo, sociolect, dialect, fashion sense and the technology. I still abhor technology. At my home, is an alarm clock, oven, kettle, gramophone, and a few lights. The cottage hosts the bare minimum in regards to modern technology. The shop however? That had to have a few more bits, like a computer, phone and a till. As well as fully working lights and internet.
But the workload I physically have to do is the only motivation for me remove my lard arse from my worn out seat and walk towards the front door. If I do it now, the less I have to do later. Flipping the closed sign to open I move to start my first task of the day; shelving the stack of Gothic literature, when the door chimes.
It’s unusual for the door to chime on half-eight. Why? Cause no one is up that early except me and the little bastard that is my fox. But customers come into the store all hours of the day, or not at all, so am I surprised? Not particularly. I’m going to continue stacking my shelves until someone requests or demands my assistance. Which I also doubt is going to happen. Meh. Oh well. Find me if you need me, and if you don’t? Thank God.
That customer who came in at eight-thirty must’ve just been browsing. I didn’t actually see them, and as far as I’m aware, thieves are less likely to steal books; considering they have little to no monetary value. So I highly doubt something has been pinched, or gone for a really long walk. The slight smell of what I think is cigar smoke fills the air, but it will disperse soon. Maybe the person who came in smokes cigars? I don’t know.
I’m sure I’ve finally shelved all of the various copies of Dracula, some collections of Edgar Allen Poe’s poems, and some of the classical literature like Wuthering Heights and Emma when I feel someone grab my hips. I can already tell from the set of feminine hands that I know who it is. There’s only one person in this whole town who attempts to scare me senseless by pretending to be a man and fails. It’s my only and best friend, Mika. You wouldn’t guess it, but she’s the epitome of a blonde bombshell. She’s Barbie out of a box. Actually, she’s probably Barbie through an emo phase. Maybe the emo phase should’ve stopped years ago, but it didn’t.
/> Mika took on the title of my best and only friend when she acknowledged my presence as I set foot in this boring town. She took me by surprise, and when I finally acknowledged her, she never left. But I couldn’t live without her now. We’re very alike in a sense. Both love books. Both love a trip to the Wyvern’s Nest the best pub in the village, and we were both exiled by our respective species. I keep my species a secret to protect myself, and Mika avoids most contact with others to protect herself from homophobic assholes.
Dressed all in black, she’s got some New Rocks Boots on, with some ripped, skinny black jeans, black ripped tank top and an oversized black hoodie. Her hair, although its long and blonde, she’s dyed some ‘coon tails’ into it. Looks cool I suppose, but I also think she’s put on all the black eyeliner she has.
Her grin is so wide it almost splits her face completely in two; her pearly whites rival the brightest of suns in the galaxy. “Remi, I’ve missed you!”
I’m forcefully grabbed into a hug, which slowly becomes bone crushing and life threatening. With her tiger-shifter super strength, I’m hardly surprised. I pull back so I’m looking up into her mismatched, blue and brown eyes. It feels like I’m permanently talking to Mika and her tigress at the same time.
“I was here yesterday, you came in yesterday.”
“Yeah, but that was yesterday; that was a whole twenty-four hours ago.”
Seriously, this girl is stuck to my side like a child, but I guess that’s why she’s my only friend. Though I do rely on her for comfort, I also comfort her broken and crushed heart in return. With the need to keep busy and avoid the fidgeting anxiety that curses her, she’s taken the books out of my hands, walking around the shop like she owns the place. I own the place. Mine. My inner-self is overly-possessive over inanimate objects. It’s in my nature. But I guess my nature allows me to share with Mika; probably because we’re kindred souls.
