Keith slides the cassette into the tape player, letting static buzz into his brain with a soft smile. It's not as relaxing as it usually is because it makes the snow seem much colder than it actually is, and if there is one thing he hates, it's the cold. Unfortunately he doesn't know any herbal remedies for keeping away the cold and he knows that Vera isn't going to share any of hers any time soon, so he's stuck with a fluffy hot water bottle strapped to his chest under his shirt and it is still not enough.
Nothing ever seems to be enough anymore; he's always bored, he's always cold, he's always annoyed and he is never satisfied anymore. He remembers the good old days when he used to hang around with Daud, but those are long gone. Daud doesn't like him anymore- not that Keith cares because he's begun to find Daud boring- so now he's stuck with Vera, and although he does adore her, she's grown old and now she's far from interesting. He needs something new, he tells himself, but he can't be bothered contemplating anything in case nothing changes, which is what normally happens. He doesn't want to get his hopes up.
His hands are trembling from the cold when he unlocks the door, and he wonders why it's so damn hard just to get a key in the lock. "Vera," he mumbles as the door opens, so heavy that he needs to shove it, hard. "Vera, good morning!"
No reply, of course, but Keith is not really all that surprised at that. He takes his coat off and hangs it neatly from the hanger, then pulls the cassette player from his pocket by the string and stops it. "Vera!"
At this, there's a faint mumbling that makes Keith frown, pulling off his gloves and wandering through the door behind the counter. "Dreary, dreary, dreary," come the whispers, and Keith sighs. It seems like Vera's having one of those days.
"Vera," he says softly, taking her by the shoulders. "Vera, dear, don't be this way." She looks up at him, those milky white eyes boring into his own soulless black. She keeps repeating herself- dreary dreary dreary- and it takes all of Keith's energy not to walk out the door that instant. Lately Vera has become so dull, so boring, and it's getting on Keith's nerves.
She doesn't stop, and Keith tries to drown out her needless prattle. "I met Corvo today," he tells her. She's not listening. "My dearest Corvo. He was out in the storm without a jacket, you know. I worry about him. He called me something special, too." Vera still repeats that one word. "He called me 'Outsider', darling. I think I like it."
He looks at her, letting his hands fall to his sides. She seems to look away, shuffling around in circles, dreary dreary dreary. Keith knows that she's better than this, knows that she's more in control of herself than she's making herself seem, and groans loudly, covering his eyes. "Be quiet, Vera!" He hisses eventually, and the old woman pauses. Stops. And then continues on like Keith hadn't spoken to her at all.
To put his headphones back in would be extremely rude, he knows, but he's getting to the point where he doesn't know how to handle Vera anymore. She needs help, and he tells her this frequently, help that he can't give. For the past few years, Keith has been watching her lose her mind and he just can't deal with it anymore.
Some days she's just as sharp as ever, witty and funny and talkative. She makes jokes and tells riddles and sometimes even speculates on what the future holds. He loves that part of her. However, most days are like this. Her mind just seems to go blank and she repeats simple phrases and words and doesn't do much else. Occasionally she'll say a prophecy of some sort but never anything of use.
Perhaps this woman hasn't been Vera Moray for a long time now. Perhaps this woman really and truly is Granny Rags, like the boys down the street jeer at her.
Keith doesn't want to think about that.
He tries to block her out and waits for the first customer of the day, sitting down by the cash register like always. He rubs his temples in frustration and pulls open a drawer to his side, taking out a lump of bone and a knife.
