Writings in the United Amateur, 1915-1922 by H. P. Lovecraft (that summer book txt) 📕

try to tell me what I am,’ I whisper in his ear. He gives a terrified belch. I hug him and hug him, panting and gripping tighter until I feel the sawing crack of his rib-cage and the bug man seems to turn to water. His hand unclenches. Two small objects fall onto the table, catching the light. It is a pair of cufflinks, silver, inlaid with stone as red as blood, picked out gleaming under the neon. I stare at them for a moment. ‘You’re just a thief,’ I say into his ear, squeezing. ‘You steal everything – even thoughts. You can’t even write your own book.’ He moans.

There is a shout from behind me and someone comes out of the store; the sleepy man who sold us the beer.

I drop the bug man and he slumps onto the table. I run across the road into the welcoming arms of the woods. Branches whip my face, I stumble, ankle-deep in leaf mould. More than once I fall but I don’t stop, I push myself up on the slippery forest floor and I run and run towards home. The roar builds, stacking up in my throat, but I don’t let it out, not yet.

The front door closes behind me. I lock it with trembling hands. Then I ball my fists and I scream and scream until my throat is sore and my voice hoarse. Then I take a couple of deep breaths. I shove two yellow pills into my mouth and swallow them dry. They stick in my throat, clicking like two little stones. I choke them down. The bug man wasn’t dead, I don’t think. I have to pray he wasn’t. There is no time for feelings, and no time for fancy preparation. We have to go.

I pack quickly. Sleeping bag, tent, lighter. Water-purifying tablets, a coil of wire. I gather all the canned food in the house. It’s not much. Peaches, black beans, soup. After a moment of staring at it, I seize the bottle of bourbon and add it to the pack. I shove my warmest sweaters in. When the pack is full I put two jackets on, one over the other, and two pairs of socks. It will be too warm, but I’ve got to wear everything I don’t carry. I put all my pills in my pockets, rattling in their amber tubes. If ever there was a time to keep calm, this is it.

Then I go to the garden and dig up the knife. I shake it free of earth and hang it on my belt.

Olivia

Lauren’s voice reaches deep into my dream. It has the biting edge of panic. ‘Help,’ she hisses. ‘Olivia, he’s taking us away.’

I twitch an ear. The dark is quiet around me. I had been dreaming of sweet cream and it was very pleasant. I am not perhaps at my most receptive.

What?

‘Ted,’ she says. ‘He’s taking us outside, to the woods. You have to help.’

Oh, I say coldly. I’m just a stupid cat, I’m afraid. I can’t help.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Please, you have to. I’m afraid.’ Her voice is like scratched glass. ‘Please, Olivia. It’s happening now. He’s making us into gods. This is our last chance.’

I say, I don’t exist. So that sounds like a you problem.

She starts to cry, in broken ragged sobs. ‘Don’t you understand that if he kills me, you die too? I don’t want to die.’ She sniffs. And despite myself I feel a little sorry for her. She is a hurt child. She didn’t mean what she said.

I’ll try, I say slowly. But I can’t promise anything. Now leave me alone. I have to focus.

As usual, everyone is relying on the gd cat. Honestly, teds are gd useless.

I crouch in the dark. I am hoping it will help. The crate was a sort of door between Lauren and me, once. Perhaps it can be opened again. I listen to the sound of the house – the drip of the tap, boards creaking, a fly caught in between plywood and glass. I smell the linoleum in the kitchen, and the air freshener Ted uses when he remembers. I sheathe and unsheathe my claws. They curve out in beautiful wicked points. I don’t want to wear the horrible ted-suit and have hands. Horrible. Got to.

Right, I mutter. Time.

I look up at the landing and try to think about something I love. I try to think about the lord, and then I try to think about the cream that coated my tongue all lovely and white and thick in the dream. But I can’t concentrate. My tail lashes and my whiskers twitch. My thoughts are everywhere.

Come on, I whisper, closing my eyes.

All I can think of is Lauren. Not how she looks, because I have never seen her. I think of how clever she is, making this plan to save us, and how annoying, especially when she calls me stupid cat.

Nothing happens. No good. I tried my best! I should really go back to my nap. Bad things are happening, and it seems best to sleep until they stop.

But each time I close my eyes and try to sink back into my comfortable doze, doubt needles me wide awake again.

I have tried everything, I say out loud. I can’t do anything else! I am answered only by silence. But I can feel His opinion. I row with unhappiness because I know the lord disapproves of dishonesty.

I push with my head and the freezer door lifts up an inch. A slice of light greets me, blinding.

As soon as I’m out, I can hear Lauren screaming. Her voice fills the walls, runs through the carpet under my feet. Her fear comes in through the portholes in the plywood, and I can hear it running out of the faucet in the kitchen. I have to help her.

The thought of climbing inside the Lauren-sack is truly horrible. My tail stiffens in distaste. So gross! That smooth