Page 3 of Kept
“Huh? So, you can order the food but not speak the language,” I laugh.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I have French grandparents, and I can order food in French, but I can’t speak it, so I guess we are a pigeon pair.”
And it turns out, we are.
I laugh half-heartedly now at her fears, knowing they were also a mirror image of my own, and drop my phone into my bag. I’m glad she called; I’d forgotten she was going on a date tonight and it was my responsibility to feed the cat when I put the garbage out.
The bus pulls up to my stop. I slip the book back under my arm and, wishing the driver a good night, jump out and take the three steps to my apartment entrance. The lift isn’t working, as per usual, but that doesn’t matter to me, Margarita and I are on the ground floor. This is a blessed relief tonight for my poor blistered feet which are now screaming at me to release them from the sandal torture devices I have them strapped in.
I take them off as soon as I walk in the door and slip on furry slippers. They will get dirty when I go out the back into the alley, but I have no choice, the idea of wearing sandals for one more minute makes me want to scream.
I collect a cup of kitty biscuits, empty the overflowing bin from the kitchen and tv room into a black garbage bag and head out into the hallway. The bag is heavy, but no drips escape from the range of disgustingness inside. I drag it down the long hallway, out the heavy door marked ‘emergency exit,’ and throw it into the dumpster.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
The homeless cat we feed, have fed for the past five months anyway, makes its way from behind the dumpster and stares at me from a few feet away with wary eyes.
I empty the biscuits onto the ground and unwrap one of the nori rolls I have in my pocket from its clingfilm. I’d rescued it from the leftovers on the staff platters and, like most nights, it would serve as my dinner or dinner for one of the homeless men or women that sometimes frequented outside our building. It was one of the perks of working at the canteen, always plenty of left-over food – although technically we were not allowed to take it – all of us did.
I tip the sushi onto the ground and back away as the cat rushes forward and begins to gnaw on it, growling and keeping its eyes on me, it’s fur all on end. Usually, I like to watch it eat, but tonight I am bushed, and the alley is giving me the creeps. It feels like I’m being watched, which is stupid because I can see all the way to the road from here. There is no one around – not even Stan the old hobo, who would have benefited from the nori roll, rather than the cat, if he had been here.
‘Get a grip; you’re probably still freaked from the park run, coward.’
I shrug off my unease and head back inside, but double lock the door when I get in, just because I feel like I should.
Shaking my head at the dirt on my slippers, I throw them into the hall cupboard and give a half-hearted laugh. I know Margarita will freak the fuck out when she sees what I’ve done to them. One of the advantages of living with a shoe aficionado; they are fun to horrify with the way normal people treat shoes. My mantra is; wear them, don’t worship them. I like to leave mine dirty, scuffed, ripped, lying in the hallway cupboard where she will see them when she hangs up her coat.
Her own were meticulously stored in their original boxes in her wardrobe.
Still smiling, I remove the rest of the nori rolls from my pocket and peel off my pale blue canteen uniform. I only have three pairs, all identical, and it seems like my life is a revolving door of washing, drying and ironing. I’d hoped to get another’s day’s wear out of this set, but they definitely need washing; my sweat from the run has stained under the arms of the shirt, and the pants look like they have seen better days.
“At least they are not covered in blood,” I mutter, throwing them into the washing basket. I’d sat on the bus next to a nurse in an identical set of clothes a few days before, and she and I had agreed that my biggest worry was getting out tomato stains, hers required a hell of a lot more bleach and a strong stomach.
“One day you will be white, uniform,” I sneer at it. “A white chef’s uniform with matching hat – and I’ll have a new set for every night – and be able to pay someone to do my washing – one day.”
The uniform, predictably, says nothing.
I sigh and head to the shower.
‘Looks like I’ll be spending the weekend at the laundromat again.’
When I’m finally clean, I sit and put antiseptic cream on my blisters before heading into the kitchen in my ‘The Snuggle is Real’ flannel pyjamas, to hunt down something edible.
The cupboard is bare of anything I might be tempted to cook at such a late hour, not to mention the fact I had cooked all day. That usually wasn’t an issue, but tonight I opt for three left-over nori rolls and instant chicken-flavoured Chinese noodles straight from the Styrofoam cup. I tuck into them with the baby plastic fork that came with the cup.
Curling up on the couch, I open the journal, appreciating once again the beautiful handwriting obviously done with a fine, ink calligraphy pen, before bursting out laughing as I read the first line.
Entry 1: Journal 499
Today is my birthday, of sorts, 481 years exactly since I was made vampire.
2
I open the giant ten-gallon tin of kidney beans and grimace as I pour the red gloop into the massive aluminium pot on the stove, hoping nothing untoward comes out.
Margarita freaked me out when I first started here telling me she’d once found a mouse in one of these tins, scooped it out, and continued using the product. I’ve been scared ever since that I am going to come across something like this one day and throw my guts up all over the kitchen.
