this one's not as good as the others.


Chapter Five

Cleaning the garage was definitely a physically demanding task, bound to result in an awkward-yet-satisfying amalgamation of stiffness and soreness in the morning. Taking a moment to really absorb his surroundings, the garage space itself was rather pleasant; very quiet, confined, and warm, a stagnant heat that was uncomfortable at one point during the day, but had steadily become soothing. Something about it reminded him of the cave he'd grown up in, dim and slightly humid. The modern structure he'd become accustomed to in the past few months was too linear, too artificial, the air circulated by the conditioner was stale, a dry, permeating chill that was unsettlingly unnatural. Electricity created a perpetual buzz, a low hum that was on a frequency high enough for him to hear. Machinery and technology and gadgets whirred and clanked and growled. This human world gave him a headache.

But in the garage, the only sounds were of the electric sizzling of the single light bulb overhead and the low drone of complete silence. It let his mind rest. His muscles relaxed. He closed his eyes and counted his own breaths.

In. Out. He'd tried this nightly to lull himself into unconsciousness, but it never worked.

Exercise early in the morning or afternoon is, without a doubt, one of the better ways to combat sleeplessness, due almost entirely in part to homeostasis. During activity, internal body temperature rises, and the steady decrease in temperature as the day goes on is what contributes mostly to fatigue. He had thought earlier that this afternoon had proved to be almost over-stimulating, entirely certain that this would be a restless night, but the heaviness of his eyelids now suggested otherwise.

In. Out.

Shelley's warmth radiated outward, creeping into his skin and sinking into his bones and settling there, the still silence allowing the faintest sounds to reach his ears, the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat, the whistling of air as she breathed, the lower notes of a melody Mrs. Parker was humming somewhere within the main part of the house, wooden beams creaking within the walls. From some part of the garage, there was what sounded to be the scuttling of a small animal, probably a rodent, and he made a mental note to return to the garage for a quick meal after the rest of the family had gone to bed.

But then again, smaller rodents didn't taste particularly good. A bit sour. Larger mammals were sweeter, some with different aftertastes than others. Humans had very robust blood, strong and thick with a multitude of flavors that presented themselves seemingly both simultaneously and individually. He involuntarily clenched his jaw, rolled his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

In. In. Out.

Shelley had nodded off next to him, breathing deeply yet delicately, her thin frame dead weight against him, her head resting on his shoulder. She had so many smells, so many of them unbelievably pleasant. The sugary scent of her hair, an artificial floral aroma that lingered around her and on her clothes, the natural, savory scent of her skin. Sometimes the phantom smell of her would hit him when he'd least expect it, and his mouth would water. He'd wonder sometimes how she tasted, but only for a second. If he'd learned anything truly significant in the way of social skills these past months, it was that you don't bite your friends, something that was probably common sense to most, but a genuine challenge for him. The challenge diminished as his attachment to his surrogate family members grew.

In. Out.

Warm, comfortable, safe. Very safe. His paranoia was practically perpetual, so it was rare to feel so at ease. Safe. Warm. Comfortable. Hungry. Tired. Hungry. His fingers twitched. Each breath took in a slew of appetizing scents.

In. Out. In. Out. Out. Out.

Shelley inhaled deeply, exhaled, shifted.

"Shelley."

"Mmm…?" She responded drowsily, not moving much. He nudged her lightly with his elbow.

"If you're going to sleep, at least go back inside. I imagine your bed must be more comfortable."

She groaned. "You're comfier."

"Don't tease." He smirked. "I don't provide much lumbar support, anyway. You'll be sore if you stay here."

She groggily groped at his bicep. "Maybe we should trade you in for a memory foam bat boy."

"Is that legal?"

She laughed, sat up straight, stretched her arms over her head and yawned. She looked back to him and grinned. "I guess there really is no point in hanging out in here anymore. I've probably got a whole colony of dust mites living it up in my lungs by now."

He cringed at the thought. She stood up gracefully, arching her back and stretching again. "What do you propose we do now?"

She cocked her head, sandy hair falling over her shoulder, lips pursed. "God, what time is it, even?"

In a few fluid strides, she moved to the door that led back into the house, opening it and slipping through. Footsteps echoed softly through the hall that stretched into the den, and he heard a small yelp before she scurried back inside. Her face peeked into the garage from around the heavy door, a slight blush across her cheeks.

"Um, it's totally night right now."

"What?"

"It's like, 7 pm. Oh my God." He rose to his feet and stumbled towards her, his left leg irritatingly numb from the position he'd stayed in. She retreated back into the house, and he followed, the chill of the air conditioning catching him off guard. "We were cleaning for five hours."

Shelley padded softly into the den with Edgar at her heels, and suddenly Mrs. Parker flounced into the room with a broad, toothy smile on her face. She was wearing an apron and wielding a meat cleaver. Edgar stopped dead in his tracks purely out of the shock of seeing such a spritely, bubbly woman carrying a dangerous object with startling carelessness, but Shelley was nonplussed and continued walking. Mrs. Parker was the first to speak.

"There you are! And here I was almost starting to worry!" Mrs. Parker chirped, the cheerful inflections so utterly forced that it sounded almost sarcastic. She clutched the meat cleaver in her hands at chest level, as if she were holding a bouquet of flowers. "Are you kids hungry? There's a tuna casserole on the stove."

Then why the meat cleaver? Her plastic smile twitched as she and Edgar made eye contact. Shelley had already glided into the kitchen and was rummaging through the pantry. Mrs. Parker lowered the cleaver to her side as her shoulders relaxed, and her smile softened into one of genuine warmth. There must've been some sort of look on his face, because she stepped over to him and patted his shoulder with her free hand, a maternal gesture that she had mastered flawlessly.

"How do you feel, sweetheart? Any better?" Everything this woman said sounded like a song; she could even make the phone book sound like a lullaby. He laughed a little, feeling a bit guilty.

"Well, I'm not exhausted, if that tells you anything."

"I'm sure you'll adjust soon, dear. Perhaps you can convince Thomas to give you a sedative with your medications?" Her dark eyes were glistening and earnest, and he wished for the same blissful optimism. He also wished he could tell her the truth, that there were no medications, that eating the same food as the rest of the family made him painfully ill, but how do you tell your adoptive mother that you drink entire IV bags of animal blood in her guest bathroom on a nightly basis? So he smiled, nodded.

"Sure, I'll ask him."