Tʜᴇ Isʟᴀɴᴅ Iɴ Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ

Tʜᴇ Mᴏᴜsᴇ Iɴ Gʟᴜᴇ Aɴᴅ Oɪʟ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8

"I hate Russia."

You hated everything about him.

The way he only ever went out to drink— spending all the little allowance you gave him on liquor, or the way he was in bed before 5, and never out before 3. You hated that he had gotten your hopes up, with a promise of help and company, only to discover he was a miserable git with a passion for rude and snarky comments. You hated that he piled his dirty plates up on the counter for you to wash, or how he stole your cigarettes and always promised to repay you, then never did.

It had only been a week since you met him, and you already couldn't stand him— not in the slightest.

You had never met a man so full of himself, yet so useless. He never offered to help, and on the rare occasion you attempted to ask for it, he would say he would, then not act upon it. And once you reminded him, he would get angry, like a child being reminded to clean their room. He constantly talked down to you, as though he thought you to be gum on the soles of his shoes.

He made you feel like a mouse in glue and oil. Trapped for simply being alive, punished for being where you were, before he was, for being what he didn't like, nor want.

You were the mouse as he was the oil, this compromise the two of you agreed to, was the glue of it all. One was simply existing in the world it belonged in, the other was something introduced that meddled with the harmony of neutrality. But such differences needed a bridge, and whether it was intentional or not, that bridge too, hurt the little mouse. Everything was unfair to you, at least in your mind. Nothing was fair.

You couldn't lie. His words hurt— stung, even. When he called you names, when he put you down for asking him to do menial jobs, it burned in despair. But that sorrow— the heartbreak of great renown, it would sequester, then arise from within you, not as tears or panic, pain nor torment, but as anger. And as the week progressed and he sent you spiralling downward, you slowly arose back up. All that rage that was slowly boiling from his pettiness, it added up, and finally fizzled.

Though, you had to admit, the explosion was rather pathetic.

You hadn't yelled at him, you hadn't cried. You had instead, decided enough was enough, and marched to the one woman you always went to when you had problems; Harper Connie, an 86-year-old with a love of helping younger people and their relationships.

You showed up at her doorstep, nostrils flaring, face scrunched and fists clenched tight, with one single complaint.

"I hate him so much."

You knew, once you left her home, and returned to yours, you would find him in the same place you always did. On the floor of the kitchen, the back of his neck resting on the edge of the table, his legs and arms sprawled out in front of him, a bottle in his hands.

The light from the window behind him, just above the table, touched every part of the room, except for the shadow which Russia sat under— the shadow that engulfed him. You noticed it each time, how he sat in the most morose place he could have, his back to the world beyond, though he always made a point to look at you when you walked in. Those sad gleaming eyes burning into yours.

It was only then, in that moment— no other, did you resonate with him. Did you find the humanity to spare some appreciation for his existence. To associate yourself with him. Within his sadness, his disdain for the life he was given, you found yourself, partly at least. You recognised him in that moment, you recognised yourself. You saw the burning despair, the lonely suffering of worlds apart, the heartbreak as aching sorrow flooded him. You saw it all in him, just as he saw it in you.

Then, once you noticed the bottle in his hands, it all left you, and you hated him once more.

You breathe in a desperate pull of your cigarette, closing your eyes, pushing down the anger that was boiling inside of you again. "Well isn't that funny, I seem to remember you being so keen to have him before he got here, now look at you! My Dear, you've gotten yourself into a pickle." Harper laughed at your cross expression as she fiddled with her crochet flower.

You always appreciated Harper, for everything she was worth. You, naturally, appreciated her advice and ears, she was your go-to person when you needed to vent. But you always silently appreciated how young she was inside, and how beautiful she was outside. She had a heart of gold— the most resplendent woman you had ever seen. Her face was sunken with wrinkles that hung low on her skin, pulling her face downwards, but it never gave her a frown, if anything, it made her want to smile more. They made her pale skin appear soft and let the beauty of age trace every small detail of her dimples and edges.

She was exactly what you wanted to be when you were her age.

"I just don't know what to do! It's not like I can get away from him, I live with his sorry ass." You threw your arms up in defeat, then dropped them to the table, flicking the ash into a tray.

"Dearie, when a man is being difficult, all you have to do is give him a nice firm slap!" Harper implored, smiling brightly at you, showing off her pearly white dentures. "That'll show him his place."

You shook your head slowly as the old lady returned to her crochet. The beaded straps of her spectacles jangled subtly with every move her fingers made with her needles. "I just might at this point." You sighed.

"MISS!"

You jumped as the door suddenly swung open, revealing the grandchild of Harper, and the little devil that constantly hounded you about the man you wanted to forget about. "My mummy told me you were here, is Mr with you? I have some new questions for him!" Her high-pitched voice bled through the air, sending spikes through your temples. You hurried to snuff out your fag and push the tray away, acting as if it wasn't you who had caused the heavy stench of smoke in the house.

Harper smiled at you, watching as you stared wide-eyed into oblivion, your arms tightly crossed. "I hate kids." You muttered, drawing a pretty giggle from the older lady. Maya bounced up to your chair, leaning her little fingers against the legs and cheesing up at you. "Can I come to your lighthouse and see him, please please please?" She begged, her eyes wide and shimmering, much like a puppy's.

"Oh Lord, I am so sorry about her (𝚈/𝙽), that little divil still hasn't learned." A much more mature female voice came in from the doorway and as you heard it, you looked up to see Marla come in. She looked as disappointed as ever at her daughter, her head tilted as she gazed at her, her cheeks puffed out and lips turned inwards. Maya visibly shrunk under her mother's gaze.

"It's alright, I was leaving anyway." You smiled, dismissing her with a wave of your hand. You pushed your chair back and stood with your hands flat on the table. "Thanks for listening Harper, I'll come back some other time to catch you up."

Harper smiled her pretty smile, the many wrinkles around her eyes creasing a little more. "Ah it's not a problem at all Love, come back anytime you like, it's not like I have anything better to do!" She exclaimed, smiling ever the more wider as you walked past her.

"Oh and (𝚈/𝙽)!" She called, making you stop and turn back, catching a glimpse of the older woman turned in her chair, her crochet on the table. "Remember to give him a good slap!"

You smiled, she was the only person who knew how to make you smile like that— a real smile, full of joy.

Now you didn't feel so bad about being the mouse. It was something you couldn't control, so why fret?