"I didn't think twice about it. But...why would I? No harm done..."
The state between sleep and wakefulness is a hazy one. Whether one is cosy in a four poster bed or slung beneath a cardboard box, it is the most comfortable place in the world during that small period of time. Warmth, warm blankets, but the body is stiff. A shift breaks the silence, eyes focus. A beam of light, murky and dim, peers at the bed-frame from beneath the single door.
Blankets drawn aside. Feet on the floor. Don't remember removing boots, or socks, for that matter. They linger in the corner, dripping still.
As if seeing the occupant stir, the old fashioned lamps ignite, slowly, into being. Wandering over to the door. Creaking open, just a tad. Empty hallway fading into darkness on either side. Glum wall, faded carpet.
One's shadow basks on the wall, watching.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Bare feet against the thin carpet. Air sucked in through teeth...
Slice –
Hammering heart.The world swerves; someone looms, black face, red against that darkness, yet white sandwiching the two. The hallway blurs again, tap, tap, tap, running faster down the hall, around the corner. Huffing...
Turn left, there it is again, dark being clad in white. A giant knife, catching the light, arms fly up to defend, though it would probably carve right though the bone if it wanted to...
But then, a tray. The figure is holding it out with his other hand, circular eyes bright and expectant. The smell if ravishing, mouth-watering, and...familiar. A gasp sounds next. Blackcurrant sugar tarts! A...childhood favourite...
It had been so long.
A hand reaches and plucks one up, and Hell's Chef tilts the knife to where the lips should be, making a shushing noise. A knowing sound. They taste as good as the memory, sweet and tangy with blackcurrant juice, and chewy crust. The chef offers more, and the hand collects as many as they can carry.
"Fine cuisine." The Chef remarks, nodding importantly, before ambling off with the empty tray overhead. The candle doesn't light his way, however, and he disappears into the shadowy hall ahead.
Slinking back to the room now, arms full, holding the warmth to one's chest as the door is open and closed delicately, so no one will hear.
"Blackcurrant tarts?" A surprised, reproachful voice chimes.
Spin.
The mouse is sitting at the desk, chair and all, reading glasses and book sitting on nose and lap. He cocks his heavy head to one side, buggy eyes glinting with malice...and something else, some kind of mirthless emotion lost on one's knowledge. "Haven't seen those made around here in a while. Kinda tacky, don't you think, my friend? Pretty sneaky of you, too. There ARE other guests."
It's hard to think of others when you don't see them around. Assuming things is easy.
"What? You thought they were all for you? Greedy you." The mouse slides off the chair and saunters by, swallowing a cackle. Twist in the chest. "Me? No I don't want one, my friend. Don't guilt yourself. I lost my appetite for tarts long ago..."
He's in the doorway again; hand on the tin knob, really to pull. "But next time...how about some consideration? You wouldn't want to be unpopular, would you?"
The door closes.