by D.M. Jewelle
Finnegan stared at the auditor’s door.
Under the platinum plaque hung a sign clearly fashioned from the remains of a cardboard box and hastily scribbled with a marker, as if the writer was in great haste to go somewhere.
Considering the sign read, “OUT TO LUNCH”, they probably were.
His iron grip on Sedna’s neck loosened, and Sedna slid to the ground, body sprawled across the hallway. Finnegan could not tear himself away from the sign – something about it had sucked him dry of his spirit, his anxiety, his burning rage and everything in between and spat the empty husk that was his body out onto where he now stood. The slightly tilted blank stare, mouth slightly agape, back hunched, arms hanging loosely from his sides; all he needed to do was start drooling to complete the “lobotomised retard” look.
A moan escaped Sedna’s lips as he finally regained consciousness. He mustered enough strength to lift his head off the carpet, at the very least. Looking up, he saw his master standing in front of a door; slowly but surely, Finnegan leaned forward until his forehead connected with the door.
He thought that was the end of it, but Finnegan’s toes slipped backwards, and the small squeak of natural body oil rubbing against a polished wooden door stopped when he was kneeling on the carpet, then fell over onto his side, the hair at the back of his head tickling Sedna’s nose. The faint scent of sweat mixed with remnants of shampoo was almost intoxicating to Sedna’s senses, and he breathed in the musky aroma, much like how a person savoured wine. Sedna reached for a lock of hair. It was a little greasy from the sweat, but the shimmer fascinated Sedna so. A flick of his finger, and the lock of hair slowly wrapped around. He could feel his heart thumping against his chest, cheeks flushed with heat, head giddy with excitement; this was the closest he had ever gotten to his master, and it showed.
The excitement was too much for Sedna’s current energy level, and he passed out.