Domestic Decay (A Short Story for Steemit)

A terrible bleating rang out in the deep silence of the night, fear and panic echoing in every note.

The pangs of terror sank into Angela’s dreams, she started awake with her heartbeat already pounding through her ribs. She shook her sleeping husband with shaking hands.

“Pete,”

His slumbering form remained unperturbed.

“Pete, come on, wake up, something’s got one of the sheep”

Tightening her grip, she shook him with a little more force, the urgency to wake him rocking him back and forth.

He half snuffled a snore in reply, wafts of liquor stinging her nose. The bleating had taken a note of sheer desperation, as the animal struggled for its last gasp of life.

It was already too late, Angela sat on the bed, her knees tucked up under the chin, the blanket still wrapped around her. She closed her eyes, the sound tugging on the fibre of her being as she willed it to be over.

It wasn’t. It became impossible to ignore the depth of agony in each stammered bleat.

Dropping back the covers, she slipped from the bed.

---

Angela crept outside in her long wax jacket, Pete’s shotgun tucked under her arm. The sheep had to be close, the sound filled the still midnight air. A glowing crack of moonlight split the dark clouds that raced over ahead with its pale halo.

Up the hill, through the brambles, she followed the sound. Grasping thorns snagged the hem of her night dress, exposed below the resistant jacket. Thick mud engulfed her wellies in attempts to suck them off her feet.

The bleating was getting fainter, the pitiful shrill call urging her on.

She crested the hill, dark shadows scattered from the pale body of a mutilated sheep. In the faint moonlight, the blood sank dark into the wool coat, staining the grass in black glimmer.

Both back legs had exposed bone, broken by snapping jaws. The soft underbelly of the beast spilled open, steaming in the cool night. She was far too late.

Angela walked over to the sheep, its head raised in terror as it continued it fading bleats. She rested the end of the gun between the bulging, darting eyes, and turning away, pulled the trigger.

---

The walk back to the farm house seemed longer, her feet heavier in the mud. The vibrations of urgency that had quickened her step were gone. She trudged back through the dusted moonlight, contemplating the cold side of the bed that awaited her.

---

---

“What the bloody hell happened last night?”

Pete stormed into the kitchen, irritation crinkled on his brow, sharpening his tone.

“Something got one of the sheep”

Angela replied levely, concentrated on listening to the splatter of steam rising through the perculator.

“You could’ve woken me, that’s the third this month, we needed that money Ange!”

“I’m sorry Pete, I tried.”

“Not hard enough!”

He banged about the kitchen, getting his own breakfast. Angela swallowed her feelings, there was no point in telling him he slept through a gunshot two fields over.

---

---

He was staggering drunk when he got back from the pub that night, the cheek-blushing kiss of alcohol had softened his mood.

“Smells good Angie”

He approached her as he spoke, resting his hands on her waist. Food had been ready to serve an hour ago, she had been adding more water to keep it from drying out since.

“Wana sit down? I’ll plate up”

Pete didn’t take the hint, swaggering over to the speakers to plug in his phone.

Sappy, insincere sentiments, set to heart plucking guitar moved his hips as he shimmeyed back towards her.

He took her by the waist, dipping her around the kitchen. For a moment, she forgot the simmering sauce, the low heat over the potatoes, she forgot that morning, the night before, all the nights before that. His eyes held hers, brimming with drunken affection.

“Angie, just as beautiful as the day I married ya”

It was his favourite line. There were a ripple of memories strung to it for Angela, happy and sad, all threaded with love.

It was easier to forget, to enjoy the moment of sunshine. The pot spit, boiling lower as he pulled her close to kiss her neck.

---

She awoke, as usual, to an empty bed, Pete was always up early, getting out on the farm. She eased herself out of bed, the warm glow of affection still on her skin. She savoured the sensation, eking out the small moments of happiness over the weeks of stony silence, short outbursts, that came in between.

Her dressing gown felt snug as she pulled it around her, the fleecey fabric tucked under her neck, embracing her.

She shuffled down the stone stairs, letting the cushion of comfort carry her across the cold, tiled kitchen floor. She loved the old building, the wear of generations softening the stone, a comfort in the long days spent alone.

She had plates to clean from last night, a burnt bottomed pan to scrub, and set about her day. Trying to hold onto the feeling of warmth, she filled the bowl, the soapy bubbles forming mountains and valleys in the swell.

Out the kitchen window, the chickens, already roused by Pete, scratched around the farmyard, playing out their daily feathered dramas. Angela lost herself in their preening, the bickering as the flock joined and parted, chasing flies, turning the dirt. Her dry hands automatically sank into the stinging water, washing the plates while her mind wandered.

---

---

It was two weeks later she woke; the dead of night, filled with a snuffling drunken snore, hung heavy around her. Pete had got home late, enraged by a debate that sank one too many pints. He stormed about the kitchen, ranting and raving about the ill-informed man who had the audacity to state his opinion on something he knew nothing about.

It hadn’t taken her long to figure out they’d been talking about the farms, the falling price of lambs, the rising cost of feed. She had chosen the wrong moment to bring up the possibility of diversifying.

“If you’re that worried Pete, why don’t we think about maybe opening a field for campers?”

He had lost his temper entirely then, her right cheek bone still stung, searing from his rebuttal.

The soft mountain air drifted through the open window, the low coo of an owl swept past. Angela lay on her back, thinking of the sheep who's dying call had awakened her. A cold anger began to turn in her stomach, a steel ball, compressed by time. Her skin bristled as the sensation bubbled to the surface.

The sting in her cheek spread across her face, a notch of pride gripping her. She threw back the covers, slipping out of bed.

Padding down the stairs, she stretched into her jacket, and walked out the back door.

Brambles competed with the gorse, claiming back the mountain path. The night breeze tugged on her hair, pulling it free from her collar as she picked her way through the tangle of thorned vines and branches.

As Angela crested the summit, the wind caught in her full force, flapping her jacket around her legs as it charged into her, sculpting to heavy fabric to her form.

Bright moonlight cast a watery glow over the picked bones, thin layers of flesh held an ethereal pinken shine.

Patches of woolled skin clung between the bare eye sockets, edging the punctured skull. The sunken nose had given way to black crevices over a toothed jaw.

One of the leg bones was entirely missing, a foreleg ripped off by hungry predators. Another lay nearby, gnawed down, ridged with the marks of it.

The hoofs remained, the things that had carried it here, led it to this fate, remained.

Angela touched her callous fingers to her sore cheek, feeling the tender bruise forming.

The wind picked up, ripping the heat away from her, pummelling her waxen jacket as she turned away from it.

Clouds came on the current, heavy black shadows dashing across the moon. Feeling the chill, Angela raised her collar, and turned back down the slope.

---

---

The chickens roused her, calling for a second breakfast. Pete had warned her about giving them scraps at the same time every day, but it was so much easier to empty the plates directly in the yard before washing up in the morning.

Sighing as she rolled, she tipped out of bed, padding towards the bathroom.

By the time she got downstairs, Pete was already sat at the table, his hands hugging a warm cup of coffee. A battered cardboard box scuffled about on the table.

“What’s that?”

Angela almost dreaded to ask, half expecting him to have caught one of the huge rats he swore plagued them.

“Have a look”

Pinching the lid, she eased it open, wary of something trying to get out. As she went for the other half, needle sharp pain shot through her recoiling hand. Pete chuckled as a large tabby kitten pounced out of the box, narrowly missing her fingers.

“Look at that, right ratter there”

Angela held her hand, blood spots forming on the broken skin.

“Where dya get that bruiser from?”

“Down Ellen’s farm, they run fereal in the barns, but ain’t a hint of rat in sight”

She hesitated, they used to have a farm cat, but Pete had called it more of a hindrance than anything else, giving it away in a fit of rage.

“He’ll sort them out alright, how long we got him for?”

“Forever, Trish were glad to see the back of him, vicious little fella”

He didn’t add anything to how he came to this decision, and draining his cup, Pete pulled on his jacket, leaving Angela to welcome to the angry thing.

Donning the oven gloves, she approach the twitching box.

As soon as she got close to the lid, the kitten leapt, claws bared, latching into the fabric gloves. The bundle of fear hissed, biting into her padded hands.

“Hey hey now, that won’t be getting you anywhere”

The dulcet tones didn’t do much to ease the cats attack. It crawled round the large glove, gnawing on the seams.

Angela sank into the wooden chair, still warmed from Pete’s presence. The little fellow mewed, clearly young to be away from a mother, despite his size.

Carefully, while he was distracted by his attack, she slipped her other hand free of the oven gloves.

Forcing a brave steadiness, she rubbed the top of the tabby head.

The young feline spun round, sinking claws and teeth into her exposed skin. The effort it took Angela not to pull away, clenched through her jaw. As she forced herself to relax, she felt the tiny talons withdraw, leaving the rough touch of paw in place of the burning pain.

Her fingertip was still in the kittens mouth, though he had relinquished his grip, the cupped curve of his tongue was telling.

“You’re a real baby still aren’t you?”

She put the little cat back in the box, fetching a cushion for it to sit on before she got on with her day.

---

---

Pete was home early, short-temperedly sober. She didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer, instead silently entering the kitchen, retrieving a whiskey glass, along with the bottle and heading into the living room.

Angela hoovered in the doorway,

“Food will be about fifteen minutes…”

He didn’t respond, flicking the tv on and pouring a glass of the amber liquor.

She waited until he had eaten to bring up the cat. It had wandered out into the farmyard in the afternoon, and hadn’t come back inside.

“That kittens barely weaned”

“And?”

“I was thinking, maybe he could sleep down here tonight, it’s cold for the nipper out there alone”

“I’m not having a feral cat pissing and shitting all over the kitchen, he’ll be fine in the barn”

She didn’t push it.

---

It wasn’t that late when she woke, Pete hadn’t come to bed yet, but she could hear the kitten yowling a pitiful tiny cry from the yard.

Pulling on her slippers and gown, she made her way back downstairs.

“You gunna leave that thing to cry all night?”

Pete didn’t respond, his glass, rested on his rising chest, tipped a little to one side. He was asleep. Angela hovered for a moment, deciding to leave him to wake in the morning, a crink in his neck.

Skirting the settee, she made her way through to the kitchen, opening the door to the black night.

She only had it open a moment when the bundle of cold, damp fur dashed in, flying past her as he sought the shelter.

He skidded across the tiled kitchen floor, darting under a chair by the hearth.

“Just don’t let him see you in the morning” she whispered, heading back up the stairs.

---

The night time ritual of waking to the crying kitten quickly replaced her midnight walks up the ridge. The wild cat, wary enough of Pete, had stayed hidden until he had well left the house each morning.

She woke, hearing the familiar soft call of the kitten, it had a less frantic tone than it first did, beginning to trust the sanctuary would be opened. Pete snuffled a little between snores as she crept from the bed.

Angela was in the kitchen when she heard his heavy tread on the stairs. Panic gripped her, and she eased the back door closed, praying the kitten, now tucked under what was becoming a usual chair, didn’t make a sound.

“Where is it?”

The anger in his demanding voice shot through her.

“Where’s what? I’m just getting a glass of water”

“Don’t try that shit with me, I know you’ve been letting that bloody cat in, now where is it?!”

She set her face, glaring back at him, determined her eyes wouldn’t give the kitten away.

Pete bent down, looking under the table, she stole a glance over at the chair, the kitten cowering underneath.

“Please Pete, it’ll die out there”

He gripped the table with rage as he met her eyes.

“I’m not a monster, but you can’t soften the thing, this farm is depending on him being out there, hunting.”

“Fat good he’ll be after he’s froze to death!”

The colour drained from Angela’s face, as Pete met her with furious silence. She stepped back, faltering in expectation.

A hard look held his eyes, deeper than the normal drunken rage that flung her across the kitchen, as he spat,

“Fine Ange, you do what you bloody want”

She swallowed, unable to think of anything placating to call after him. If they ran out of feed now, no matter the reason, he’d blame the rats, and the cat, and her...

She couldn’t swallow enough to suppress the bile rising in her throat, the cold grip on her stomach. Stepping out of her slippers, and into wellingtons, she pulled on her jacket and went out into the night.

Her feet knew the way now, despite the moonless night. She picked through the path, ducking ahead of stretching branches. The air hung still, close around her, rich with the smell of cold earth. Distant stars offered their small light, combing their efforts to given form to the shadows around her. Long thorns, barely visible, scratched against her jacket as she eased by.

The chill of the still air crept into her as she reached the top, the bones, now picked clean, lay below the gorse. The pin-prickled cloth of the night sky draped over the mountain, the milky way stretching her dusty glow above the peak.

The skeleton hardly resembled the sheep that had lay groaning on the ground, tinted with the black slick of it’s blood. The thick grass now entwined the bones, growing tall around the remains that had nurtured it.

Twigs snapped as something, smelling Angela, started in the darkness, not having expected to find the spot occupied.

The hollow skull, entombed in grass, had become a refuge. The dark blades twitching as something outwitted the pursuit.

The sheep that had been, was gone. The wild that bore it, had claimed it, stripping away all that made it, turning it to something new.

The buckling doubt that had marked her days, that woke her in the night, slipped away in that moment, freeing her from it’s choking grip. Pete's words rang in her head as she realised, there was a lot she wanted to do.

The idea for this came from a conversation with @svashta where I just mentioned how a decaying sheep would make a good backdrop for another story and spent the whole bank holiday working on this when I was supposed to be working on #eletricdreams (sorry @tygertyger !! But don't worry, still working on it). As the sheep, stripped of what once made it a sheep, became something new, so did a wife, stripped of all that had made her her, becomes something new. Not sure how well that carried, but it was fun to do, I will probably attempt this premise again in a few years, see if we can build on it.

Photo is my own, I have a few from over the months, but this was the least icky, photo-shopped to look like it was at night.

Thank you so much for making it this far, and reading this far-too-long-for-one-post-but-far-too-dull-for-two-posts story <3