Page 1 of Bread By the Grim
Chapter 1
Grim
The sound of my joints creaking as bones and tendons pop back into place is my weird daily alarm clock as the first tendrils of early morning light seep in the little witch window just above my head. I stretch as my body is released from its nightly prison and throw the covers off.
Before I found a witch with the special knowledge to create a spell that would render me harmless between midnight and dawn, I was stuck living at home with my adoptive parents. None of the experts thought it was safe to leave me unsupervised at night when I shift into what we call my gremlin.
The problem is I’m one of a kind as far as species go…dropped off in one of those baby boxes at the fire station the one day the camera wasn’t working. None of the cryptid medical professionals had ever seen a child like me, and we were learning as I grew. Things were fine until I hit puberty and the shifts came not just at night but with strong emotions, too–anger, embarrassment, and, of course, horniness. My parents were saints. It helped to have a moth woman as a mother–late nights were her thing. But now that I have the spell, I can almost guarantee I’ll be frozen for those dangerous hours, made doll-sized–at least that’s what the witch tells me. I honestly don’t care what I look like. I’m just happy it works.
Shifting every night used to mean that I went through a lot of clothes until I just gave in and started stripping down to nothing just before midnight. Now that I can control it—sort of—I don’t destroy clothes much anymore, though old habits die hard. I still find myself reluctant to sleep in anything, lest it end up being shredded in one of my occasional overnight blackouts when the spell decides not to take.
I slip off my sleeping mat, unlock the door I had reinforced when I moved in, and step out of the closet. I have to complete my entire morning routine before I can go downstairs to the bakery I own to get things started for the day.
My clothes are laid out neatly on the bed I never get to use in the optimal order for dressing efficiency–boxers, undershirt, pants, button-up shirt, socks, and finally, shoes. It’s a little crazy, but sometimes it helps my brain to control the things I can. Especially when there’s so much I can’t control.
Down below, I can hear Bernice, the morning pastry chef, banging around the kitchen as she works on getting the doughnuts and other breakfast pastries ready for the early customers.
Growing up, the doctors and therapists encouraged routines to keep me from shifting at inconvenient times. I never got out of those habits, so my mornings consist of the same routine nearly every day: I feed my betta fish, Sam, dress (in the order that my clothes are laid out), wash up, then head downstairs for work. Some would find it dull, but I rather enjoy the calmness of it all.
So, as you can imagine, the day is exactly like any other…until it isn’t.
I’m standing next to the bed, zipping up my slacks, when I hear it–a scream and then a crash. The crash is so loud and goes on for so long that I’m almost convinced something has crashed into the building.
“BERNICE!” I yell at the floor.
Instead of her voice, annoyed, answering my call, there is nothing.
The silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity.
I’m out my back door and down two flights of stairs in ten seconds, my bare feet pounding against the hard metal stairs that run down the back of the building. The back door of the bakery is locked, butthat doesn’t keep me from ripping it open with all the adrenaline racing through my body.
“BERNICE!” I yell again, a small sliver of fear rising up in my chest at the silence as I enter through the back. The kitchen, as usual, is pristine–freshly mopped, dishes put away, stacks and stacks of doughnuts resting on trays in the large rolling carts by the door. Guiltily, I walk across the still wet floor and push my way through the saloon-style doors that lead to the seating area only to nearly trip and fall.
On the floor between the kitchen and the counter is Bernice, flat on her back.
All eight feet of her.
The mop bucket is knocked over, its soapy contents still seeping out toward the front of the shop. The mop is lying on top of Bernice, her furry brown hands clutched to it tightly.
“Bernice! Fuck. Don’t move.” My words sound way harsher than I mean for them to, but honestly, I suck when it comes to reacting to emergencies. Already, I can feel the panic rising in my chest.
“Trust me, Grim. I’m not going anywhere,” she responds wryly.
I pull out my phone to dial 911. “What hurts?” I ask her as I squat down next to her, trying not to slip myself.
“Right ankle, back, head,” she says as if she’s reading off a checklist.
With my hand, I check the fur atthe back of her head as best I can without moving her. No blood. At least we have that going for us. I can’t examine her back. There’s hardly any space between the counter and her body. I may be able to pull a door from a frame when freaked out, but rolling a full-grown female Sasquatch like Bernice over is going to take some muscle. I stand up and carefully step around her extremities so I can check the ankle.
Bernice is as tall as the counter is wide, so it takes a few rings of 911 for me to get down to her ankles. That’s when I see it—her right foot is turned in a way that no right foot should ever be turned.
Be cool, Grim.
Don’t freak out, Grim.
Don’t freak her out…
I swallow the bile that rises up in my throat and look around for something to cover Bernice up with. How the hell is she able to be so calm? She’s bound to be getting cold with the water all over the floor.
