A Black Dog For A White Monkey

by T.K. Howell

About the Author: T.K. Howell's writing is often inspired by mythology and folklore and can be found at various genre and literary spaces including Lucent Dreaming, Bag of Bones, Evoke and Indie Bites.

Excerpt

The curtain was rising on a new day and from my lowly position sprawled out on the bed, it looked like that curtain was on fire. The sun was the kind of burnished gold and Halloween orange that was rarely seen outside the movies. It was so bright and it burned such a hole through the morning that I wondered if it would ever be dark again.

But of course, it would. There would always be more darkness, and right on cue, Wilkins brought it with the morning papers.

“Sir.” He set the tray across my lap as I inched myself back against the headboard. Coffee, orange juice, toast, porridge. The same breakfast. Four hundred and sixty-two days. It was both a very long time and yesterday. When every day is much the same as the last, it’s hellish long to push through, but nothing to look back on.

“Sir, I thought today we might try the chair?” Wilkins suggested as per. I gave him the same short answer and he accepted it much as he always did. He opened the windows and generally busied himself making the room vaguely habitable. The empty bottle was removed without comment. He no longer needed to check my dressings, which was a relief for us both. I could tell he found it unbecoming to see his master in such reduced circumstances. A short bark of laughter escaped at the thought and Wilkins pounced on it as he did on any sign of levity, as though it might signify a wider change, a turning of the corner.

“What’s that, Sir? Something funny?”

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