In the kennel: part 1

They’ve been positioned like this for a while, still and staring; offence and defence.

He sits with his legs crossed, one foot pouring impatience on the floor. She’s matched his coolness but her irritation has ruined her costume. Her jaw was clamped rather than shut, she marks this and orders her jaw to partake in a smile, “I would only wish that you allow me to share your joy and excitement in your new endeavour”, sweet and appeasing. He scoffs and she’s surprised, irritated and irritated that she’s surprised. She expected this from him, this new disgusting sense of self importance in a house that was once her family home. “There is no need for me to bother informing you of my every move, business or otherwise. As the man of the house and your Husband you are doubly bidden to do what I ask of you”. She grits her teeth when she hears that capital ‘H’ and challenges his gaze; burning grey against cool brown. He reclines in his chair slightly, bored by her company or relishing in it, she can’t quite tell. His foot has stopped tapping and his eyes have warmed slightly with pity; relish it is then. “Please don’t look so bothered by it, it’s unfeminine and makes you odious to look at”, he sighs glancing at his watch with a shadow of a smirk on his face. She considers storming out of the study but he would take this as a sign of obedience and not defiance, so she stays, tense in every limb but relaxed in the face, so as to make herself look attractive again. “Very well, sir”.

He looks up at her and frowns, insulted by the distance, and then takes a moment to rearrange his features to impersonate the cool aristocrat once more while she smiles inwardly at her little victory. “Oh yes, I forgot to mention”, comes the voice from across the desk, thick with a vindictive chuckle, “my mother is attending the dinner to celebrate this… momentous occasion”.

A yowl erupts from her throat and a sardonic smile dances across his lips. There are few women that she abhors more, her waddling gait made worse but her sloshing constitution. Her high ringing voice and her overuse of the word ‘propriety’ so that it was always safe to assume that she was saying the same sentence over and over just in slightly different tones and tempos as if she were rehearsing.

A deep breath, “But she’s so dreadfully dull”.

“She is my mother all the same”.

‘Like mother like son’ she breathes through her grimace. She would have been hurling daggers at him but today her tongue was already thick with indignation and she was sure to trip which he would take as a sign of her ‘feminine incompetence’. A pity, since she has made quite a list of accusations and complaints of everyone’s character that she had the misfortune to know, all the while tending to her garden and smiling prettily as the neighbours walked past, depositing a cordial greeting on their way. As of late she has really been outdoing herself and just the thought of exposing her husband made her salivate with spite.

“But the woman rarely visits and it’s not like she moving in, so why do I have to-“

“Because you are my wife and it is your duty to do what is required of you”, comes the voice with perfect gravity.

Infuriated by his lack of heat Aria looks down to her right to look upon the road outside the window. She finds herself cooling down the the heat of the sun, drying her hot tears before they even fall. A man and a woman are engaged in familiar conversation, walking slowly and leaving ripples of laughter in their wake. A small boy runs up to them and the man, hearing the progress of the boy, kneels down to catch him as he runs into his arms. With minimal effort the boy was on his shoulders and the trio converse and laugh in melodic tones.

A murmur squeezes through her lips “I’m sorry”.

Confused silence.

A heavy sigh, slick with pity “I’m sorry too”. She reluctantly turns to him, though she doesn’t know why she makes the effort, ‘duty’ she supposes. He’s reclining behind his desk with a hand over his eyes, which makes her chuckle inwardly since it’s emptiness makes it look larger, so he looks like an exasperated child that has so little to worry about that it’s overwhelming. Oh but his hands; she stops smiling. Strong and rough and smooth. In the early days she loved tracing over the veins of those hands, she was always surprised at how soft they were. She loved the smell too; tobacco and feral dignity. But she was silly and ruined this, ruined him, and now she has to pay with paces and propriety. Sensing the warmth returning to her eyes she turns to the window again for the sun to perform its trick of making the traces of her emotions disappear, but it doesn’t, so she pretends to gaze out the window. “Yes I’ll do it”, a treacherous drop starts to run down the curve of her cheek. “I’ll keep the woman in my company while you, your father and the other man discuss business”.

“Dobermann. Mr Dobermann” A rather pathetic habit, but he likes to be precise. He waits for a reply, perhaps a final retort, but the room’s already empty.

I’m pointing at you now, but you can’t see this; you can’t see anything. But you can smell it, this musky smell of cedar wood, fresh and raw and wild. You try to open your eyes irritated by the confiscation of the sense you depend on so heavily, too heavily. But your eyes are open and you know this because the blackness is ripping itself apart; shredding itself into ribbon. No not ribbons but pillars; blue black and soft, furry. This choice of texture confuses you ‘surely this must be a mistake’ says your furrowed brow, but I assure you I make no mistakes. There are several of them now, you realise belatedly, since you found that you have been staring at the same one for an almost embarrassingly long time. But there’s a change in the pillars which is reflected in the acuteness of your gaze; they’re moving. Bumps emerging from the ground are making slow steady progress up to… where? The heavens for all you know as when you look up there’s is no sky to speak of. It’s a grotesque movement, making you want to burp or vomit or both. As you try to banish the sight you belatedly realise there is a hissing, whistling sound, like that of a kettle. It gets louder and louder, until just before it reaches it’s crescendo it stops. Ordinarily this would bother you, the curt ending, but your mind is numb and hand blocking your mouth is numb also. A low voice breathes into your ear “Dobermann. Mr Dobermann”.

Aria bolts upright, clapping her hands to her ears and breathing hard. A figure in the doorway, more marble-like but infinitely manly, looks in to the dark room, seemingly unamused and unsurprised. “Are you feeling alright, Dearest?”, comes the distant voice, impatience and sincerity fighting like children. Though she expected this it still catches her off guard, the coolness of it all. The remark whips her into composure; back straight, sleeves of her nightdress rearranged, hands laid delicately on her lap. “Yes, I was just rising. I had a slight headache but I am better now”. It was too dark in the room but she could see him clearly in the light of the doorframe attempting to inquire into her disposition. Feeling his confused gaze she smiled hoping to brighten her tone “What o’clock is it?”. Appeased and with an answering smile “9 pm, my father and Mr Dobermann are to arrive at 10. My mother is feeling a little ill and so we will only be dining with my father tonight. Mr Dobermann isn’t one for unfamiliar society so he shall wait for my father and I in the study.”

“Yes”, is all she can manage, her unease being renewed by the mention of the man’s name. She looks down at her hands, unable to smile and feeling sick. When she looks up again the doorway was empty.

“I must say you are looking quite well my boy! Better than I’ve ever seen you, a true gentleman.” The father, usually a more cordial and discreet man, was in a bear’s embrace with his son. Aria smiles politely but scowls inwardly, perplexed at why he was so proud of his son’s new bland demeanour. “And you my dear”, a reserved kiss on a cold hand, “it is a pleasure to see you once more”.

“The pleasure is surely ours, thank you for gracing our home with your presence”, she said, waving a hand delicately in his direction and exposing her palm slightly to prove there was no lie in her compliment. And she wasn’t lying, she was genuinely glad to see him but only because it meant the responsibility of holding polite and interesting conversation fell between him and his son, so she could keep to herself. The dinner passed as comfortably as it could considering the circumstances; the father asked questions about the couple, aiming the questions at his son and Aria, and the son supplied the answer regardless if Aria looked as though she was going to answer or not. Initially she smiled politely at these interruptions, he had not seen his father in quite some time and so a desire to speak with his father as much as possible was natural, but there was a limit. The couple sat a bit further apart than was customary, too far for a whisper to pass between them but close enough to give them the impression that some sort of relationship did exist between them. Aria in any case was glad for the distance as, for one, it meant her husband couldn’t hear the gritting of her teeth. For another this was not her husband. This is the husk of a man who has been poorly stuffed with things he doesn’t understand all in the name of love. Romantic taxidermy.

“Are you feeling alright, Dearest?”, comes the voice from above this time. Startled, she immediately looks up.

“Quite alright.”

“Me and father are going to settle matters with Dobermann now”, she understands this to be her dismissal; she has fulfilled her duties and now she is to be discharged. A genial smile “of course”, she says, rising and depositing a prop on his cheek, “I hope all goes well with you gentlemen. Once again it has truly been a pleasure to be in your company, sir”, she says, giving a shallow curtsey. She glides away and does not wait for a response, so glad is she for her freedom.

What is the difference between her and him? Simply that he has put the muzzle on while she has chewed through hers. Does this imply that they are the same? Two of a kind? No, but also yes. When a fire burns brightly to the exact amount required it is put in a lantern; an example, a homage to good breeding. When a fire is indiscreet, burning with more vigour that can be accounted for by the striking of a single match, the fire is put out and exiled out of memory. Beasts are the same but because of their spirit they are far harder to make obedient, hence the muzzle. But put a muzzle on a beast and it does not grow quiet; mettle, not metal, will be the undoing of the creature.

She is tired, so very tired, but not sleepy. ‘Sleep is more practical for the body than it is for the mind’ she was told by someone she no longer remembers. She strolls down Memory Lane and feels no need to stop so she keeps walking leisurely. The path is a slightly bumpy one which she doesn’t notice at first but the gradual development of coarseness soon becomes so evident, her ankles curse in her shoes at the strain and indecisiveness of the pavement, that she looks up wincing. She finds herself on the doorstep of what she deduces to be a liquor shop, as there are several bottles untidily placed in the window. A smile crawls onto her face as she thinks of the shopkeeper ‘checking’ that his produce is up to his standards and stumbling around the store, haggard and disheveled, aiming to advertise his establishment as being one which holds an expert who is in an intimate rapport with his stock. But the shop is dark inside, so either the conjectured drunkard is asleep or away. The door seems to be ajar and she steps in, closing it quietly behind her. She is taken aback by the smell, or rather the lack thereof, as there is no smell. Looking around she finds that most of the bottles are opened but most are almost full as opposed to being bone dry. She attempts to pick up one of these bottles but finds that it is too much for her, so she bends down to sniff the lip. A hoarse shout rips through the store’s indifferent atmosphere. Silence. All she can hear is her breath traveling in and out of the bottle, this hollow reminder that she is alive is comforting. But someone in the shop seems to be at death’s door and she tenses again. She rises slowly, carefully making sure that she doesn’t make any noise by hitting any of the bottles with her rattling nerves and shaking hands. The sound seems to have come from the back end of the shop, so she heads in that direction. It’s as if the shop is aware of the deed that has been committed inside its stomach, so dark has it grown as if to hide the incident from spectators. But she manages, tripping a few times and shouldering some shelves but still managing to keep her dignity and self possession intact. She’s round the corner from the scene and can hear gurgling sounds and the cooing of a woman, perplexed, she creeps round the corner.

A cry ripples through the air and two sets of eyes snap on her. Aria covers her mouth belatedly realising that the cry was from her and stares stupefied by the scene.

A man, rough and wild, is on his hands and knees while a woman, motherly but sombre, kneels close to him holding his head up. Another man, smooth in his purple suit, is holding a bottle to the lips of the kneeling man with a sardonic smile on his face and kindling eyes, pointy and hot and on her. The woman has gone back to her charge and Aria dismisses her for a moment to look at the pitiful man in the middle. A perfect wolf with his wild hair and strong limbs, but then his eyes turn to look at her and oh, she sees him for the first time. The floor is suddenly cold and she realises she has fallen down to her knees, realising that this is her husband, her Adam. Yes this is what he looks like, used to look like before he became drunk on profit because she ordered it. And she loved him this way, his kind eyes, his wondrous smile, his boyish cheeks, but back then she had kept vixens as company and they tore at her dresses cackled at her neck. The man down the hall is not the same, he is her husband but not her Adam. Her tears warm and almost milky with passion pour down her face, warming up the stone beneath her.

“Are you feeling alright, Dearest?”, the woman intones and Aria bares her teeth at her. Aria kneels low and gets ready to attack the woman, when she hears a chuckle to her right, a low, malodorous sound from the chest of the purple suit. Her burning gaze flits and focuses on him, her form now feral with indignation and confused passion and he relishes in the display. “It a pleasure to see you once-“

She launched herself, mid-air and foaming, in his direction aiming for his neck. But then he’s gone, it’s all gone and she falls out of her mind landing head first against her tall mirror. Splinters scatter around her and she stays here, determined to be one of them. Eventually she shakes off the splinters and looks at the remaining fragments that are still attached to the frame. She sees her long, luxurious curls and hisses, remembering the woman with the smile of cold milk. She picks up the sharpest shard she can find and slices her hair with so much ferocity that she cuts herself when she’s done. She yowls and looks in the mirror, a woman, rough and wild, stares back at her and she laughs, inwardly and first but then it spills and swarms and she’s in hysterics. Her fit is over and she lies in the middle of the room, arms outstretched and staring at the ceiling. The clock tower reminds her that time will tell on her if she misbehaves. She scoffs and clutches her face; out of sight out of mind.