Groolig sat on
the riverbank with his feet in the water and his head in his hands. His curves claws
tapped the tufted tips of his long ears, as he replayed the scene over and over
in his head.
“Carve the skin,
my pet,” Mistress crooned, fingertip tracing a hidden rune on his back. Groolig
was her favorite instrument, and he’d never hesitated to do her bidding. She could as
easily pick up a blade and use it on him as he could use his claws on bare
skin. She had done so throughout his youth, carving the runes that covered his
own flesh, now hidden by mottled, tangled fur. How many others had he sliced
and torn open before their blood washed away his own, stained against his skin
and fur and claws?
But Groolig didn’t
want to hurt this one. He reached past her arms, suspended on the chains
rattling above them, touching a claw to her cheek, where a single tear
quivered. It splashed over his claw, and he remembered.
“Groolig! Catch
me!” The girl cried as she leaped from the tree limb above, barely giving him
time to reach up before she fell into his arms, laughing. He curled her slight
body up to his chest, burying his face against her belly and blowing raspberries
through her threadbare tunic. She giggled and wrapped her arms around him in a
fierce hug. “You’re my best friend, Groolig. You’re not a monster! You’re not!”
“Don’t bore me,
pet,” Mistress warned in a deep growl.
Groolig didn’t
move the claw against the girl’s cheek. He didn’t turn his head in warning. He
simply swung out behind him with his other long arm, claws outstretched, with
unerring accuracy, and tore out Mistress’ throat. He never looked back as he
swiped through the metal links of the chains and curled the falling girl into
his arms once more. If Mistress lived, she would kill them both. But the sounds
behind him told a different tale.
He carried the
girl out of Mistress’ hold and into the deep forest where they once played.
When he reached the river, he walked into the middle and upstream, pushing
against the current without slowing his pace for hours. The girl remained still
in his arms. Before the light faded, he found the hut they once built of fallen
tree limbs and fresh rushes, long since dried into thatch. He lay the girl down
on the thatch floor and went out to find fresh rushes to cover her while she
slept.
Finally admitting
he was tired, he sat on the riverbank, next to the hut, and cooled his torn
feet in the rushing water. He’d spent most of his life in the stone confines of
Mistress’ hold, except for rare adventure with the girl. Now Mistress was dead,
and he had to take care of the girl. He didn’t know what to do. Burying his
head in his hands, Groolig tried to think what she would need…
To be continued?
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Dogs
in House
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Houdini, Brindle
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Music
Playing
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iTunes walking playlist
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Time
writing
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~30 minutes
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July
word count
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11,334
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