Chapter Text
Jamie could see more than feel the morning moisture sink into his overalls. Crumpled against the ground in faux desertion, he watched the dirt that had gathered on his body from being dragged down the road melt together into mud. His right goggle was cracked. From where he lay, he could see the stalks of some ruined plants toppled over and leaning onto the fence.
Two to three months of careful cultivation ruined in a single night of greed powered harassment. No arm and no leg, he was equally fragile.
The metal mesh door grated open and clanged shut just as it did every morning, but the sound of walking came closer to him rather than into the fields. Crunching and squeaking of wet gravel under heavy boots was interrupted by a nasty and pained cough that made his heart ache. He heard a grunt and deep sniff as the homeowner knelt down. Jamie squeezed his eyes shut when he was flipped onto his back, realizing the mask’s broken lenses might have ruined his anonymity.
Did he even have a human face? Was it just muscle memory? He tried to disregard the thoughts as he was once again thrown over a thick shoulder. Water droplets pattered down from above, ricocheting or sliding down the huge back. Warm skin cushioned through a thick cotton vest almost made him shiver with joy.
His gloved fingers twitched against the vest, itching to latch on and stay close. He took in the scent of fresh rain, sated dirt, and musky skin. Alive. The dream came to a close as he was oh so suddenly dropped onto the floors again. Mako easily stepped around him and continued his “rainy day routine”. Days like this were spent herding the animals into their sheds where the water would have trouble reaching them and then returning back to the house.
Blessing whatever god there was for letting him drop with his head turned towards the living room, he watched Mako sharpen fishhooks he used during the summer. The hooks weren’t flashy. Plain and dependable, kept in a tin box which jangled in his pocket when he walked down the road those hot summer days. He would leave in the late afternoon, when it just started to cool, and come back at night with fish strung up. Largemouth and smallmouth bass. Trout. Pike. Pickerel. Perch. Panfish. Two, three feet long and gutted outside near the shed and washed off with a bucket of stale water from their home lake.
Notes softly began to play from an old player on Mako’s desk. The entrance of somber tones told a story using instruments that Jamie could not even imagine existing. Dark and deep, the sounds plunged Jamie into reminiscence. Mako didn’t eat any meat besides fish. He never touched the drove of pigs he kept in the pen by the barn, letting them grow far past the size for butchering and into old age. Several of the oldest runts by now had died, the oldest reaching 14 years. He would bury them late at night and sit out on the porch longer than usual. It felt more solemn and lonely than other nights. Yes, Jamie swore that the crickets chirped a different tune.
Mako sat down next to him, a new tin box in his hand. The floorboards creaked beneath them when he was dragged onto the huge man’s lap. He almost moved. Almost. His hand barely stopped itself from grabbing onto Mako. A threaded needle dug into the fraying canvas of his arm, and another hand stuffed the loose hay back into the stump. With no feeling in his arm, he had the luxury of fully taking in the moment. Held in the lap of his owner, being cared for and sewn back together, warm arms wrapped around hims. Heavy breaths were easily heard over the music. Heavy breaths barely warmed his skin when Mako bent over to snap the leftover strand with his teeth.
Mako sniffed and pushed him off of his lap. The mud on the scarecrow’s body had begun to dry in the warm home, and the farmer clapped his hands free of the dust. The record player was stopped, the lights shut off. With his head turned the other way, Jamie could only hear Mako trudge up the steps to the second floor.
And then quiet.
It was hard to sit up with only one hand and half an arm. Even harder to stand with the peg leg whose wood still retained enough moisture to keep it fully muddied up. He couldn't resist the curiosity to look through the living room shelves. Small porcelain pigs, polished shiny, sat or slept in a glass cabinet. Records organized in rows were kept in an old crate meant for oranges. In every corner of the room, he could imagine Mako going through his daily routine: the stained coffeemaker on the kitchen counter, a well-worn and caved in laz-e boy, and fireplace. He studied the fine paintings on antique plates, accidentally clinking his goggles on some and felt the soft towels on the stove handle. He wished his clothes were as soft as this. He felt the huge coat on the hook by the door and confirmed his own flannel to be of much rougher material. Fraying, he thought, pulling at the stray red strands.
Until he heard the distinct click of a shotgun being cocked..