She was on her knees with yet another man. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the statue of the Virgin Mary, three feet tall beside the fireplace, her blue veil framing a serene face. The statue’s plaster eyes demurely lowered toward the white embers in the grate. A chip in the blush of the cheek reveals the stark white underneath.
A loud guffaw from the other side of the room pulled her gaze to her boyfriend, Liam. His pinched nose and wire-rimmed glasses hid eyes almost black. He sat at the green Formica kitchen table littered with half-drunk glasses of stout. Cards fanned in his hand, a cigarette in the other. His friends came over on Saturday for poker night. He wasn’t looking at her. Or maybe he was.
The man’s grip on her long blonde ponytail tightened. She felt the signal in her scalp, her jaw. A tension that caused the skin around her hairline to prickle.
She adjusted herself slightly. His warmth cooled on her chin.
Liam had stopped playing. He was watching her now. He shifted his weight on his spindly kitchen chair and reached for his zipper. Not again.
***
I was curled up on the brown mat in front of the dying embers, my chin resting on the cold stone lip of the fireplace. There were many of them in the room. Mostly men. One girl. She had soft hands and sometimes ruffled my black fur or stroked my curly underbelly, though tonight she did not. Her scent was wrong. Salt and something metallic.
The larger man leaned over her. She stayed very still. I had to perk my ears to hear her breathe. A growl gathered low in my throat. Then turned into a whimper as he kicked me in the ribs.
I stared at the tall white thing beside me. It had no scent. It never moved either.
It never looked at her.
I closed my eyes.
Sarah Senft
Sarah is a writer from Cork, now living in Vancouver, Canada with her husband, four children, and her dog. Her work has appeared in The Closed Eye Open (Mayas Micros, Issue 36) and 50-Word Stories, with forthcoming work in Bending Genres, Beyond Words, The Martello Journal and Ivo Review.