Emu

I awoke today in full makeup.

Deathly red, my throat is dry. My refrigerator stands empty, glowing white on the inside with nothing to sustain itself or me. The Baron has abandoned me now for more time than should be proper.

But here I wait, like the Irish peasant girl I was always raised to be. My hand held out. Begging. Waiting. For a British Lord to gift me with a subsistence existence. Nothing more. Nothing more deserved.

The Toad and The Guidance…I mean, Barry and Melvin…their voices are louder now or maybe my starved ears are disinclined to filter their urgings. They say feed. They say I am what hunts not what is hunted. They are making more sense than usual. This concerns me.

Other voices, whispers really, have returned. Shadows move of their own accord—speak to me when I pass, and follow me with their eyes. Eyes, everywhere eyes follow me. They know I am starving.

I am accustomed to hunger. Grew up hungry. Know all too well the pain of trying to sleep on an empty stomach. This is different. This is like the box. The hunger is not restricted to my stomach, but roams free through me, surging just under the surface of my skin like dusty bugs walking through the creaking corridors of my veins.

Emu! Barry and Melvin have been urging me. On the docks. Without guard. Held by customs. Emu…