#TheShadowWeCast

[entomolog-t]

The Shadow We Cast - 2

My last G/t July Prompt that will actually be done in July; Melancholy!

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Previous Chapter: Chapter 1

Next Chapter: Chapter 3

Word count: 2460

CW: Adult language, mild gore (butchering food, mentions of blood), substances (beer)

My kitchen, thankfully, didn’t look as bad as I had expected in the aftermath of Sal’s butchering. Don’t get me wrong, it still looked like a scaled down horror scene, complete with the bowl filled with various innards and traces of little bloodied hand and foot prints smeared about, but Sal had done a remarkable job keeping the carnage to a minimum. The three or four beers I’d downed while waiting also seemed to have helped mitigate my queasiness. If you squint it's just chicken... just … don’t think too hard.

Instead, I turned my gaze down to the little man on my counter. He was absolutely beaming. With one hand perched on his hip and the other wielding the ridiculously oversized knife, he smiled up at me, clearly proud of his handiwork. He’d shed a layer or two of clothing in the process of butchering and I tried not to dwell on questioning if that was more, or less sanitary. What I did dwell on however, was him. Man, he was a burly little thing… while the sheer difference in size between us made it near impossible to pick up on the finer details of his features without being intimately close, I didn't have to be uncomfortably close to notice he, in spite of his stature, was a sizable man. Lean, and wildly muscular, boasting a broad chest and narrow waist… he could have told me he was an action figure brought to life and I wouldn't have hesitated to believe him.

“I cut, you cook?” The question sounds less like a true question and more akin to instruction. He shifted awkwardly under my gaze.

“Oh- uh, yeah man, sure thing.” While his proficiency in butchering more than surpassed my expectations, I was not about to trust a questionably feral miniature man with any sort of cooking appliances. I eyed the meat cautiously, two main thoughts becoming prominent in my mind; I was not about to cook hawk on any of my pans, and I was most certainly not about to eat it plain.

The weight of his eyes on me was somehow heavier than he himself. I felt him watch as I rummaged through the fridge, pulling out a mishmash of ingredients to make a half-assed gochujang sauce. With a quick wipe down of a section of the counter I took out a second cutting board, dishes be damned, and began to mince some garlic. He took a step back, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He eyed the garlic, among the other ingredients, warily. I smiled to myself. Oh sure, I’m the bad guy for questioning hawk, but garlic is gross? Though, to his credit, he kept his thoughts to himself.

He busied himself with inspecting the various ingredients I’d brought out, padding around each container curiously. He paid particularly close attention as I emptied a sizeable amount of maple syrup into the bowl, lingering just close enough to peer down into the mix.

“Do you want to try some?” I ask, holding up the spoon to him. His eyes bounce between me and the contents of the spoon before he gives in and dips a finger into the mix. The sight of his tiny hand gripping the edge of the spoon was jarring. Ignoring his surroundings he looked so… normal. So human… but seeing him directly contrasted against such a mundane object almost felt like an optical illusion. He examines the sauce for a moment, brow furrowed and nose wrinkled, seemingly unsure of what to make of it. With a small shrug, his curiosity wins over, and he gives the sauce a taste. His face is immediately alight with shock, and he turns to look at me with an expression of awe.

“Uh… you like it?” Instead of a verbal response, he reaches his hand back onto the spoon, taking a near fistful of sauce. I turn my head to avoid him catching sight of the face I pull at the stomach churning image of a full grown man mowing down on sauce as if it's Michelin-Starred decadence. I ignore the soft yelp he makes in protest as I pull the spoon away, and quickly interject before he can voice his disgruntlement .

“So, I’m thinking we cook these up on the barbecue outside.” I say, averting my gaze from the little monstrosity and the plethora of grotesque slurping sounds coming from his general direction as he licks his fingers clean. Sal makes a sort of hum in agreement. Had he washed his hands after butchering the hawk? I suppress a gag. I needed another drink. Stuffing a few beers under one arm, I haphazardly gathered up the sauce, tongs and meat with my free hand. With my arms more than a little full, I cast my gaze down to Sal,

“Uh, I’ll just set this up outside and then come ba-”

He jumped.

Had my reaction time been any better I’m sure I would have flinched out of the way of the tiny man throwing himself off the counter towards me, but instead all I managed was a yelp in surprise. He caught two handfuls of my shirt fabric and climbed up my midsection with an uncanny speed that could put a seasoned rockclimber to shame. The feeling of such a small and fast moving being freely skittering up my body made my skin crawl. He situated himself near the crook of my arm, a little too suspiciously close to the sauce for my liking, and patted my arm as if I were a horse he was kicking into gear.

---

What a way to travel! I couldn’t help but stare in absolute wonder as the ground flew by, with Mark seemingly moving slow yet covering such boggling distances with each step. This was exhilarating! My heart raced in my chest, and as I leaned back against Mark, I noticed with a bit of a chuckle, so did his.

He made his way out to the porch towards some large metal contraption he had referred to as a bar-bah-kyou? I hopped off onto what seemed like a sort of counter top jutting out from the barbah-thingy’s side as he emptied his arms. As I approached the vaguely tank-like structure, Mark fiddled with something beneath the machine. Upon examination, the barbah-thingy had a handle on the front as well as an assortment of dials lining its base. As I made my way closer, Mark’s hand tentatively blocked my path. I shot him a glare as he pushed me back, and he returned an apologetic smile.

“Uh, just… stand back a little.” He pressed a button. An almost insectoid clicking sound emanated from the machine. There was a whoosh, followed by a sudden increase in heat as the machine was somehow brought to life. Grinning, Mark opened up the tank-thing to show off the flames roaring up inside.

Well, that was certainly easier than rubbing sticks together.

Before I could get a closer look, he closed the lid.

“It's gotta heat up a bit before we're good.” I snorted. It seemed plenty hot to me, but he was in charge of cooking, so I wasn’t about to be fussy. He offered his hand, and I swung myself on, only to immediately be set down on a table between two wooden chairs, with Marking dropping himself into the chair to my left. He stared down at me for a moment before reaching for another one of the metallic cans.

The can made an odd hissing sound as Mark pried open the lid. As he took a swig from the can, I inspected the collection of its unopened brethren beside me. The cans were cool to the touch, with little beads of moisture forming along their surface. The muggy summer air loomed around me, tempting me to lean against the chilled metal surface of the can, but I decided against the potential social faux pas. There were mountains decorating the can, along with bright red letters. It had been a while since I'd seen human writing, especially the squiggly kind, and I wracked my brain trying to place the sounds to the letters. C…ow… ers? C-oo..wers? I felt my brow furrow in frustration. A contented sigh from Mark interrupted my attempts to decode his drink.

“What’re you drinking?” Mark looked a little caught off guard. He chuckled.

“It’s beer.” Beer? Man I was way off on my human spelling. Yikes. “Do you, uh... want some?”

The thought of the cool condensation made that an easy and enthusiastic yes from me. He reached for his can and hesitated. A wide smile formed on his face as he stood. I suppressed the urge to take a step back at his sudden movement. Fuck was he ever big.

“Sick. Lemme go get you a glass.”

Mark returned with a glass that was somehow comically small pinched between his massive fingers, yet within my own hands seemed more like a hefty bucket. Although the bucket-glass would undoubtedly be a bit of a challenge to drink from, I wasn't about to complain about getting more than my fair share of a cool drink.

As he filled my glass he cast me a wary gaze,

“Um, Sal? Have you … had alcohol before?”

“I thought this was beer.” He snorted. I had no idea why his mistake was so funny.

“I guess that's a no?” I shrugged. How could I know if I’d had it if I didn’t know what it tasted like. He laughed again and I smiled, albeit a bit nervously. What was so funny to him?

“Um.. it makes you feel good. Um, almost tingly? But if you have a lot it makes you feel a bit slow and your thoughts feel a bit…um, weird. It lowers inhibitions and-” he prattled on about how this “special drink” would make you feel, but all I could think of was how cool the glass felt against the palms of my hand. The liquid was a warm amber colour filled with bubbles that collected into a soft layer of foam at the top. It hissed quietly as the bubbles rose to the surface. A cool drink that made you feel good? Fine by me. With a bit more effort than would be desirable I lifted the drink to my lips and took a long chug. The size of the glass paired with its awkward weight made trying to control the flow of the liquid a borderline impossible task. As I tilted the glass I got a cool shock as the beer splashed against the entirety of my face, and given the heat, I really had no complaints. The bubbles were strange and stung at my throat but the strangely crisp taste was invigorating. I gulped greedily, not bothered that beer was running down my neck. The change in temperature from the spill was a welcome one.

“Woah, dude” Mark chuckled, placing the tip of his finger on the edge of my glass to guide it away from my face, “Pace yourself.” I shot him a glare, but couldn’t help letting a smirk escape. I held up my glass, making a show of comparing it to his own,

“I think if I’m pacing myself with you I’m still a ways behind.” He shook his head, laughing, and took a long sip from his drink. I did the same. This was nice. The summer heat felt almost enjoyable with his company, especially with the beer included in the equation.

“So… Have you been here long?” I cocked my head, unsure of what he meant, “Um…you know, in the area.” He clarified as he gestured to the expanse of his yard. I stared ahead, feeling as though if I stared hard enough I’d be able to look back through the years I’d been here.

“Yeah, it's been a while.” I took another sip.

“Do you like it here?” That question, casual as it may be, caught me off-guard. Did I like it here? This area was familiar. I’d been in the same spot far longer than I could remember. From the perspective of the porch I felt I could look out at the yard and see the memories that littered what had become my "home range"… The tree I’d climbed when a particularly bad storm had flooded the yard… the spot right below where a squirrel had chased me from their cache… the lattice work right beneath the window where I used to climb to - I shook the memories away.

“It’s home.”

I felt a strange yet familiar feeling claw at the edges of my mind. An emptiness… A total lack of… something. I took another sip, hoping to drown the thoughts, and with any luck, maybe find what I was missing at the bottom of my glass. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark smile, though it didn’t quite reach the rest of his face. He heaved a weary sigh before speaking, a sound that conveyed far more to me than whatever words would follow.

“I hope it’ll start to feel like home for me soon.” He stood, making his way to the fire-tank-thing. The sun had come close to setting, leaving the sky ablaze with warm hues- a stunning display of pinks and golds igniting the horizon. Mark stood out against the backdrop, shrouded in shadow, more like a part of the treeline than a living being… he was fucking massive- no... It wasn’t him that was massive…something deep within the recesses of my brain resented seeing him like that… I took another deep sip from the glass, flushing the thought from my mind. I closed my eyes and leaned back, listening to the sounds of birds in the air, and breathing in the smell of meat roasting above a flame. Though the summer heat was waning, it was as if an ember was being stoked from within my core. A persistent warmth seemed to be rising up from within, as if the very essence of the season had somehow been ignited in my soul. I felt… good.

With my eyes closed I could picture what it would be like… just sitting in the chair to my right, cold can of beer in hand… looking out across a yard I could clear in a handful of strides… Mark sitting down in the chair to my left, not looking down, but instead looking at me. I didn’t care so much for the specifics of the imagery my brain has conjured up… but more so what it seemed to represent in my mind. The image felt close… comfortable, whereas I … when I opened my eyes I felt so far away.

I took another drink.