Relative Breakfast

I had a dream.
In it, I was still studying medicine at the university. Everything had a… faintly golden glow, shimmering. In it, I was probably also courting a… let’s say, appetizing woman, with whom I had offspring.
We both saw the end of our days in a countryside home.
I suppose not even someone like me is immune to such horrific visions in the dreamscape. The mere idea of something like that was akin to licking a leper, so I think I should rephrase my opening words.
I had a nightmare.

I was awakened by the icy breath of the morning, followed by the ghastly, revolting, and nauseating—yet no less curious—stench of the blanket covering me. Apparently, I’d succumbed to drowsiness while keeping watch over the street crossing in the early hours.

“How did you cover me with this filth?”

“You were shivering.”

“Ah! A gesture befitting my little pet!” I said, rising from the chair and stretching my back like someone untangling a coiled wire.“

A gesture befitting someone who doesn’t want you to die of hypothermia,” she replied, handing me a grimy cup of coffee. “It would take too long to find someone else with your blood type, and I’m not about to take that risk… and I’d appreciate it if you stopped calling me ‘pet.’” 

“A simple nickname bestowed with the utmost affection…” I responded, a bit of coffee spilling onto the worn wooden floor due to my gesticulating while speaking.

“As if you’re capable of affection…” she shot back with a tentative laugh.

“Of course I’m capable! How dare you doubt my words?”

“It’s not doubt—it’s certainty.”

“A certainty so misguided it should embarrass you that it even crossed your mind,” I continued, setting the cup on the window frame. “My affection transcends the traditional meaning of the word.”

“Oh, really? Care to enlighten me with your wisdom and explain what you mean?”

“It’s obvious! My affection is so perfect, so… refined, it escapes mundane conventions.”

“And what would ‘conventional’ be? Elaborate.”

“What the term itself dictates. Is someone a bit… slow this morning?”

“You have a peculiar talent for saying absolutely nothing,” she replied, standing beside me to gaze at the street crossing. “We need to eat breakfast. I’ll go buy something,” she added, extending her hand.

“No, hunger suffocates the brain, and in doing so, it makes us more present in the moment,” I said, inspecting whether the stains came from the cup itself or the curiously thick coffee.

“You spent what little we had left, didn’t you?”

“I’m afraid I’ve invested it in this little investigation.”

“And might I know what kind of investment required all our money?”

“Prostitutes and opium.”

“I’d prefer to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said, walking back to her bed. “I’m hungry.” She slammed the cup down with deliberate force, clearly intending to make more noise than necessary.

“Ah! If God existed—which isn’t likely, but if He did—this would be His way of laughing at me. A whiny pet.”

“I’m. Hun-gry,” she said, syllable by syllable, still facing away from me.

“I heard you… perhaps it would’ve been better not to give you a stomach. But! What’s done is done, and the past belongs to those without a future,” I said, climbing onto the window frame. “Well then, we shall sate your hunger. Luckily, I know a butcher at the market a couple of streets away.”

She turned toward me, though I couldn’t say for certain whether it was my words—the first part, the second, or the sound of my shoes on the window frame—that made her eyes turn to me.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a shortcut. Isn’t it obvious?”

“You’re not foolish enough to jump, are you?”

“Ah… my adorable pet, always so curious. One must expect the unexpected,” I said, letting myself fall while striking a crucifixion pose.

“You damned lun—” she shouted, rushing to the window.

Lunatic.
Lunatic.
Lunatic.
A word so overused, so misused in some cases, especially when it’s applied to me.
Would a lunatic jump out of a window? Without a doubt.
But a lunatic wouldn’t jump out of a window knowing it led straight to a pile of straw used to fuel fireplaces.

“Haa… the comfort… though I can’t afford to linger,” I murmured, practically leaping out of the pile. “Your turn.”

“I’ll take the stairs… I’m not a fan of idiocy. I’ll meet you at the front door,” she said, giving me one last look before disappearing.

Of course, I wasn’t going to head there. Ten, twelve steps, maybe—it didn’t matter. Was it so hard to see who was leading this little race?
I’d say I waited at least thirty minutes in vain for her to show up.
Let me clarify that it was against my will and my principles that, regrettably, I had to walk to the door.

There she was, just as she’d said—but she hadn’t mentioned the three men surrounding her.

“Excuse me, gentlemen of… questionable origins…” I said, pushing my way through them.

“Oi, don’t cut the line, mate!” one of the men grumbled, grabbing me by the collar and shoving me aside.

Naturally, I didn’t resist. Being dragged three steps meant I didn’t have to walk them myself.

“Pardon? A line?” After my question, I understood the scene—I was at the perfect angle. A filthy man handing her a small coin pouch.
I walked back toward the three, took the pouch from her hand, and slipped it into the man’s pocket.

“Hey! Can’t you see—”

“There are things done under the kind cloak of night…” I said, patting his pocket after placing the pouch. “…and with people who embrace the cloak of night, not with refined young ladies. But I can’t expect someone whose brain is little more than chromatin splattered on the pavement to understand my words…”

I assume he said something in response, though I couldn’t hear it. The sound of his fist connecting with my nose deafened me for a moment, not to mention forcibly sending me toward the ground.
It only took a few seconds to stop the bleeding and look up to see her holding the… calling him a man feels too generous for a proto-human like that, but let’s call him a 'man,' suspended by the neck.

“You can let him go. He’s already unconscious… and what’s more, he just wet his trousers. Weak in mind, weak in bladder,” I said, dusting off my pants. "You can let him go,” I repeated, grabbing her arm, though it was as futile as Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill.

It was exhilarating, I won’t deny it—the way her nails seemed to sink into the man’s skin, the subtle, almost imperceptible sound of his neck’s muscle fibers giving way. But even the strangest of breakfasts doesn’t involve a homicide.

“Anne.”

It wasn’t recognition or submission—it was simply surprise. A tiny surprise, as fleeting as the life that would’ve been left in that man if she hadn’t released him upon hearing that name.

“What did you say?”

“I appreciate your protection, but it’s neither necessary nor appropriate… humility, my little pet, let’s remain humble.”

“Say the name again.”

“Ah… a spur-of-the-moment choice, my experiment number one. A number that, in some languages, sounds like Anne… I thought it fitting…” I said, gesturing with my hands.

“Hm… he’s not dead yet…” she said, observing the man still lying unconscious on the ground. The other two had vanished before I could look up.

“And that’s for the best, this time. Now, my dear Anne, breakfast?” I asked, flourishing my hand toward the next street.

“Breakfast,” she replied, walking ahead of me. “I’m keeping that name.”

“A splendid choice, though I’d say the term is relative by now—we’re closer to lunch.”