An Ordinary Horror

A snapshot of loneliness. Flash fiction.

"I hear you," I call through the house at the oven's insistent timer telling me dinner is done.

The short trek from the living room, where the television blared comforting reruns, to the kitchen was perilous thanks to Echo weaving between my legs. Each step became a cautious one as she would pause to meow loudly up at me. It grates on me that this is the closest thing to affection I get from her.

A wave of heat crashed over me, fogging my glasses as I opened the oven.

The smell of cooked onions, garlic, rosemary, and beef perfumed the kitchen. A rumble of anticipation rolled from my stomach.

"It does look delicious," I reply to Echo's increasingly loud meows.

She jumps on the counter when I set the roast pan down. I hiss for her to get down. What would people think if I let an animal roam all over my cooking space? Not that I'd ever have to worry about someone seeing that.

"I should let you have some because you share food with me?"

*Meow.*

"If you're referring to the dead mice—please stop. It's disgusting."

*Meow.*

"I am not a picky eater."

In the cabinet, there's only one plate and glass. In the drawer, one set of utensils. At the dining table, one chair.

"Pretty as a picture." I smile down at my plated meal. With the table set, it looks professional. In my opinion, anyway.

Echo disagrees.

"Hush, you. It's as good as any Food Network chef."

It takes longer than it should to get a good photo of the food as I have to keep pushing Echo off the table.

The photo looks good. I scroll through my page to see what others would see. Smiling pictures of me, Echo sleeping and playing, thousands of meals. It goes back fifteen years.

Fifteen years and not one like.

Not one comment.

Not one person that cares.

The room blurs. I sit before my wobbling knees give out.

A hot tear trails down my cheek. It nestles on my chin. It warbles with every quiver of my jaw as I fight back more of them. Until it finally breaks free.

In the back of my mind, a factoid about tears being salty surfaces, and I hope that it isn't enough to change the flavor.

I spear the meat onto the fork with a bit of potato and carrots. Fatty juices drip from it. A mucousy snort rumbles my face as I try to clear my sinuses. It doesn't work. I focus on steadying my ragged breathing, trying to gather enough air in my lungs to chew without suffocating.

It doesn't taste like anything.

It tastes like nothing.

Nothingness.

Emptiness.

I chew mechanically, hoping that butter and salt and seasoning will burst across my tongue and make life worth living.

It doesn't.

Perhaps that's too much pressure to put on some roots and the carcass of a cow.

I push the plate away. Hiccups jump from my throat. They mix with stuttering gasps.

Echo's on the table again. Her purr's a love song to my burning ears.

After all this time, when I'm at my lowest, she shows her love for me. All I need is one ounce of comfort. One loving touch. One thing on Earth that cares about me.

I reach for her soft calico fur.

She hisses. Recoils. Hunkers over the plate. Growling as she gnaws on the meat.