Читать книгу Little Beast - Julie Demers - Страница 9

Death doesn’t scare me. It’s not the end – even temporary – that frightens me. Only coming face to face with the Boots puts the fear of God into me. When they come – and I know they will come – I would like to be able to choose my mask. I’d smell like beer, whiskey, and musk. Have short, tousled hair. Know how to piss a good distance and take a long dump, with a newspaper. There is something unfair about not being able to choose your face: it’s like heading down a road that you know is going nowhere.

I get ready for the trenches. I prepare my armour and check my equipment. I have hung snares in the windows, curse words on the doors. I have made traps, erected barricades. I practise my battle cry and do drills. With concentration, I crane to look at my whiskers.

I awoke to a gunshot one night, and I haven’t slept since. I keep tossing and turning. I know that the Boots are striding this way, sniffing my tracks. They will eventually find my safe haven and make it unsafe.

I feel that the end is nigh, but my body does what it wants. Every time I move, my spine compresses. I pop and I crack. One day, for sure, I will be hollow and worn-out. I will disappear for good through the cracks in the floor. In the meantime, my nails grow and break.

Even though Hare is dead, he is aging. He is losing his fur and doesn’t keep me warm like he used to. Soon he will be good for nothing.

Misfortune never strikes but once, and so water is dripping through the cabin’s roof. I have to rip up the floorboards to place them over my head. The water stops dripping on my face, but now my feet are numb.

I’ve run out of wood. Yesterday, I burned the chairs. Soon it will be the sheets. I reach my hand toward the flames. It’s like kissing a man: it’s hot and dangerous. The air smells of old age, and smoke catches in my throat. I cough, exhausting myself, and cover my nose with my hands. I hold my breath, but I prefer suffocation to the cold outside. I stay in the shelter.

I plunge my head into the water. I open my mouth and swallow. The water shoots up my nose, into my throat and my lungs, and I hear a roar. My limbs go limp, and death tugs at my toes. And then it happens: My head rises from the water.

Lying in the cistern, I see the forest. One window is all that separates me from it. I listen to the waves of cold pound against the walls. They are trying to devour the cabin. To stop it from collapsing under their strength, I jump up and hurl my body against the walls. I stand with my feet as far apart as they will go. I stretch my arms as wide as I can. And the snow falls. And the trees ice over. And the valleys fill up. And the mountains grow older.

And that’s okay with me, I think.