homeless nonames

      It was good that I was born a demon. I had no name, no need for a name, no need for speech as I roamed the palace, entertaining its inhabitants into giving me food and shelter. They changed, coming and going, appearing and disappearing, dying and leaving, a stream of robes and voices, alive but so uninteresting.       The corridors changed as well, so I made no effort in memorising which went where, which led to the courtyards of concubines and which led to the armoires, and kitchens, and treasuries, and bathrooms, and gardens, and stables…       I stopped as I turned into a small rundown garden in a small rundown courtyard.       There, between the rows of jasmine bushes, laid someone, a human, judging by its size, alive. It must have been another unfortunate victim of the palace, a lowly concubine picked on by a noble consort or a servant. But she smelled so unlike any of them. She smelled of ill and wood, of grasses and rot, appalling.       The sound of heavy footsteps scared me off into the bushes – flowery rot, much like this woman – and soon she was lifted up and taken somewhere I have never been before. I followed, interested and concerned.         The servants would derisively refer to her as 'that monster,' 'that scum,' 'that damned woman.' The master of the palace must have decided her to be guilty of something, then. But what could possibly have been done by the one who seemed more like a doll than a living creature? For to live is to feel anger, hate, love or guilt. The woman was sad, with arms and legs crafted and sewn on her torso with spiritual thread to move when she willed them to move; with a face detached and dry, beautiful, surely, some time in the past; with no voice to speak her mind when an uncaring hand pushed her too roughly into a chair, or when the tea was too hot for any tongue, or when the night wind flowing through the opened windows was too chilly and her legs wouldn’t walk properly…       I didn’t notice when I had taken residence in this tiny secluded world. Her wooden arms couldn’t feel the heat of my small body, the softness of my fur. Me scratching them and tearing the silk seemed to amuse her, but I could never be sure, for the only thing that could betray her emotions were her eyes – and those spoke of a lifetime of pains and losses.       Sometimes, she would keel over and collapse as these rigid appendages run out of spiritual energy that moved them, her head sometimes bleeding from the impact, and the servants neglected her, leaving her to lie on the pavement, helpless and hurt… It was pitiful, horrifying, but it was not the worst that could be.       She could sleep at those times, at least, and wake up in her room, warm and clean, with me at her side, and she would pet me with awkward heaviness. It could be called routine, peaceful even. But once a week or so, despair would swallow her as she would be visited by the master of this place, neither human, nor demon. A monster.       The miasma around him was so thick that the first time meeting him I couldn’t see his face properly. I, a weak demon, cowered in fear as he passed me… and into her room.       I thought, ‘Silly human, you should beat him with those heavy arms of yours, you should run away…’       And it was the loudness with which he entered, the pale of her face when she saw him, the way she shied away from his possessive grip that made me realise she couldn’t escape. Perhaps, she had tried once and failed.       The doors would be too thin to contain the shouts, and insults, and the laughter so poisonous and mad I felt the urge to retch. No sound ever from her.       The monster would leave in few hours, more angry, and some things would be found in need of replacement, and food would be brought into her room only to remain untouched for the eternity of the night. She would be more silent, uninterested. If I got onto her lap, she would place her heavy hand on me, but not move it. A few times a could swear I saw tears slide down her cheeks. Her hair would cover so much of her face, I could never be sure, but I need not see them to know.       Whatever had she done to deserve such a sad existence, neither alive nor dead? Whatever atrocities had she committed to be shackled with this emptiness?       I couldn’t believe in what the others said anymore. As far as I could see, there was no malice in her whatsoever, and even if there had been before, it was long replaced with misery. The one who seemed to be the source of the worst stench was her captor. Since he was so malicious, then, surely, she couldn’t possibly be evil?       I climbed her chest over where her heart was hurting, to warm it, to guard it, and stayed there, head on her shoulder in an attempt at an embrace.       Say. If I was born human, could I have taken you away from here? Would you… be happy then, even a little bit?..