Tyke’s Spaghetti

TYKE

"Jill for NOS News here, and Mr. Bennie Harway is with me. You work as a barber on 5th Street. What are your thoughts on the Central Arc murders? This second body was found not far from the first. Do you think someone from the neighborhood could be involved?"

"The streets are crazy, Jill! Who's done it?! It can be anyone. Monster killings plague the city, but suddenly, the news wakes up when the fairies get involved. I think it's telling! But I've got a question for the police. What are you waitin' for? We don't feel safe anymore. You waitin' for the city to turn into a graveya?—"

Thunk.

I switch off this crap. I don't have the energy to listen to halflings. I'm already feeling awkward as it is.

The TV remote flies across the room to the couch opposite me. That's what I'm aiming for, anyway.

Clash!

Across the window, I meant. Fuck.

It's the second time this month. Never had issues with windows before Fay. Must be a subconscious thing or the gods telling me to get rid of them. Windows—I'm still scratching my head as to what generates such a reaction in her. They have to stay open when she sleeps...woke up once finding her screaming in distress upon seeing them closed. Hell, it was my fault. I closed them.

It was only natural to ask her about it, but her response was as elusive as anything she transpires. And now, I can't help thinking about her whenever I see one. All the time, basically. The thought itself isn't pleasant; it reminds me of something festering within Fay, preventing her from truly living. I know it is, just as much as I know her the same way she seems to know me.

Bloody windows...The truth is, I'm still trying to get used to this place. At least I'm not in those small barracks from the Our Strength, Our People program. What a living hell that was.

Nothing but a Faerhan rehabilitation center filled with young Kor'kron survivors, a smokescreen to whitewash war crimes. Amongst the military training, the fairies taught us their customs, to read and write, introduced us to technology, and how to blend in...

As I look back at my food, I notice the dangling cabinet. I can't bring myself to fix it. It will just have to be.

I shift my weight carefully. I don't want to break another stool—it's the only one left.

Hunching over the kitchen bar, my gaze blurs on my plate.

Even my food is depressing. Pasta.

I grab my phone.

Staying away from it was my goal for tonight, but it's just like with Fay. The more I try, the more I fail. Every angle at which a monster might look at this fairy screams red flags. From her 7/11 fuck partners to how carefree she seems to be, right down to how oblivious she is about society's evident decline to her unhinged window issues.

And yet, I can't help myself. Can't conceive being cut out of her life... Perhaps because I know what's beneath the surface—a bird in pain, enclosing herself in steel. Until Fay, that's what I'd been doing to get by without hating my life too much. I snigger at the thought, remembering the death I contemplated before she became a part of my existence.

I drop my fork and claw at my skull, grabbing at fucking hopelessness to know she's struggling, sucking in my cheeks at a memory, a serious ten-second conversation, the max we ever had until today.

"Have you been crying, Fay?" There was nothing wrong with my question. Her eyes were red and puffy.

"Crying is for the weak, Tyke. Isn't that what orcs think?"

"Weak? The weak are the cowards, thieves, murderers, and the deceitful." Heck, I was struggling to tell her she wasn't weak.

"I'm no coward," she hissed, blocking my words at the back of my throat. None of this conversation made sense, yet so much did, confirming something I couldn't name until that day. There was pain in her mind.

I quickly search onWhatswapp, my thumb miserably landing on her last message.

Little Bug

8:30 am

BYE.

Bye... What did she mean bythat? My eyes are stuck on the little ladybug emoji she added next to her name.

Some growling pulls me out of my funk.

"Cerberios, Nadal." This skunk is on the couch again, whipping his daggered tail at me like an asp.

I have no authority over this dog.

A forceful breath rushes out of me. The decaying bones of my ancestors must be rattling from my incapacity to tame the tiniest of pups.

What's in his mouths?

The tension in my fist deepens, the sound of fragmentation crunching up my ears as cracks ebb on the counter's granite.

This miniature beast of burden is sinking his three pairs of canines into something. It's tossing it from side to side like a brain crack as it fights with its own three selves to which head will get it.

Stupid dog.

There's a part of me that wants to smash its faces.

But then, maybe it's hungry.

I glance behind my shoulder, finding the beast's bowl is empty. Shit. I forgot to stop to buy some dog food. I'll get some, but not before I finish my dinner.

This food... As I twirl my fork in loops of spaghetti, the only comfort I can find from it is in the color of the sauce—blood-red.

My ears catch the sound of breaking leather as my tired eyes skim up my plate, only to realize the object in question—one of myNarmanieshoes Fay got for my birthday.

At least I still have the other one somewhere...

Until recently, the K9 was under strict police training, but then I saw Fay cuddling it.

Witnessing her fingers kneading into its fatty folds ruined the experience for me. And when she kissed one of its snouts, that was the end of it.

Now Cerberios is just living fluff. I can't even raise my voice to him without a pitiful whimper escaping one of its mouths.

Any healthy orc would thrash this Golden Cerberus Retriever with an axe, turn it into mince, and paint his cheeks with its mushed guts for showing such disrespect. But because Fay has a thing for it, seeing her beloved pup eating one of my favorite shoes, it's... well, it's kind of soothing.

I grunt. I can't believe I just thought that.

My fork screeches on my plate. This food they call spaghetti is unfit for orc consumption.

Soft, unsavory gooey paste, it's assaulting my palate.

I drop my fork.

I can't.

It's torture.

Before the war, I never knew what dried food was or what a stove looked like. We used to celebrate in large gatherings, behemoth thighs turning above bonfires.

The good old times...

It took a land invasion and ten years to get accustomed to their culture. To be forced to trade the comfort of my hut for some cubic cage stacked amongst a row in a high-rise tower... and I hate heights.

And now, I'm forced to work as military ops till my last breath, defending a country that has decimated mine, with a wage that hardly covers my rent.

The fairies stole a lot from me, from us...

But Fay... She's got this way of giving back everything. A feeling of belonging, I guess. Before landing my eyes on her, every word I shaped in Faerhan felt like poison on my tongue, every exchange with them agony, the inner strength it took me not to rip them apart, indescribable. And now, look at me, grateful I can speak Faerish just to talk with her, to understand her...

She told me to add Bolognese sauce, but I simply can't force myself to eat this slag.

She told me to try.

I'm trying.

Little bug, it's not those tiny pieces of meat sprinkled on these thin-looking worms that will fill my stomach.

Sprinkles...

Ah fuck.

Hunger left me.

I push my plate.

Fay...

There's no mystery to what she's doing. In the face of abusive comments, she chooses society's approval over my thick bones. This Chief Jinksovan... he doesn't own her—no one owns Fay. I swear to Farh Kana gods, birds should be left free.

If only that drunk could spill enough whiskey on himself, I'd happily toss the matches and watch that chicken burn.

I focus on the granite breaking from under my resting fist. Resting might not be the right word...

Again, I'm succumbing to my emotions, my kitchen not far off.

She told me to meditate. We had that back in Jor'kahal, where we used to plunder and bathe in the blood of our enemies. Now that was some deep relaxation.

Here, citizens buy gaslighting shovels called shopping and yoga to bury their troubles in perfect social media posts. I keep telling her it's the people she needs to bury—her father, if possible, deep, under six layers of concrete. I'm ready to hide the body, even prepared to take the blame for it...

"Shit." This habit's been clinging to me all day. My eyes draw back to my phone, and my mind goes back to the 'Why isn't she texting?' Back to the 'I was busy.' Back to her choices...

Half of the bottle spills beside me as I pour another shot of vodkaria.

Holding my head in my hands, I try not to wreck this one-by-one-meter kitchen.

Keeping your cool is key, Tyke.

Key...

Did she take it?

This lifestyle of hers... I'm ready to accept it because I'd rather go through hell than get comfortable sleeping without her.

I harsh a breath out of my sip.

Hell...

Five days a week without her

This fairy's got this ability to peel my bones away just by looking at me. She's the person who got the closest to me, to the spirit inside me, tossing the vessel away like I'm not in it.

I hit my glass on the counter.

I'd better go to the corner store before it closes. Don't want Cerberios to destroy my second shoe.

"Cerberios, Ney?," I call, dumping the remaining pasta into his bowl.

With car keys in hand, I grab my leather jacket, always hooked against this humid, mold-infested entryway wall, and head outside. "Mog Kurrauz Shal Ij, Maar Undur."

The door slams behind my back, and not a second later, the back pocket of my jeans vibrates.

It must be Deon.

Even though I value my partner more than a blood brother, I made it clear: evenings are private. Five days a week, we patrol together. And that's enough for me.

I then remember Deon telling me he had some hot stuff to deal with tonight. This sex addict won't be anywhere near his phone. My heart begins to hammer, as if sensing something unseen, and I reach for my phone.

I don't even need to unlock my screen for ice to go full fractal in my bloodstream.

Donna

11:39 pm

It's about Fay. Please come.

NOC Health + Hospital/ Wizardino, 467th Street