Berries and Greed

I shuffled over the threadbare rug to the cluttered coffee table, sheepishly moving a mug I hadn’t used in recent memory off the haphazardly stacked pile of sketches. Picking them up, I rifled through them, wincing when I noticed the bottom one was dated twelve years ago. Fuck. Was I a slob? Would Beryl hate it?

I looked around the room with a critical eye. There was a lot of stuff, but it was at least clean and dust-free. I had a cleaner who came once a week—a cheerful young human guy called Tim who always eagerly made conversation whenever he actually spotted me, which wasn’t often. I usually hid in the rafters of my workshop in the attic with my earphones in while he was here.

Putting the sketches back down—I’d deal with them later—I heaved a sigh and picked up the mug, then moved to the little table beside the couch to grab the plate I’d left there last night. Shoving aside the blankets draped messily over the couch, I found another plate, this one with a hairline crack, and a spoon stuffed down the side of a cushion.

A congealing bowl of half-eaten cereal sat on one of the bookcase’s high shelves. Why had I put that there? I grabbed it, and the empty soda can tucked behind a lantern on the sideboard, and the overflowing ashtray resting on the lip of my enclosed blanket nest in the corner of the room.

Wasn’t Tim supposed to clean all this up? Wasn’t that what I paid him for? Surely I hadn’t made this much mess in less than a week. By the time I walked back into the kitchen, I was juggling an embarrassing amount of dirty crockery. After dumping it in the sink, I groaned in despair and morosely tugged open the dishwasher to put it all in there. Then I half-heartedly wiped all the crumbs off the kitchen counters and spent about five seconds scrubbing at an indeterminate stain on one of the cabinets before giving up.

Maybe I could ask Tim to come twice a week now that another person was going to be living here. Or, I guessed, I could just try and clean up after myself a bit better. It wasn’t that I was a dirty person, I just forgot. And then the mess just kind of… blended into the rest of my stuff.

But it wasn’t fair to make Beryl live in my filth. At least the air always smelled good, thanks to my addiction to scented candles. Taking the stairs three at a time, I went up to the third floor—the last one before my workshop in the attic—and retrieved some clean sheets from the hallway closet before pushing open one of the bedroom doors.

I felt kind of bad for Tim having to clean all these rooms that never got any use, but I paid him well and he never seemed to mind. At least it meant the dark wood dresser and vanity in here were polished. The gilded copper mirror and windows were smudge-free. The wall-mounted TV and heavy deep-green drapes weren’t coated in dust, and the rug, while faded with age, had been vacuumed.

I had no idea what Beryl liked, but this was the biggest room aside from my own, it had an ensuite, and it was furthest from my own bedroom on the first floor. I liked being close to the ground

while I slept. There was a basement, but it was too cold down there.

The bedframe was dark wood with a hand-carved headboard—vines and mushrooms and jutting shards of crystal all tangled together in a quintessential demiurgus design. The stained-glass lamps on the nightstands were demiurgus-made as well—bright, curved panes of emerald green, electric pink and deep gold swirling together, with a burnished gold base.

I chewed my lip as I stared at them, still clutching the fresh sheets in my hands. Maybe I should put some lamps in the living room as well. I preferred candlelight, and I could see well in the dark, so it didn’t bother me. But humans had shitty eyesight, didn’t they? If Beryl wanted to read or whatever in there, she’d need better light.

Trying to keep track of the growing list of stuff I had to do before her arrival, I hurriedly made the bed and carefully smoothed down the sheets. They were made of thick, warm fabric in a deep green to match the drapes—yes, I liked things to match—but I suddenly remembered those hideous shiny satin sheets at the compound. Did she prefer silky sheets? If so, I’d have to order some.

Should I order anything else for her? Like… bath stuff? I crossed the room and opened the bathroom door, flicking on the light. Black tiles gleamed under the spotlights, the big copper tub and fixtures the only splashes of colour in here. A single glass bottle rested in a recessed shelf by the tub, filled with ruby-red bubble bath. Okay, so she’d need shampoo or whatever. Unless she brought her own.