WARNING: This story contains self-harm and suicidal/depressive thoughts. Please read with caution. This story, while chronologically set within the first five chapters, is also written with details from chapter 17, so I recommend catching up to that point before reading this to avoid potential spoilers.
RING, RING, RING!
The alarm clock's chimes assault Herman's senses like a sledgehammer to the head. With a groan, he slams his hand against it to silence the noise. Some days he can handle waking up at dawn. Today is not one of those days.
Dragging himself into the kitchen, he spots the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Not wanting to bother with the mess, he tosses them into the dishwasher and starts it up. While the coffee brewer is running, he sits beside his taxidermied buddy, Ammit, and turns on the TV. On-screen, an elegant cockatiel named Caren bursts out with excitement at the breaking news.
"ACME Corporation, has announced that his company will begin cooperating with one of its biggest international competitors. Lycopolis, an Egyptian company specializing in military equipment, has offered to design a special collection of historically-based weapons, which will be distributed across North America through ACME Corp."
Lycopolis… His fists clench. Upuaut, my perfect brother, guardian of Re and defender of Ma'at… I wish you'd die like the annoying pest you are!
"The company's elusive owner, Wyatt Wolfgang, said he seeks to–"
The remote smashes against the television screen, shattering it. Herman, trembling and disoriented, looks down at his right hand, then the TV. Why did I do that?, he asks himself. He looks up at the TV. Lycopolis. That cursed name brings back all kinds of undesirable memories. Memories about Brother, about Mother, about him.
Before his mental state can deteriorate even further, the coffee brewer stops. No point dwelling on the past, he tries to convince himself. I have more important work to deal with.
After his unremarkable breakfast, he heads toward the bathroom. Hanging on the knob of the door are his work clothes, undergarments included. He sighs in relief, his foresight having worked in his favor. One lesson he learned in his five-thousand years of living was how to adapt to his "off days"; preparing everything ahead of time allows him to go through his daily motions while being efficient in time and energy, even when he lacks either or both of those things.
Speaking of preparations, today's mortuary arrangements shouldn't be too difficult to keep in order. An embalming and closed-casket funeral with a small crowd of family and friends. One Mr. Eggbert Roost Sr., a Rhode Island Red rooster who was unceremoniously shot in the head on the South Quarter docks one night, leaving behind a hen wife and thirteen-year-old son. What the surviving family are unaware of is the nature surrounding the situation: that his body was found beside Don Henery, the boss of Acme City's most prolific avian mafia, and several gang members. How the police have yet to notify them of this is a mystery to him.
Stray thoughts bounce around haphazardly throughout his shower, disrupting his mental flow. The scars throughout his body are distracting, and it takes a great deal of resistance to not scratch himself. But he cannot let it go. Cannot stop thinking about the past. Cannot stop thinking about his brother and Set. Cannot stop thinking of killing. Cannot stop thinking about dying. Cannot stop thinking about not being able to die.
When everyone and everything on this planet dies, I will be alive to witness it. This is my curse as guard dog of the Duat, as the Black Dog. This world is my living hell.
The skin breaks. His right hand's claws, buried deep in his left arm, are stained black with his alien blood. The blood leaks and drips onto the shower tiles and is washed away into the drain. A smile creeps across his face, stimulated by the rush of pleasure. Such a loathsome sensation, but how he loves it so much.
He has his brother Upuaut to thank. Upuaut… and Set.
Once the wounds are closed and his body cleaned, Herman steps out of the bath to dress himself. Underwear, blouse, pants, jacket, and gloves. Each piece covers every last inch of his body below the neck, hiding his unsightly scars. The three-piece suit is a certified antique and a gift he received from the previous mortician, Erik Phantom.
Erik, as the old photos in the hallways and living room walls show, was a black poodle with a large white mark across half of his face–a rather distinguished look for one of his name. He instantly recognized the wolf as Anubis and became intensely curious. Though their time together was brief, their bond grew past that of professional partners. Compared to his previous mate, Erik was more reserved in nature, though not entirely immune from bursts of passion and emotion. And embarrassed though Herman is to admit, he was quite good in bed.
Their short affair sadly had to end, for he already had plans to retire and move to the countryside. But before he left, he entrusted the wolf with his estate, his business, and even his favorite vintage garments. After giving away nearly everything he owned, he disappeared like a phantom, never to be seen again.
The rush Herman feels when thinking about past loved ones is vastly different from the earlier one he felt in the shower. It lacks the cold, sadomasochistic self-hatred that usually infects his thoughts, instead filled with a warm, tender affection that he used to believe was impossible for a living pseudo-corpse like himself. Fionn, Ma'ii, Erik. Even Set, who never loved him. He misses all of them dearly. No matter how much he tries, he will never stop loving them.
Without further hesitation, he picks himself up and starts heading downstairs, ready to seize the day. "Good morning to you! Are you, perchance, Ms. Roost and Eggbert Jr.?"
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Hello again! I know it's a bit soon for another update in anything W&C-related, but I had this idea in my head for a while and ended up puking out the draft faster than predicted. It's a bit shorter than I would have liked, as well as a bit more disjointed in execution. But the latter is somewhat intentional, as it's from the perspective of someone whose mental state is equally disjointed.
I'm a tad apprehensive about releasing an OC-centric short story this early, but I'm still uncertain what events/ideas to include in the main story versus this collection, so I made this one to get it out of the way. I also admittedly wanted to create something somber to contrast the previous tale, so as to show the audience a piece of the spectrum of narrative tones to expect. At the end of the day, Short Tails is meant to collect more mundane/non-relevant ideas to prevent them from clogging up the main narrative.