Something sharp was sticking in my back, but the state of half-awareness I was in was just too nice to be bothered by it. I shifted, turning on my side, and it got worse. I frowned, trying to ignore it and sink back into unconsciousness, but my body wouldn’t have it. I groaned, opening on of my eyes to glance around the room I was in. It was the tack room, and it was dark save for the sliver of early morning sunshine that was filtering in through the window above my head.
Dusty, the barn cat, was lying on my right foot which was asleep and tingly. He blinked at me, flicking his tail disinterestedly. I grumbled, sitting up to pat don’t the elevated palate that I called my bed so that the sharp pieces wouldn’t bother me. It didn’t work. I sighed, knowing that I wasn’t going to fall back asleep, and rose, cracking my back. I popped both of my wrists, both of my ankles, my neck, all of my fingers, and rotated my shoulders until the clicked.
I ran a hand over Dusty’s back, and he purred for a second before ignoring my once more. The saddles were all aligned against the far wall, as far away from my side of the room as possible. The bridles were hanging above the corresponding saddle and the extra were hanging near the door to the left. The girths were on their hooks along with the martingales for the horses that needed them. The groom boxes were under the saddles, the horses name written in black sharpie by me. The yellow and blue woolen rug was in the center of the room needed to be cleaned, but the floor around it was nicely swept.
On my side of the tack room, it was just my bed and the trunk beneath the window. I rummaged through the trunk, tugging out some clean jeans and a tee-shirt. I slipped them on quickly after making sure that the door was locked. I sat back down before pulling my boots out from under my bed, lacing them up with quick, practiced fingers. I sat up, tugging the hair ties out of my hair and running a hand through the curly mane. I braided it into pigtails, taming it to the best of my ability. I glanced at my watched, the numbers 5:56 flashing at me and I groaned. Why can’t I be a normal person and sleep a whole 8 hours? Because you’re nothing close to being a normal person, Charlie, I told myself. You live in your cousin’s barn, take care of horses, and you are only a few strands of DNA away from actually being a horse yourself.
I said goodbye to Dusty who just flicked his tail at me, and opened the door. At the squeak the door gave, a chorus of snickers and whinnies rose to greet me and I couldn’t fight the smile that grew on my face. There were 12 stalls in this stable, but my cousin Maggie has 28 in all. Only 23 were being used at the moment, though. There were three different stables, the one I sleep in being the main one. Every one of the stalls here was being used, and 10 in one of the others. She was a major border, but not very many people could afford her outrageous prices that she has to keep a single horse here. 2 of the horses here are hers, 1 were her husband, Ryan’s. There were 19 boarded horses, and the last one was Areion, the stallion that no one was sure what to do with, in the third stable by himself.
He only let one person go near him and ride him, the others he bit, stomped on, reared, and bucked them off. And, naturally, the one person he let near was me. Maggie wasn’t sure why, but he just liked me. Maggie’s own mare birthed him a little less than 3 years ago, 3 years after I got here, so I pretty much raised him. I was the hand that fed him, I was the person who broke him in with everything, and I was the first person that had ever ridden him. His dam was well tempered and calm; a pretty little slip of a gray thoroughbred. His sire, though a quiet and well-mannered thoroughbred also, was a beast, standing at 16.7 hands. Areion, though, is 17.2 hands tall, which is much larger than then average. He may have inherited the size from his sire, but he didn’t receive the calm and cool temperament from either parent. He is mean to everyone else; nipping, biting, kicking, and lashing out at everyone that comes too near. With me, though, he’s as docile as a kitten and as sound as a bell. They don’t dare try to ride him. Or groom him. Or tack him. Or even open his stall door. It’s kind of bothersome, really.
