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Tiger
The underwear is hard to figure out at first. I am unsure of its use, but due to its resemblance to pants, I deduce it’s worn much the same way so I finally pull them on. I glance down to inspect the end result. Is it on the right way? I don’t like the feel of it— it’s constricting and somewhat tight. Maybe it’s because I’m not used to it. If it were up to me, I would not wear it.
Alas, there are few choices I can make on my own now. I must wear the underwear, since it appears the girl prefers it that way. I pick up each item of clothing and study it briefly. I’m familiar with pants, shirts, and shoes, but the white, tubular pieces of cloth puzzle me. There are two of them. The girl didn’t explain what they are or where they go. Since they are shaped like feet, I stuff both of mine in them. They feel soft and much more comfortable than the underwear does. I like them.
Gerard only provided me with pants and on occasions, shirts. He never made me wear shoes, so I went barefoot every day. Even in the dead of winter. Thankfully, given my body’s ability to acclimate rapidly to sudden drops in temperature, I was rarely cold.
I follow the sound of voices as I exit the bedroom, shirt draped over my right shoulder. Getting out of bed had been a struggle, but once I was on my feet, my strength didn’t falter as much. I pace slowly forward, nervous as to how well I’ll hold under the pressure of my own weight. Though growing stronger as I continue to heal, hunger can overturn the rise in stamina in moments.
The voices guide me in the right direction. The women speak in hushed tones, but I can still make out every single word. The girl is upset and wants me out of the house. The older woman insists I’m not a threat.
I’m trudging into unknown territory. One wrong move on my part could ruin my plans. As uncertain as my present is, it seems I have an unlikely ally. This knowledge is unsettling. Castiel made no mention of the older woman, which is confusing. What role does she play in all this? What else did Castiel kept to himself?
I tread slowly toward the room both women are in, and step, hesitantly, inside. They stop talking the moment they see me. I’m weary. The girl’s discomfort is visible in her eyes, but the older woman is much calmer. Her heart beats steadily, its normal pattern uninterrupted. I find her lack of distrust odd.
“You must be hungry,” the older woman with short, white hair and brown eyes says. “Come on in and sit down.” She motions to a stool that’s beside the one the girl sits on.
There’s tension in the air. I can practically cut through it with my claws. These are women. I have little to no experience with them. And the antipathy I read in the girl’s eyes makes me uneasy.
I’m not going to get her to trust me without difficulty.
The smell of food fills my nostrils. It has been a long time since I last ate. Gerard refuses to feed me anything other than...victims. As ashamed as I am to admit it, the same targets I once fed on are the ones providing a shelter for me now. If they knew what I am—what I’ve done—they would never have opened their doors to me.
“Go on, sit.” The older woman motions to the stool again. I take a seat next to the girl, but when I meet her eyes, they radiate hostility. “I prepared a hefty feast I hope you enjoy.” She places a plate in front of me. It has a variety of meats, eggs, and toast. My mouth waters.
“Thank you,” I say. My stomach rumbles. I look up, embarrassed. I think they’ve heard it, but if they did they glance, politely, away. “I am hungry.”
The older woman hands over what I assume are eating utensils before settling in her seat across the counter from us. I have never used them—have never had the need to use anything but my hands, and aside from sitting there and staring at them I have no idea what to do with each one. I can feel the girl’s eyes on me, watching my every move and my heart picks up pace. I feel like a fool. I dare not look up. I’m not sure what I’ll do if I see ridicule in their eyes.
Suddenly, being forced to live out my days in a small, caged room doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. At least there, if I behaved like a beast, there’s no one present to witness it. And those who occasionally got a glimpse of it did not care.
The sound of a throat being cleared catches my attention and I glance up to see the older woman, picking up the utensil with four spikes and use it to stab a piece of meat and bring it to her mouth. There’s a sympathetic look on her face. I understand she’s trying to help me.
I acknowledge her with a dip of the head and then imitate her moves until I am sure I’m doing it correctly. After a few tries, the woman smiles as if to praise me. My nervousness dies down momentarily and I allow myself to enjoy real food for the first time in weeks. Up until yesterday, I had been surviving on water and a piece of bread one of the less cruel guards sneaked into my room once or twice a day.
Having a complete meal after so long, plated so nicely in front of me, disconcerts me. Having two perfectly healthy women sitting but a few feet away does little to abate my desire to feed. I cannot do it. Should not allow the thought to cross my mind. But sitting on the stool, fighting to keep my inner beast under control is about the hardest thing I have ever done—especially while recovering from blood loss and serious wounds.
It takes more willpower than I knew I had to keep myself in check and concentrate instead, on the meal before me.
I fight with myself to have at least some form of manners and not devour everything on the plate in one gulp. Doing so will only scare the girl more. I force myself to relax. To bring my hunger under control. Once I continue chewing and swallowing dabs of food, it gets easier.
The silence in the room is deafening. No one speaks and the only sound is that of the clock ticking above the entryway. The older woman is polite and rarely tosses a glance in my direction, but the girl watches me like a wary wolf.
The older woman waits until I have finished everything on the plate to ask, “Do you want some more?”
I gape at her for a moment, unsure what to say. My stomach is far more comfortable than it has been in weeks, but I’m still hungry. Even so, I’m hesitant to accept more food.
“There’s plenty if you’d like some more.” The older woman grabs my plate without waiting for a reply and walks off in the direction of the...stove. I think it is a stove. At least, that is what Castiel called it. She returns a moment later with the plate refilled. “There.”
“Thank you.” I dig into my second helping without glancing up.
“I think I should drive down to the police station and find out if they have any bulletins or information on missing or runaway—dangerous criminals or psych patients,” the girl says. Her eyes are on me, but I keep mine on the food.
“You go do that,” the older woman responds. “But, personally, I don’t think that’s necessary. If it makes you feel better, however, go on.”
I reach for the cup sitting next to the plate and bring it to my mouth. I take a sip. The brown liquid inside is steaming hot, bitter, and burns my tongue and throat as it goes down. I hastily place the cup down, spilling some on the counter.
“Oh, dear! I should have warned you, the coffee’s hot.” The older woman shoots out of her seat, walks around the counter, and pats my back, sending another wave of agony down to my midsection with each tap. “I’m so sorry.”
I wince at the discomfort, but am unable to stop coughing.
“Kristina, get me a towel to clean this up,” the older woman orders.
The girl obeys, quickly rushing to the other side of the room, and returning a moment later with a white towel with horizontal, blue lines in her hand.
“Here, Grandma.” She hands the towel over and looks at me with what I think is concern. “I told you not to heat the coffee too much.”
I stop coughing long enough to say, “I am okay.”
“My apologies.” The older woman begins to clean up the coffee.
I’ve never tasted the bitter liquid before and I am hesitant about going for a second try. It was too hot and unpleasant.
“I’m fine.” I say, louder this time. “I am well.”
The older woman turns to me and says, “That was my mistake.”
“Really, I am fine,” I insist.
She smiles and says, “You can call me Rose.” She then gestures to the girl and says, “And this is my granddaughter, Kristina.”
The girl—Kristina—stands next to Rose and, lifting her chin up, says, “I have to go do my chores.” She looks at me when she says, “Keep your shotgun handy, Grandma.”
She walks out of the room without another word.
“Please excuse my granddaughter,” the older woman named Rose says. “She doesn’t understand what’s going on. And she thinks I’m going off the deep end.” She walks around the counter and sits. “There’s not much I can say on the subject. To be honest, I don’t want her involved more than she is now so I don’t want her to know.”
I quietly digest what she says, understanding that she is more aware of what is going on than I imagined.
“And you understand what’s going on?” I ask after a moment.
Her shoulders lift briefly. “I’m sure I do, but I’m concerned over our welfare.”
The eyes are the portal to the soul. Castiel had taught me this. And Rose’s eyes say much, even if she does not.
“I won’t stay long. I need a few days to recover,” I say at last.
“You’re welcome to stay.” She leans forward in her seat. “My granddaughter, she might not understand. She doesn’t...she’s unfamiliar with...”
“I understand.” I say, comprehension dawning. She doesn’t want her granddaughter to be a part of whatever led me here. Although Kristina is already a part of it, I assume Rose wants her part to be minimized. “I won’t say anything that will compromise her.”
Rose’s features soften. “Thank you.”
I nod.
“Now eat up. There’s plenty to go around.” She sits to continue eating, and I do the same.