Page 18 of Clouded by Envy

“Yeah, cabin twenty-three,” Brenik lied with a tone that was comfortable and easy.

“Oh, the Thompson’s place. They’re back already?”

“No, I’m their nephew, Brenik.” The lie slid off his tongue, as if it had been planted and already arranged there.

“Nice to meet you, Brenik. I’m Jeremy Jones. I live at cabin twenty-five year-round.” Jeremy stretched out a large hand that was about the same size as Brenik’s, his deep brown eyes open and warm.

“You, too.” Brenik felt liberated. This was the only other human he had talked to besides Ruth, and he was intrigued.

Jeremy turned around and motioned at Brenik with a wave. “Come on, I’ll walk you back since you don’t appear to be from around here. No one in their right mind would be walking a track barefoot and carrying around… What is that exactly you’re carrying?”

“Oh, just a painting.” Brenik drew the portrait closer to his body to protect it, but not because he thought this Jeremy would take it and run. But because it washis.

“Right … let me see. My mom’s a painter.” Jeremy’s eyes fixed on the backside of the canvas.

Hesitating for a moment, Brenik finally turned the canvas around to face Jeremy, since it would be odd to try and hide the portrait any longer.

Jeremy let out a low whistle followed by a deep chuckle that made Brenik unable to hold back a close-lipped smile, tilted up at the sides. “So, what I said back there about thinking it strange how you’re dressed like this and barefoot”—he looked Brenik up and down—“this just tops the whole cake. Who the hell walks a track like that”—Jeremy tipped his hand down and spun his index finger in a circle—“and then carries a portrait of themselves?”

“It was a gift … from my sister.” If Jeremy wanted to know more about his sister, the lies would continue to come easily.

Jeremy inched closer and examined the picture more thoroughly. “Well, she did a damn good job.”

“She did.” Or at least the Stone had.

They walked for a little longer until they reached the first set of homes. Each one was built from chestnut-colored logs with the same porch steps positioned in the middle where the entrance door was. Jeremy came to a stop in front of cabin number twenty-five. “Well, see you around, Brenik. Take good care of that portrait and make sure the next time I see you, you have shoes on. Who the hell knows what’s on the gravel out here.”

Grinning, Brenik said, “I’ll scavenge some up somewhere.”

Jeremy started up the stairs as Brenik turned to head to his new place. “Oh hey, Brenik, do you watch football?”

“I have never watched a game.”

“What? That’s straight up insanity. My place, tonight at seven. I have the week off, so I’ll have plenty of beer.”

Brenik had never been into sports much, and every time a game was on, Ruth had changed the channel because no one in the house was interested. He was willing to try new things these days, and Jeremy seemed friendly enough.

It only took him a few minutes to walk the rest of the way to the cabin. They were spread out far enough to where there was enough privacy from the neighboring homes, but not too far in case someone was needed in an emergency. But he would be sticking to himself for the most part.

The log cabin wasn’t in as great of shape as Jeremy’s, but it would do for the time being.

Ascending the couple of steps, each one groaning from the pressure of his feet, Brenik approached the ragged “Welcome Home” doormat. He lifted it by the corner and found the silver key, waiting to be snatched by him.

His stomach rumbled, and he turned back around to the fruit tree in the front yard. Marching back down the steps, he plucked two ripe oranges, his mouth ready for the tangy taste.

Unlocking the door, he headed into his new place—it was the same as the last time he had snuck in there when the Thompsons were gone. They would always leave the windows open, such trustworthy people.

Dust filled his nostrils, and he sneezed inside his inner elbow. Brenik studied his surroundings and recognized the small living room, tiny kitchen, and he already knew the bathroom and bedroom were behind the closed door.

He padded into the bedroom and flipped on the light switch—one large bed and a dresser with a mirror on top. His image from the mirror stared back at him. Brenik approached it, gazing at himself—he admired his sleek black hair, pale unlined skin, and the perfect, plump bottom lip. He ran the bottom of his tongue across it as his pale blue eyes watched, and he felt his pants tighten in the area that wanted to be satisfied.

Brenik set the canvas on top of the dresser next to the oval mirror, then walked to lay down on the semi-comfortable bed. Peeling one of the oranges, he took a whiff of the citrusy scent and hunger coursed through his veins, all the way to where his fingers connected to the fruit.

Pulling a fresh slice out, dripping with juice, Brenik placed it between his lips, and savored each magnificent bite. But as the juice and fruit ran down his throat, the orange was no longer sweet—it became bitter and sour before turning to a taste which had to be similar to decay.

Jolting up from the bed, Brenik ran to the bathroom and gagged over the toilet bowl as he firmly gripped the sides. The fruit started to come back up—it skated up his throat and plunked down into the water, no longer the color orange but black and tarnished.

Everything that came up was black as it swirled in the water. Hastily, Brenik flushed the toilet and hurried to lay back down in bed.

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