Читать книгу Dragon of the commode silent - - Страница 3

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Shell was standing on the balcony thinking that the urban landscape before her eyes was drawn with ink and coloured with watercolours: angular roofs, thin lines of antennas, cirrus clouds… The sun had already went down but day hadn’t yet turned into night. July in its glory.

She was surprised to find that she was 18 and living the life she only had dreamt of: in her own tiny studio apartment with a kitchen in the corner and almost no furniture, but a mattress, an easel and a vintage three drawer commode to take in all her clothes and no place even for a bookcase – but alone and free to do whatever she wanted.

Shell wasn’t a loner per say rather that she didn’t always enjoy other people’s company and happily she didn’t have to too often. When one works as a freelancer and studies online it’s easy to stay comfortably at home for weeks. But that night she realised she needed a breath of fresh air.

«I need to go for a walk,» she was encouraging herself afraid that the sudden impulse, first in a few weeks, would fade out, «Or I’ll get completely uncivilised. I can’t go out in that paint spattered T, so I need a fresh one. And jeans. A blanket would work just fine as a poncho».

The commode drawer greeted her with an old sweater, a reminder of cold winter nights, and a few large-knitted scarves.

«There must be jeans underneath», she stretched her hand and pulled it back the same second. There was something sharp. A spike? A needle? There could be no needles. Silence was ringing in her ears.

«Commode silent,» – she thought.

The scarves moved, mounted, and the coloured wool parted to show a slim black head. The head yawned showing white fangs, long as knitting needles.