Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 64359 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64359 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“You might be right,” I admit as I look down at his sweet little fanged face.
I make a decision. Not for myself, but for my son.
This may not be the universe as I know it. I might not be free here, not in any real way. But if I surrender to this captivity, we will all be happy for a little while. My son will grow up in the way he deserves to grow up. Not forever, but for a few years at least. He will come from a place of peace. If we do this right, our peace will always live inside him. I know what it is like to come from chaos and loss. It is not something I would wish on my greatest enemy, let alone my child.
“You can reprogram me,” I say. “Make me what you want me to be. Just promise me that if a day ever comes that I need to be what I truly am, you will let me do that too.”
“Really?”
“Yes, put the suit back on,” I say. “Let’s play pretend for a little while at least.”
Atlas slides himself back into his human suit. The monster in him takes refuge behind the square jaw and kind eyes of my handsome very nearly human husband. He reaches out, and takes me by the hand…
12 DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE
Jazz music plays on the radio. My hair is covered in a pretty checkered scarf, and I am running my band new Hoover over the carpets. The windows are opened, the sun is shining. It is a perfect summer afternoon.
“Rhys, don’t do that, dear.”
My son is crawling across the floor at high speed, determined to put the cord of the vacuum into his mouth. I redirect him with a rusk, smiling down at him as he grins up with those ever so sharp teeth that will turn that teething snack into crumbs in an instant. Thank goodness for the Hoover, it is a real life saver.
“Honey! We’re home!”
The front door swings open and my husband, Archie, walks in. He is followed by Karl and Ellis, my other two husbands. They are all wearing similar houndstooth suits and carrying similar shining brown briefcases.
A gurgle comes over the baby monitor. All three of them drop their briefcases and practically race their way to the nursery. Baby Sally has her daddies wrapped around her little finger. I pick Rhys up and follow after them, smiling at the wholesomeness of it all.
When I arrive, Karl has Sally in his arms. She looks just like him, or she will once her pale platinum hair grows longer. She has his eyes, and his smile, and his good natured personality. I hand Rhys to Ellis, who takes him with a similar pride.
“Dinner’s ready,” I say. “I made pot roast.”
“Delicious!” Archie hasn’t tasted it yet, but he always says my cooking is delicious.
I drop what is left of Rhys’ rusk into the kitchen garbage can. The wrapper from the roast is still there, a numahn shirt, size thirty. I make sure to close the lid quickly before anybody sees. I’m not supposed to be going out hunting for my own meat. I’m supposed to limit myself to the grocery store two blocks away. But they only sell animal proteins, and I can’t bring myself to eat animals. They’re innocent. They don’t deserve it. But numahns? They deserve to be consumed to the very last drop.
“Sit down, sit down!” I flap and fuss to make sure everybody is seated and ready to eat.
They all sit around the kitchen table. I’ve already set it, of course. All I need to do is take the pot roast out and deliver it to the round wood board in the center of the table, which I do, using the oven gloves I quilted and sewed myself while I was pregnant with Sally. I lift the top of the ceramic dish to reveal a chunk of perfectly cooked meat falling off the bone, surrounded by vegetables.
“Wife?” Archie raises a brow at me as the steam clears.
“Yes?”
“What’s the meat?”
“Beef, of course.”
It is not beef. And it’s not an even slightly passable lie. Beef doesn’t have fingers. I was going to discard them, but they make such a pretty garnish if you criss-cross them over one another - and if you put them under the grill to finish, they have a lovely crispiness that really satisfies. I pluck one out, cool it off by blowing on it for a bit, and hand it to Rhys, who stuffs it happily into his mouth.
“What kind of cow has digits, darling?” There is a little warning in my husband’s tone. I see the other two giving me indulgent looks. They never mind if I hunt. It’s always Archie who demands I stay home and cook what he provides. But there has to be a little give and take in any relationship, a little bit of an ability to overlook minor infractions. He might very well take me over his knee later, but for now everybody is hungry.