Humphrey Chloe Elson
When she left him this morning his bones creaked and cracked underneath him. Buds had lined the trees eight times since it had begun. Whatever she gave him no longer worked and the pain had become a sharp, uncomfortable heat under his skin. He wasn’t young anymore-and he knew that. Curling up in their bed he whined. His skin twitched as he repositioned, lying next to her to keep her from getting colder. He could hear the couple next door arguing again. Their stomping travelled up the walls and made the light shake in its fitting. His grey wiry hair looked dull in the morning sun and his mouth was dry- but he didn’t feel thirsty. Before she left she told him she loved him- but didn’t wait for his reply as she already knew he loved her, more than anyone else. She was still vulnerable, fragile. He could sense it. Every night he would come into her room to find her lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She always told him she was following the cracks to see where they met, but the only cracks he saw were in her voice. It was at that point he would curl up and use her body heat to help him fall asleep. The sycamore tree outside the window looked almost naked- the rough brown skin stayed the same as a few amber leaves covered over some of its multiple bare spots. He tried to remember the last time they went out on a walk- was it two or three days ago? Since the leaves fell last, she would get up and walk by herself. He would try and get her attention by pulling at her nightdress, but she would carry on, talking to her husband- who left when the tree had finished dropping its seeds. He vaguely remembered it, when his body was still new- but not undamaged. She set her grief aside to wake up during the night to give him his medicine, and soothe him when he cried. More leaves fell, dancing in the wind as he stared down at the steaming pile of moist, pale biscuits soaked in their own juice. Gulping, he was worried she would be mad at him if she saw it, but she would never shout at him- unlike his last owners, but that was a long time ago. He would have fetched a blanket to cover it, but felt as if his legs were frozen- too tired and stiff to move. Looking at the picture on the bedside table he identified the child. Then a young girl, smiling into the camera with him. His mistress would kiss the child’s cheek every night before she slept, as a ritual. He liked seeing his younger self; it reminded him of a time where he couldn’t feel himself slowly dying.
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