#nathaniel davis

Am: Fuck Nate in the asshole, marry Ray and kill Nate, saying it was an 'accident'

Ryker: ... You really don't get the game. Tessa! What about you? Same People.

Tessa: I don't have the time for that!

Am: I am going to answer for her! Fuck Rush... or let him fuck you, then marry him, cock block you and again, kill Nate.

Ryker: ...

Nathaniel Davis | fifth year | 15 | pureblood | open | wiki

Bio

tbd

Extracurriculars

Wizard’s Chess club

Relationships

Tracey Davis - sister

Jatin Agarkar, Godfrey Midhurst, Sherwood Partington, Rolf Scamander - dorm mates

A man came to the house to clean the old dreams out of my mattress.

I told him my mattress was fine. I didn’t need his services.

“Doesn’t hurt to have a look, does it?” he said.

We went to the bedroom. He lifted the mattress up and underneath there was an older mattress, compressed and sticky with a tar-like build-up. It looked like someone had hammered out a smoker’s lung into a viscous pad.

“What the hell is that?” I said.

Emma said: “What are you going to do about all these monkeys?”

She hated it, when he got like this. Ulrich, savior to the world, particularly when the world meant animals. He wasn’t a cat-hoarder, thank God, but he’d adopted his share of everything else. Dogs, fish, parrots. They “found homes” for most of the creatures. But they never found quite as many homes as they needed. And since their lease said they needed written permission for anything more than a cat or a small dog, she always felt like they were one surprise inspection away from eviction.

Ulrich was reading her mind. “The landlord can’t just come over here, you know. State law says they need to give 24 hours’ notice before inspecting a property.”

“Which means what?” she said. “You beg off from work, race home, tie all these cages to the roof of your Honda and park it out behind the liquor store until the coast is clear?”

He was smiling, thinking about it, working out a better plan. He was always planning, always happiest a couple steps into the future. Why couldn’t he be happy here and now, she wondered? He said: “I’d rent a moving van. They’re seem to stay quiet when I put them someplace dark. So I could put them in the back and park it somewhere out of the way. I could get someone to stay in back with them for a few hours. You wouldn’t mind doing that, would you?”

“I’m leaving,” she said.

She realized she meant it. It was a lot less stressful and emotional than she’d imagined. A simple choice. The monkeys were too much. “This is it.” For the moment, she meant it. She bit the inside of her cheek, determined to hold that feeling.

The most upsetting thing was his reaction. She wanted some kind of shock. An argument. Instead, he just shifted his mental-planning-gears over to work on her problem. She could see it happening, his jaw working, that pulsing in his temples that started up when he was on the trail of some new idea. And her problems were always the last thing she wanted help with. He said, “Where are you going to go?” and it made her want to spit.

“I don’t know. What do you care? You have primates to save.”

“Don’t go back to Clara, okay?” One of the monkeys sat on his shoulder, but backwards. It was looking out through the screen door, like it was calculating the odds of slashing through and running outside. The monkey held one hand on his head while the other gripped the jelly half of a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. It turned around to look over its shoulder. Its wise-old-man face was a mockery of his concern.

“I’ll go where I want, thank you very much.”

“If you think that’s best.” A shrug.

Damn him, why couldn’t he ever tell her what to do? “I thought you liked Clara.”

“Sure I do. She’s nice enough. She’s funny. When she’s sober. Doesn’t mean she’s good for you.” Unspoken: you were living with her when you developed that little drug problem. You know, the one that set you back four years. Until I came along and rescued you. Only you’re saved, now, so I care more about these monkeys.

Two were grooming each other in a huge cage on the coffee table, scratching and nibbling on invisible parasites. Two more slept in individual cages on the floor. A third cage was open – hence the monkey on his shoulder. It kept glancing back at her, just begging her to ask him where he got them, where they came from.

“Clara’s still got the spare bedroom. It beats sleeping on a couch. Or in my car.” Honestly she hadn’t been thinking about Clara, not until he mentioned it. She’d only gotten as far as I’m leaving. But why not Clara? Now she just might.

Something wet and brown smacked against the side of her head. It stuck there for a bit, peeled, slid down. She shrieked, brushing her fingers against her cheek to wipe the filth away as she spun to see another monkey by the couch, darting behind it. It knew, apparently, that she’d kick it if she were close enough. Which cage had that one come from? “How many of these fuckers are there?” she said.

“Six,” he said. “I think. No…seven.”

Her fingers were smeared with brown and she could still feel more on her cheek. She thought, you saved me for this, did you, you big hero? She stepped towards the sink and saw the piece of bread on the ground, smeared with peanut butter. She smelled her fingers. Not shit, thank God. “This is what you’re feeding them?”

“We’re out of bananas,” he said. “You have any better ideas?”

in one of those quiet, relaxed moments. austin, tx. post sxsw. 

this is my darling.