Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“Thinking about my moral fiber.”

She nods. Not a single word to make me feel better. Is it because she agrees that there's a reason for the face elongating? I guess. I should keep quiet, because whatever else, she's going to give it to me straight if I ask. “Having your respect is all that matters.” I'm never telling her that. You just don't say things like that out loud. Even to someone who's a dozen times closer to you than a sister. I'm talking to her too much as it is. She knows everything about me, and I know almost nothing about her. Because she never discusses her business with anyone. Ever since the time that she was teaching me not to whine when it hurt. She is the older half of our tandem, and the older sisters do, of course, wipe the noses of the younger brothers, but when it's time to cry on someone's shoulder they run to others. It rankles immensely, but there's nothing that can be done about that. She looked after me, so I am forever a baby to her, only grown up a little. The month in my favor that separates our birthdays is a silly joke of the calendar. Tyranny, if you think about it. I will probably never know if she cries on Noble's shoulder or not. I'd like her to have a shoulder like that, for crying, and I'd like to know that Noble is not just another infant for her to care about, but whatever's going on between them is none of my concern. Or I might start stomping my little feet in a jealous pique, pawing at her shorts, whining. Or whatever she imagines me doing. Heaven forbid I'd find out what that is.

“I'm off. don't sit in the Sepulcher chairs unless you want your backside kicked by the Spiders.”

She turns around and leaves. Wet like a squirrel out of water.

I shout after her, “Yes, chief!”

And rush in the Sepulchral door.

Spiders detest Rats, especially when the latter are wet and numerous. Which is why we get treated out of turn, and expeditiously.

Sheriff stomps and swears, “He golden teeth aflame.” I leave with my hand in a cast and a handful of pills in my pocket. I can feel them doing me good already, even before I've taken any. I’m the only such freak in the whole House, getting a cheerful boost out of the Sepulcher. Yes, I know I'm perverted, but what can I do? Not that I want to. My life, almost all of it, has been spent inside it. I sometimes even feel like I was born there. So all that high-minded stuff about blessed home and hearth—for me it's always been more about the Sepulcher, not the House itself. I don't exactly make it a point to come here often, but when it happens, it happens. I also heal quickly, so I have no fear of this place, unlike some who go to pieces every time they're anywhere near it. It probably should have been the other way around, because there isn't anyone who's been split open and stitched back up more times than me, but human nature is a strange beast and logic doesn't figure into it.

I'm not sure who's staying for observations from the other packs, but we lose only Hybrid. Corpse and I are the first out the door. Must be our fame, that of the cheerful undead who are ready to party even in their graves, preceding us. Being an exceptional individual has its privileges.

We take a detour into the common crapper and compare the loot. His haul of pills is almost as big as mine. It's not every day you get this many, even after a major surgery.

“Cheer up, man,” I tell him. “There's an entire fortune here, if you spend it wisely.”

“But I've got nothing that hurts,” he says. “Strange, huh?”

I'm full of envy. Because I do have things that hurt, and how. I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold out.

“I'm surprised you haven't stolen more,” Corpse says. “Oh, right, the hand.”

I don't answer, because I've just noticed something really troubling. It's lying in wait under one of the sinks. The Phoenix plastic bag. Sneaked behind the pipe and probably imagines itself well hidden. As if that acid-blue color could ever blend into the background. Those ghastly wadded bags hunt me constantly and everywhere. There is no more disgusting sound than the rustling of a bag that's creeping after you. Supposedly it's the wind pushing them. Yeah, right. Wind has nothing to do with it. I mean, if there is wind they behave even more brazenly, but they can ambush you even when it's totally still. Ever since that time when a particularly dusty and sticky member of the species attacked me from above, parachuting onto my face and clinging to it in the manner of a carnival mask, I've been very touchy on the subject.

Their favorite gathering spot is under the porch. That's where they usually chase each other around like tumbleweeds, crackling merrily, and that's where they prepare the ambushes, because the last thing a person coming out on the porch expects is a bag flying out from behind the banisters, ready to latch on to any exposed body part. They don't quit, even when swatted down. The only sure way of fighting them is to nail them to the ground with a stone, no easy task since they're very quick to flee and repulsive to the touch.

And the white-and-blue Phoenixes that have taken over the House and its environs, because that chain is the principal source of toothpaste, creams, deodorant, and shit like that, are the most insidious. I recognize them by their rustle. It's somehow louder than any other kind. And that's why, upon noticing one of them hiding under the sink, I stop listening to Corpse's mutterings and prepare for battle.

“Damn,” Corpse says, apparently tracing my gaze. “Enemy at the gate?”

I nod silently. The bag chooses this very moment to attempt a furtive feint, but freezes when it realizes it overestimated its chances. Corpse and I shrink back.

“Wait here,” Corpse whispers, reaching for the mop by the door. “don't worry, I've got this.”

Hunched, on his tiptoes, he hobbles toward the sink.

The bag stays put. Corpse sneaks at it like a warrior with a lance, he sneaks, sneaks some more, then lurches forward and pins the bag to the floor with the mop. It emits a desperate crunching crackle.

I turn away.

“Done,” Corpse says, raising the mop with the speared Phoenix. “It's finished!”

We put it to the torch, dump the ashes in the toilet, and flush thrice. Time for the victory smoke.

“Thanks,” I say. “I'm forever in your debt.”

“don't mention it,” Corpse says, waving away my gratitude. “I hate them too. Especially the ones that go flying at night.”

He French-kisses the cigarette and slides down the wall, turning greener and greener. No, it's not the glasses, since I don't have them on. It's just that Corpse has this delicate tint to his skin, and every little thing changes it for the worse. Smoking, for one. They told him long ago that his first drag was going to be his last. So every day he keeps experimenting, getting more and more pissed at those liars.

But we have a deal, me and him. On the day that I appear to him in his dreams, he quits smoking. Except when that happens it would most likely be too late, so it's just empty words to calm my nerves. You see, I have a peculiar habit of visiting the soon-to-be-dead in their sleep. I seem to come to them and not really do anything except sit silently on the edge of the bed. And soon after that, they die. I don't really like talking about it, to save myself from the assorted crazies. It took a real effort to get rid of my old nick. I console myself by thinking that as nasty habits go, this one isn't the worst I know.

“Where you heading?” Corpse says drowsily.

“Vulture's place. Going to wheedle something green off him. For Hybrid. So he can eat it in peace. You're supposed to bring gifts when visiting the afflicted.”

“Oh,” Corpse bleats. “Good deeds. Sweet, sweet, sweet. And Spiders are like, ‘Of course, babe, eat all you want, you need the vitamins.’ Perfect!”