One whole wall of Gen’s room has mirrors in it, floor to ceiling, which tends to unnerve the few visitors she’s welcomed in here. (People don’t like looking at their own reflections sometimes. She made herself get used to it.) The other walls mostly have posters, either of ballet productions Gen has performed in or wants to perform in, though she wouldn’t admit that out loud. Gisele, Swan Lake, The Nutcracker, The Sleeping Beauty. Unsurprising to anyone who knows her.
The new addition to her room, however, surprises her more than anyone else.
To the right of her bed, just beside the poster of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, are words in an unfamiliar hand. Whoever–whatever–wrote them did so with their finger, in what looked like soot.
Hi, I’ll be rooming with you for a while. Please don’t freak out, I’ve seen that a lot already. Just want some food. Thanks.
It wouldn’t be so alarming if it wasn’t for the fact that Gen isn’t looking for any roommates. From what she’s been taught she knows she should call someone–the landlord maybe, or the police; but from what she knows–her instincts, which she’s always trusted most–she’s aware that it won’t do anything. She’d just be the crazy ballerina who lives down the hall.
Not like she wants her hunch to be right. Of all the things to happen, she thinks, half in frustration and half in embarrassment.
Still, that evening, there’s a second plate at the table. Turkey wings from the little restaurant across the street. If Gen is wrong, she has a bit more to eat. If she’s right…well. She’ll have some praying to do.
Upon receiving his tribute, the demon spawned from the underside of the dancer’s bed. His lanky form forces his posture to bend due to the height of the room. Bright yellow orbs that are his eyes look in the mirror, blinking slowly before turning his attention towards the plate of food on the counter. Picking it with his long arm, setting it on the floor as he shapeshifts into canine form. Ah, now this is better, less strain on the back and neck.
He sniffs the wings once more, confirming the scent of the food before hounding away at them, biting through the bone and devouring the whole wing instead of leaving remnants behind. A paw holds plate in place as Silas continues to clean the plate, bits of soot making prints on the floor.
“What? No, it won’t be awkward.” Gen is on her phone as she makes her way up the stairs. “I’m a professional and so is Basile. If we’re picked to be the leads--and again, I don’t think that’s likely--then we just have to work together.” She fumbles in her purse with her free hand, finding the keys to her apartment.
The lock is tricky, and Gen continues to talk as she wriggles the key around. “Candide, honestly. We’ve been talking normally for months now! And don’t even think of stirring the pot. We need the normal.” She laughs, finally getting the door open. “Alright. Yes. I just got home, I’ll call you later okay? Take care.” Shaking her head with a smile, the dancer makes a beeline for her room, bag forgotten in the hallway.
At first she thinks a neighbor’s dog somehow got in, but none of her neighbors have dogs. Then she notices the soot smudging the rug--and she just washed that one--and the dots connect. Her fatigue forgotten, Gen crouches in front of the hound carefully. He must really like those wings.
“Now, how did you write on my wall?” she muses, tilting her head.
origamiaround
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
blakekathryn
kaledo-art
stormborns
yousharknotpass
