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1/26/05

Something had pecked her.

Something had pecked her, and was pecking her still.

Something had pecked her, and was pecking her still, pecking and pecking and pecking and--

With a scream, she awoke, not from the pecking, nor from her dreams, but merely from the realization that she had been sleeping, sleeping and dreaming and going without pain. Frantic hands scrambled, fought, twisted as the body awoke, lifted, slid from the corner of the table, falling upon the floor in a tattered heap. Seeking and pressing and pinching and piercing, she held her breath as the pain erupted, waiting, willing.

When the first draw came, the sensation of THEM taking their fill, only then did she relax, only then did she rest her head back against the table where she had fallen from, back over the edge, tilted up towards the mildewed ceiling. Another head tilted over hers, short beak glinting in the dark, opening and closing as the bird-like creature spoke, unheard past the roaring in her ears. She eyed it, considered it, finally expelling a short "BAD!" with the breath she had pent in, forgotten, throbbing in her lungs. The bird-like creature, so used to such loud and sudden outbursts, merely took another peck.

This was how all days began, regardless of the hour. A day, of course, might span the course of perhaps three sunrises, maybe four dark nights, before the final inevitable crash of her body, the decent into the thrice-damned world of sleep. A bitter warrior she was, in the war against slumber, but the total of the skirmishes always resulted in the same loss of consciousness, the battle victor announced in the rise and fall of her wasted chest. This war had not always been in effect; nay, once was with joy that sleep was welcomed, with open arms that sleep was welcomed, with expectations of dark and twisted nightmares that sleep was welcomed. Where once such things were delicacies reserved only for THEM, the bird-like creature now devoured such treats, robbing THEM and leaving THEM in a rather upsetting state of hunger. The only logical conclusion, since it was far too dangerous to leave all unguarded in the wake of such hunger, was to avoid sleep at all costs, and to glut THEM when awake.

Her breath hung in the air, clouded, sweeping, stagnant and visible and she walked straight through it. The scarf around her neck twitched and tightened, but did not stop the steady puff, puff, puff. She passed a stairwell, her presence arousing a creak and a snap from the wood of the risers, two of which crumbled, merged into each other, the beginnings of a steep slope for which to capture an unsuspecting victim. How amusing, then, that all in this house suspected such dallyings, not the least of which the tiny mice that even now slid down the new path, tumbling over themselves in a chittering heap as they landed upon her shoe. Posthaste she bent to retrieve them, so as to avoid the rescue for them posthumous, drawing them up and drawing them close and drawing in their chattering of visitors, and packages, and notes left in her absence.

Petting them and considering their message, she tucked them into the warmth of her mouth, seeing as how they were oh so cold in the shadows of the hall, letting them ride the firm mount that was her tongue as she moved to the front door. With such a parcel held so delicately, she avoided her usual round of trips, stubs, and falls, contenting herself with another round of pinching that kept the level of pain at a sweetly delectable high. The front door opened itself before her, the outside world blissfully dark with the fallen night, tiny pinpricks of winter filtering in and goosebumping her arms.

There, on the porch, was a shadowed lump, green haze dancing around it protectively, burning into the night and running off the wood that had attempted to rise up above and devour the lump. Spat, spat, the mice were now in her hand, and her other lashed out in a vicious swipe to simultaneously slam against the rising wood, burst knuckles into tatters of blood, and seize that which lay there for her. The mice wisely chose to scamper up palm and around her hand, clinging to the safety of the back of her glove, moments before said hand had snatched a flutter of paper before it could be carried away on the gust of air that sought to rob her of a prize. Curiously, she returned to the house, retired into its depths, weighing the options and contents of her grasp. First, then, first, the message from her other her.



Barely had the words been read before the paper was dropped, the package unwrapped, and the contents laid bare for all the eyes to see. Leaning in close, she squinted in the dimness, behind the mask, behind her pain. The other had been right, for this looked not like any bloom.

It looked like hope.

YOU LOOK SO TAAASTY BUT I BE NOT EATING YOOOOOU.

( Reserved for new bloom arrival. ninja )

A charitable gift from Mademoiselle Teralinth, and I am writing, much as those others of my ilk do. Would that I had one of those others here with me, for as much as Mademoiselle Hellene insists the corn to be of mine, I've yet to see it come forth. I have yet to see much of this world, sequestered as I am within this house. Mademoiselle Hellene speaks darkly of the world outside our doors, and refuses to let me venture forth. My days are spent, dark and dreary, sitting close beside the corn.

Would that I had the strength of Monsieur Maquinar, who ferries between our two houses to bring news of Mademoiselle Teralinth's condition! Would that I had the daring to venture forth as he does, bold into the yonder! Mon dieu! That I might be anyone but me, anywhere but here!

I should not think these things, as Mademoiselle Hellene is not well, and cannot be blamed for wishing my presence close. I sense that were I not here, she would be even less coherent than she is, as the tiny mice testify she has never been of the logical sort. I needs must bear this out, and simply dream of the time when I shall also be able to greet the day with wild abandon.