I stirred slowly, alone. My bed was empty, cold, devoid of love. I sleepily tapped the bedside table, once, twice, and hit the right spot on the touch screen on my third attempt. My phone's incessant beeping ceased, restoring the calm of the room. Rolling over, I basked in the luxurious space. I could spread out, spread-eagle, expanding to consume as much of that soft mattress as I could muster. It was idyllic, the gentle thrum of traffic out of the window, the cool depth of the pillow, the gentle tapestry of sunlight shimmering through the curtains. It was peaceful. I might make something nice for breakfast this morning! Pancakes, perhaps. Something with eggs, maybe? Shakshuka, huevos rancheros, or just simple omelette.
The nightmares vanished slowly from my brain, angry and vicious things of trains hungry for flesh, tracks driving through oblivion, and people with angry voids for eyes. I could feel the distance rising in me, memories of last night fading into being. Had I texted them to say that I had a good time? Had I texted them to say I got home safe? Did I owe them that?
My skin itched. No, it burned. I started scratching gently around my neck, my nails running along the contours of my muscles and the strange raised lines that ran along them. The tattoo, pleased at this acknowledgement, descended from it's curl along my collarbone down my left arm, like worms beneath my skin, cutting their way towards my hand, where it settled on my palm. I traced one finger along its length, feeling how it danced under my skin, creating a bumpy rough texture. It jumped onto my other hand, rushing along my finger, encircling my nails and turning them black. It hurt slightly, but in a good way. It felt friendly, like the gentle nips of a playing kitten. I gave it a pat and stood up.
The bathroom mirror, now cleanly reflecting the light, showed that I was normal. I was human. My face was the same as always, same awkward grin as normal. My hair could maybe use a wash, but that was normal.
The monster, who was now a scrawny little waif, was curled up on my couch and staring out of the window. It looked human enough in the light of the day, sunlight glancing off a muted circular face, roughly cut black hair, and a body that seemed somehow wrong, as though it was slightly too large for them. Their tattoos danced over both arms, dark and weaving, thousands of moving lines, trailing over skin and vanishing beneath the straps of their tank top. I took in the subtle curve of their skin, the small band of flesh between their top and loose pants, the sharp point of their feet. They were hot. I had to admit it.
I chose not to say anything as I entered, waiting for them to acknowledge me. They did not, so I gave up waiting and came to sit next to them. The couch, bought old and used, creaked a little as I sat, sinking into the arguably comfortable cushions. I raised my feet onto the old coffee table and glanced at the stranger who had slept in my bed last night. They did not look back. In fact, they hadn't moved this whole time.
"Hey", I said.
"Hey", they responded. "I'm sorry about last night. I pulled you back. Do you feel okay?"
"Yeah", I said.
"Okay", they sad.
We sat there silently for a while. I watched the cracks in the walls, the faded white paint slowly splitting and bursting. It was a small apartment. Shockingly cheap for where it was in the city, nestled right into the heart of it. The sun slipped in through the gaps between the towering buildings, lighting the window and the dying plants that surrounded it.
Finally, I broke the silence. "Do you want something to eat?"
"I should-", they hesitated. "I... I should go". Their body remained perfectly still, but their voice sounded panicked.
"You don't have to."
"No, no, I'm sorry, thank you, I'm sorry, I gotta go."
"Okay."
"Okay."
They stood shakily and jerkily, a puppet of a human, and began to limp to my door. Unsteadily, as though at any moment they could fall over, as though one of their legs was in awful pain, as though they had no idea how to use this body. I moved quickly to catch them, slinging one of their arms over my shoulder, propping their body up with my own. They were heavy. We both staggered sideways, my own body colliding with the kitchen counter.
I could see their face more clearly now. They didn't have eyes. Merely infinite dark voids, holes through nothingness. I felt vaguely dizzy staring into them.
"What are you?", I whispered softly.
In response, they jerked away, pulling the shadows from the room to drape themself in. They wrapped into the shape of the long hooded sleeveless coat, their face vanishing into the darkness. One delicate hand reached out to my collarbone and plucked the tattoo off me. "None of your business", it said in a hundred different voices all overlapping slightly. "We regret hurting you". It hesitated for just one final moment, one hand on the doorknob. And then, it whispered in a single quiet voice, "Farewell".
And then the door was open and the lights flickered once, and the sun overhead blinked for a moment like a great angry eye, and the sky was full of bloody gashes, and the streets were awash with the things of the night.
And then they were gone and my apartment was silent and normal.
I paused for a moment to run my hands along my body. Checking if I was still normal. Checking if I was still human. Was that rude? Perhaps that was a rude thing to do. Oh god, I'd insulted them.
The pan sizzled, the sounds of onions becoming delicious. Bitterness gives way to bursts of flavour, the cracklehiss of sprinkled salt impacting the tangled mass. I don't know. They seemed lonely. I add the mushrooms, sliced one by one. Perhaps I should've insisted on breakfast. I liked to offer people breakfast after they spent the night with me. It made me feel useful and important. In goes the spinach. It always seems like too much and then it becomes not enough. I was also lonely. Maybe I just wanted someone to stay. They didn't have to help me out. They could've left me broken. I whip the eggs and pour them in, leaving them to thicken and settle. What had happened last night? Was it real? Had I taken any drugs? I flip it and pile the grated cheese on top. Had we fucked? Fold it over and serve next to potatoes. Delicious. I couldn't remember. I would think I would remember if we had.