Meg Callahan (setinstone) wrote in the_colony, @ 2010-08-08 01:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | ^ week 18, meghan callahan |
Week 18: Tuesday
Characters: Meg (and Sarge)
Location: The Kitchen/ Farmhouse
Summary: Meg's rustling up dinner, and curses her inner-city upbringing for never teaching her the proper way to quarter a rabbit.
Rating: PG-13 (cause who doesn't like dead bunnies?)
"So what goes good with rabbit anyway?"
Meg stood bellied up against the kitchen counter, one hand steadied flat on the cutting board and knife handle, the other slowly drawn across the rows of carefully positioned canned goods in a head-level cabinet. Her fingertips traced memory in their path, counting automatically in rows from the door hinge.
Sarge, the only other soul in the room and thus, the only recipient to his Master's one-sided conversation, lifted his head expectantly when she spoke to him.
"Corn... green beans... peas... lima beans..." Whoever thought bringing back half a pallet of lima beans needed a serious readjustment in culinary tastes. Meg's nose wrinkled as she passed that particular can. "Carrots?" Her fingertips paused on the fifth can from the left. In thought, those on the other hand tapped on the cutting board. "Rabbit and Carrots, right?" Like Sarge would answer. The sound of his nasal sigh was as good enough an answer to her.
"Right." the blind woman plucked the can from it's place on the shelf, setting it aside, then again silently counted the rows in order to nab the sixth, peas and onions. After each can of veggies was opened and dumped into the stock pot of vegetable broth set by the cutting board (the can-opener, like everything else, put back in it's proper place in the second drawer to the left), she turned in memorized steps for the garbage bin at the end of the counter.
...that was supposed to be at the end of the counter, anyway. Unfortunately, someone had the bright idea to move it. Again. By the simple fact that she couldn't smell anything in the first stages of rot, she assumed someone had already emptied it on the compost since the last meal. Not a huge offense, of course... Despite what some might think, Meg did understand that people were not generally used to the minute details of such tiny things like the placement of a garbage can. It was in all likelyhood in 'plain sight'.
Of course, that didn't work well for her.
"Sarge..." The Mastiff mixbreed lifted on all fours--by second nature, Meg's ears attuned themselves to the metallic clink of his register tags when he moved. "Trash."
Sarge padded around the chair he'd been laying by and sided up to his Master's leg, drawing the line of his head and neck under her downward facing palm so that she could curl her fingers loosely under his collar. He lead her to the empty bin someone had left on the wrong side of the table (until the tip of her toe grazed it's base), then waited.
"Good boy..."
The bin and the knife went with her to the table, where she settled into a chair with a tired sigh. The carcass smelled strongly of ...well, woods, which wasn't the easiest of aromas to really describe. Nor was it very pleasant.
The fogged color of her eyes remained straight ahead, instead of in the direction of her hands as they sought the dead rabbit, and centered it in front of her. Those unlucky bastards that had lost their sight over the course of their lives still maintained regular eye movement, but Meg had been blind since birth. Irises akin to the color of an overcast day had a tendency to stay in one place--'focused' dead ahead of her, due to the fact that her brain had never recognized any signal from damaged retinas, and simply did not develop the need for any ocular movement.
It resulted often in giving people the willies, and on more than one occasion, her's was referred to as a 'dead man's stare', which was precisely the reason why Meg wore those mirrored Aviators more often than not. Not right now, however. No one besides Alice was in the house to 'scare' at the moment.
"So... where do I start with this?" Another question posed for the dog, who had taken his place lounging on the floor beside her foot. His reply was a clear smacking of canine lips with a large tongue. Meghan chuckled, gripping the headless, footless, hairless, alien thing by what she could only guess was it's hind quarters--the knife poised in the other hand with the point carefully dragged along Dinner's spinal ridge.
"This feels nothing like a chicken..." Fingertips prodded and manipulated the thing while her brows furrowed, pinched together above sightless eyes in a clear expression of dumbfoundedness and confusion. Every possible position she had the thing in felt awkward and wrong: several attempts to manipulate it properly finally resulted in a frustrated sigh.
She had it on what remained of all fours, the thin stump of a neck pushed awkwardly down into the table. "I guess it doesn't really matter, right? It all cooks up the same..."
Yes... that sounded plausible. Sarge was quiet. She assumed he was just looking at her, and could just 'hear' the mocking sarcasm in the dog's head.
With an indifferent little shrug, she braced her left hand on the carcass and slowly pushed the knife through it's back.. right in the center. What resulted was a symphony of sickening pops and crunches--sounds that made Sarge cant his head deeply to one side, and Meg wilt like a flower in an oven.
"Oh..god.." The slower she moved, the louder the nasty sounds seemed to be. The freckles on her nose scrunched up something fierce, and her resolve started to grow as weak as her stomach. "Ugh... Remind me to make one of the boys do this next time."