Short story (untitled)

Remember that I sometimes write? Yes, well. This happened last week, when I had to sit at a cash register for several hours because our actual cashier had to leave urgently. I have no idea what this is, as it`s basically the written equivalent of a doodle. It`s short, only 361 words. There does seem to be a history, a long story. But I have no answers, no idea where this came from or where it`s going. 

I hope you like it anyway. 


“What do you think?” She beams proudly at him. He looks at the Christmas tree, gleaming and shining in the corner of their little apartment. It had cost more than they could afford, but he was willing to do anything for her, especially since, you know. Then.
“It`s gorgeous,” he lies. He doesn`t like the tree. Doesn`t like what it stands for in his mind. But she likes it, and that`s all that matters.
He puts an arm around her shoulders, hoping to shield his face from her inquisitive eyes. Darn those eyes. He always felt like they could see right through him, piercing him, reading his every secret. It was nonsense, he was well aware of that. He`d dealt with plenty of mind readers in his time to know she`s not one of them.
“Let`s have dinner,” she pulls his arm, gently, as she always does. Gentle soul. He likes that about her.
“What do you want to eat?” He asks, though he really doesn`t care much. He doesn`t care for human food anyway. Too much vegetables, too much cooking. Not enough raw meat to sustain him. But he`ll get his fix tonight, when she`s deep asleep. He doesn`t want her to know. She can`t know.
“I`m thinking Pad Thai,” she answers in that sweet tone of hers. He nods absentmindedly, while she grabs the phone to order, her finger tracing the number on the paper that she`d stuck on the fridge with a smiley magnet. It`d been there since before he met her.
He hears her voice ask for a number 32, please, and with a quick, frowned glance at him, a number 16 as well. He doesn`t know what number 16 is. He`ll eat it anyway.

That night, when she`s deep asleep, her eyelids flickering to the rhythm of her dreams, he leaves.

He leaves, and if she wakes up the next morning to find him with more scratches than the night before, he`ll find an excuse. He`ll find a way. He always does.

After all, she`s everything to him, and he can`t lose her. Not her, not this time. Not ever. He`ll make sure of it. 

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