Little Mx "I Don't Have A Favourite"

A great many of their little hidey-holes burrowed into the moist carpet beneath it, scattered in a trypophobic arrangement.It was an odd curiosity. No fix of homemade plaster sufficed, the dressing cracked and peeled right off like an overused bandage — melting into the puddle. When he used his dresser as shield, the bugs went in a roundabout, chipping away at the wood for all their trouble.

Normally, he left the type of nuisances he could do nothing about alone.

But the worst part? The worst part was what his overactive imagination did instead.

You see, for men like Gregor, well-advanced in years; the well of childish hopes tends to shrivel up by the age of twenty, give or take. Fortunately for him, he had the privilege to skip the waiting line.

But when he thought he'd outgrown his dreams, they'd in fact hibernated inside him, emerging from their pupa into their truest form.

A grotesque nightmare.

Deep in the grip of sleep, that area would warp and twist — deforming into the portal to hell. The shadows birthed a hand that tore through the obstruction, the fingers writhing with the intensity of a hundred insect legs.

Some nights, it'd get close. Too close.

He visualized the gloved latex — then the fingers, then the trace of sterile antiseptic, stroking his cheek with a faux tenderness. The smell, so potent it was poisonous, tickled the low of his throat.

Then he'd wake up in a cold sweat and find nothing but the gaping void where it penetrated. So he didn't like how it looked. Raw, obtrusive — but it was too much an inconvenience to fix. Shouldn't have bothered him in the first place.

Like all else, he let it be. Gregor turned his back against the anomaly and tried his best to fall asleep.

Tried was the keyword. He did all kinds of shifting and twisting to find a position that would let him fall sleep.

The first thing he did was sleeping on his back. But looking at the roof made him uneasy, so he reconsidered laying on his other side. Unfortunately, no amount of switching tossing and turning could fix the preturbation, and Gregor was back to fixating on the crack.

About to relent to his discomfort, Gregor stopped trying to conform when a little fellow made themselves known by his bedroom door. Half your face slotted through the slim opening; your frantic pupil flitting in the dark to seek his presence.

Rubbing the sleep off his eyes, Gregor parted with his bed.

He stifled over to the door, careful of the loose floorboards, and set the door ajar."…Something you need?" He mumbled, his voice rising to a yawn.

You were hugging your pillow with a listless, unanchored gaze. A glossy line connected the end of your eyelid to your rigid jaw.

"Ah. Can't sleep?"

Your nod was slow and hesitant.

He sighed, "Me either."

He opened his bedroom door wider. "Come right in."

Your little footsteps rippled against the walls of his room.

Before you came into his life, he didn't have the energy to clean, or to make his bed, or to shed tears.

But after being tossed into the gullies of guardianship, the one strife he could choose, he was now responsible for a life dependent on his own.

He managed to get some of his crap together overnight. Working as a salesman wasn't something he expected to acclimate to quickly, but the consequence of failing made him adapt fast.

While his salary wasn't enough to live comfortably, you didn't want for much. Besides, on the off-chance that you picked up a hobby, three medals sufficed for an instrument and a book or two.

You went onto bed — the side closest to the gaping crack, and the one most vulnerable to his prosthetic.

Despite your closeness to these hazards, it was, in juxtapositional irony, where you felt safest. You felt comfortable nowhere else, a preference he learned on your first bad night.

Which turned into the fifth, then the tenth…

He caught onto the excuse early. But with how comfortable you looked, he needed the resolve to crush a butterfly if he wanted the guts to rebuke the habit.

Gregor tucked you in. Then he followed suit and slid under the blankets.

The counterpane stopped at your sleeves and ended inches by his waist. He swore it was only yesterday when he had to leave his forearm bare for the blanket not to suffocate you in your sleep. There'll come a day when you outgrow him and this dump.

"Nighty-night schatzi," He pat your head, "Don't let the bed bugs bite."

He clasped his pincers together with a goofy grin.

… You turned away.

Clearing his throat, he laid on his back and let his gaze abstract to the roof.

The structure's bloated beer belly hung loose. Its somehow managed to keep itself together for weeks, though with the introduction of mold, he's not sure how long before its consumed by the amalgamation entirely.

To let you live like this… he's selfish, isn't he? Dragging you down in this filth. Taking on a responsibility he wasn't ready for. He let his fragile ego get the best of him.

On the positive side, you're alive. Gotta be a worthy achievement for someone like him, no?

…

Hah.

He can't help wonder — what else could he do?

If he knew how to be a better caretaker, he'd burn himself out till he was the best. If he knew how to soothe your night terrors, he'd make sure you never had them again. If he could give you the world, a better one, it would be yours in a heartbeat.

… But love alone can't feed a kid. She knew.

He was nursed on the nectar of apples, only apples, their variation in correspondence to the quality of his performance.

Hard. Crumbly. Sappy.

What they all had in common was not having a core.

If he looked deep inside himself, would he be any different?

Gregor was brought back to reality when your head brushed against his insectoid half. On instinct, he raised his arm in a high arch to arrest sudden movements.

You were no longer facing the wall and headbutted him with a sad pout.

"Gah, sorry bud. The hole bothering you? Was gonna start repairs sooner or later, but uh..."

When his gaze drifted to the right, he felt as though the fissure penetrated through the dresser. The shield was starting to erode.

Pretty sure that wardrobe's seen more than he has.

You shook your head, and pointed to his face.

Confused, Gregor brought his hand to where you pointed. His palm caught the slip on his cheeks.

When his hand shifted upward, tears bunched on the heel of his palm.

"…I'm fine." Gregor chuckled, more at himself than you.

"Thought too much 'bout something. That's all."

You made an unpleasant expression — the one you always made when he did what you weren't fond of.

When you sensed his lies.

"Worrying'll wither you. Don't wanna end up a sorry creature like me, 'ne?"

You shook your head. Firmer.

With a resolute expression, you shoved your hand against his face so he wouldn't miss your message.

'TOO LATE.' you signed.

'ALREADY THE SAME.'

You dove in for a hug.

…

…That's right. That's how you ended up in his care, wasn't it?

Because the world didn't want you. Because the world left you to die in the winter-bitten streets. Because when you called out for mommy and daddy, they were 8-feet asleep, and the sky stopped your cries from reaching heaven.

So Gregor picked up the slack, because no one else bothered to.

Gregor's sadness was dry. He had already spent his tears.

You laid against him a while. Though you fluttered softly, and eventually went weak, your embrace remained.

From the other side of the room, the narrow hollow glared. It could seethe all it wanted.

Gregor dipped into the covers to kiss the crown of your head, bringing you closer when you shifted in your sleep.

Der apfel fällt nicht weit vom stamm.

If he was anything like you, there was hope for him after all.