It was a very strange day for Mitchell Harland.
For one, he missed his alarm. Completely. Slept right through it, stone cold knocked out on the cheap itchy mattress from the night before. He'd stayed over at his girlfriend's apartment after things took a turn for the worse. Lucky to grab a few hours of sleep. The sun greeted him lovingly. It filtered in through the dusty blinds, warming his skin and alerting him to the fact that he had screwed up pretty damn badly. Kaitlin, skin a light bronze and hair wild and matted from sleep, rolled over and smiled slyly at him staring up at the ceiling. Mitch rubbed the burn of his eyes.
"Ugh."
"Hello, sleeping beauty." She let out a half-giggle. Kicked the sheets off; even in the dark summer still insisted on making everyone miserable.
He shifted onto his pointy elbows, nearly hitting his head on the shelf above. Already woozy. His thin fingers ran through his hair, damp with sweat . "Shit. Shit. You let me sleep?"
"Thought ya needed it from being sick all night." Something gave her pause before continuing, long enough for him to interrupt.
"No, I'm fine. ..Really. Feeling a lot better than last night. Listen - don't worry about me."
"Uh huh."
His legs slid onto the cold wood floor. Thin and compact. Mitchell pressed his hands against his knees, breathed out, and tried not to be sick again. Felt her doubtful stare bore holes into his back. He reached for a shirt without looking back at her. "I'm serious. I'm fine!"
"Uh huh. Okay. So... You couldn't keep anything down all day and now you're trying to convince me you're well enough to go to work after three hours of sleep."
Mitch shook his head, threw on a pair of pants suitable enough, rubbed his tired eyes. "I'll see you." He palmed through the half-darkness for the door. Heat had made an airless tomb out of the apartment and it didn't serve to help his headache. It was still early but he could hear shouts, down below, out the kitchen window. Someone getting towed. The sky hung low and hazy, reached in through the window to touch light on him struggling to eat breakfast, the old chipped table, the mint-colored appliances from some lost decade.
They were strange. She always kept him at arm's length and that's how it was, but as she said, 'with the weird shit that's been going on with you recently someone has to keep an eye out for you. You don't have anybody else since Jennifer, you know...'
He was not the type of person to deserve such kindness. There was no shaking the feeling he was being a burden, something she hadn't expected but had gotten anyway.
A quarter-hour later. The shop was empty. It was a butcher's counter, stacks of wrapped red flesh parading their colors under glass cases, chilled and ready. Behind the register were two doors. One led to the back of the shop with the locker and the storage. The other lead out to the back where Richard was waiting. He leaned against the side of the old white truck emblazoned with the shop's logo, smoking, waiting bitterly.
Mitchell flashed an apologetic smile as he approached, squinting through a sudden headache like a drumbeat in his head. "Cigarettes will kill you, you know."
Rich rubbed his thick neck. "No, not getting paid is gonna damn kill me. Not getting cash money is gonna put me in a coma and when I die you're the one I'm gonna haunt."
"Hey, I'll get a priest." Mitchell grinned.
"You're lucky I covered for you. You know he's anal."
"What? He's not anal, just... proud of what he does. Which is.. being a butcher."
Richard tossed him the keys. "Already delivered an order without you and it was a real pain in the ass."
Mitch was halfway in the driver's seat and gave him a look. Slid inside and cranked up the truck. "Is all you do complain when I'm not around?"
"I've got a damn right to, okay. I'm working a shitty meat truck job at minimum wage and my foot itches."
Mitch pressed down on the gas and stifled a snicker.
There was a small business that used real beef and pork in their pet food, a startup, really, and the owners were nice enough about the late shipment. They understood sometimes things get screwed up, better late than never, all the platitudes he didn't have the exact patience to deal with. He nodded through their speech. Something in his head was throbbing.
They opened the double doors to the back of the truck, stepping into it to drag out the cuts ordered, wrapped neatly in brown butcher paper. Richard was saying something to him, but he couldn't listen. They loaded the order onto the kitchen counter inside, dropping them down with a satisfying thud.
All he could think about was the meat. It gave away slightly under his hands, firm, definitely bloody, and when he unfolded the brown butcher paper, it was scarlet, raw, ice cold to the touch. He'd barely eaten in two days, unable to make himself do it. And now this. His mouth watering over a piece of raw meat.
"Is something wrong, dear?"
One of the co-owners ghosted up behind him like a shade and managed to tap his shoulder twice before he noticed. Delirium faded, replaced by burning embarrassment. Maybe he was just very tired.
"No, I - I just -" Heat rose in his cheeks and he left sudden, the words unable to find their way out of his mouth. Richard gave him a look as he passed, but said nothing.
His life was normal. Normal as it ever would be. Mostly he could ignore the crawling feelings in his spine, the terrible hunger that gnawed at him for weeks now, the empty feeling in his skull. He was a walking in a dream. There was nothing wrong with him. Mitchell was fine.
The end of his shift approached quickly and he drove home, grasping the wheel white-knuckled in an attempt to cast the scene out of his mind.
He was fine.
He was fine.