Two olive eyes glare at me. I guess they're really more like spots. They belong to it. It being the thing my father keeps speaking of eating. We know all too well that he won’t. It’s obviously years past its expiration date. It’s at least eleven years old, the eleven year old meatloaf.
I don’t recall when it started
to lose the pan shape. Sometimes it looks vaguely square, but more often than
not, it just... is. Shape is hard to describe once hair sprouts, long hair. It’s not all the
same color. There’s orange, white, black, but mostly a variety of browns, ranging from a
beige to a dark chocolate. Oh, did I mention that it has legs?
It stalks around the house
sometimes. Often, it follows me, making... noises, but it will also sit under my desk
chair when I’m working, or just lounge on my bed, which is mostly what it does. In the
night, I can hear it rumbling from somewhere in the dark. Waking up with its longest
hairs up my nose, or in my ear, is not a favorite sensation.
We’re not exactly certain
if it is intelligent. Dad says it has the IQ of a tongue depressor. If it is
remotely sapient, I believe that The Meatloaf is secretly plotting to take over the house, possibly
the county. It might be interested in using us as a food source. It tastes me once a month or
so, but its motives are unclear at this time. I’m certain it goes through the papers I leave
out while I’m at school. It would, quite possibly, be unstoppable, if it had
We have lived peaceably,
The Meatloaf and I, these many years. While it has sprouted teeth, nothing
much comes from biting me or rubbing its drool or snot on my bare toes. I feed it
because, honestly, I’m afraid of what it would eat if I didn’t. It will attack or even chase after
our pets, and I will swat at it. Every once and awhile, I try to talk to it, but either it
doesn’t understand or doesn’t care.