Last Morning

I always get excited when the first sliver of sunlight bounces off the metal sink faucet. That’s when I know it’s almost time for breakfast. 

My folks like to sleep in, sometimes sleep the whole day away and only come out at dark. But not me. I’ve been getting up from my naps earlier and earlier, too excited for the morning to come because I can get a little bit of that delicious food. They’d get real mad at me if they knew I’ve been doing this, but I’ve gotten pretty good at sneaking around the house. 

I don’t go too far though–that’s how one of my brothers died. Well, we’re pretty sure he’s dead; he never came back. I guess never coming back only ever means one thing. But I'll get back just as soon as I've gotten my breakfast. 

After a few antsy breaths watching the sun beam grow, the resident chef strides in. She’s a big lady and always in a hustle. I stay well out of her way while she bustles around the kitchen. Things are pulled out of the cabinets and icebox and then plopped onto the counter. It’s only a few more moments before warm smells fill the room. This time it's toasted bread, fried eggs and sliced apples. 

She glides from counter to counter, digs through drawers and searches the shelves, flips out the ready food for the next to batch to be cooked, constantly going back and forth and always on top of things. It’s wild how she can handle so much at the same time. I have a hard time just keeping one thought in my head. 

Then the chef pulls some plates from the big stack and in a couple blinks they’re presenting steaming meals. She sets three plates down at the table. So far not even a single crumb has hit the floor; the chef never makes much of a mess. But the little ones do. 

“KIDSGITINHEER!” the chef bellows, slathering something onto each piece of toast. She’s always loud in the mornings too. 

A storm of stomping builds in the hallway until the three of them flood in. They’re not yelling at each other today. 

“EET,” she says, pouring milk into glasses. The little ones talk and ramble, but I don’t even listen to the sounds; I’m too focused on the floor underneath them. They tear into their food and immediately a cloud of dark crumbles dance across the floor. 

Now the hardest part: waiting for them to finish and leave. 

Depending on the day maybe my folks would eventually get up and partake, but by then the food’s always cold. I’m not picky, but warm, fresh food is better food. Still, I always wait until the door slams shut, all the dust settles, and everything goes quiet. Problem is, I’ve been up for a while now–my own fault–and I am hungry. Waiting gets harder every day.  

More crumbs hit the floor, lots of toast, bits of egg, and one of them drops an entire apple slice. They eat a lot despite being on the smaller side of massive. I’m glad–it means more for me too.

Eventually, after I get to the point of buzzing with anticipation, the chef ushers each of them out of the kitchen. She’ll come back to clean the floor and plates later, but by then I’ll be full and sleeping. 

Their ruckus dies down the hallway as they gather around the front door. Then I hear the door open and I can't take it anymore. Darting out from my nook I fly across the tile and in a flash I'm under the table. My feast surrounds me. I’m not sure where I’ll begin, but that’s a good problem to have. 

The slam of the door doesn't come, though. Instead a yell rips through the quiet. 

“GITYERDAMBAKPAK!” It's the chef roaring from the hall. No clue what it means, but it causes a set of stamping footsteps to come back. I think about running, but it's too late. The littlest of the littles bounds back into the kitchen. And goes right for the table. 

I scoot backwards. They couldn't have heard me, I didn't make a peep. My peeing on the floor just now might have made the slightest of sound, sure, but that was after the yell. 

The feet come closer and the little one starts grunting, pulling at something up above. The chair starts to totter. One last big yank and the chair careens onto one leg, balances, then falls slower than anything I’ve ever watched fall. I hear the earthquake before I feel it. The crack of wood onto the tile sends a jolt through me and I almost make a run for it. But I'm frozen. I've never been this scared, so scared I can’t move, can't feel anything except the drum in my chest. I'm not even hungry anymore. 

“WATWAZTHAT,” barks the chef from the hallway.

“NUTHIN,” the little one calls back. Then it lowers down to one leg. 

They're onto me. They're communicating and it's obviously about me. 

It lowers further onto its knees. I'm already backed up as far as I can be, settled against the edge of the table’s shadow. The sun feels like one big eye right now; everything’s out to find me.

It plants a hand down, about to duck its head under the table. I could still go, there's still time to try. Now or never. 

It picks up the dropped apple slice. Oh. That’s all it wanted. I’m fine!

It locks eyes with me. 

We stay like that for three, maybe four lifetimes. It's staring at me. It can see me. I don’t know what to do. To be honest, I've never really given much thought to what this would mean or what would come next. It's always been instinctual to avoid it no matter what, and the adults nagging about it certainly drove that home. 

I’ve never gotten a good look at a giant’s face like this either. This one looks like a boy with wide, green eyes. Strange. Then the face did something weird, it changed shape, stretched wide like it was made of mud. He bared his teeth at me–missing a couple in the front–and little wrinkles popped up on either side of its mouth. This is where I get eaten, I guess.

“DAYMEEUN!” hollers the chef. This made the boy look over his shoulder. I’m so invested in seeing what he does next I don’t think to run until it’s too late again.

He looks back at me. That’s about when I remember I could have ran. Then he takes a bite of the apple slice–more than half of it–and puts what's left back on the floor.

“bai,” he says softly. I didn't know they could speak so quietly. Then he rises, picks the chair up, and gallops away.

“LETSGOU!” 

“AIGAWTIT-AIGAWTIT!” The little one yells back.  

After that the door slams with a familiar thud, the dust settles and a calm washes over the kitchen.

I pace for a while, nibbling on toast and replaying the events in my head. It was terrifying. And exhilarating. But, really, nothing happened. Why are my folks always warning us about them if this is all that happens?

Oh, right, my parents. How am I going to tell them? There's no way I can keep this a secret. It saw me. And I'm still alive! I didn’t know that was possible. 

At this point, looking at the sparse crumbs left, I'm not sure how long it's been. I’ve been thinking a long time, probably. My folks might get up soon, and even if it's just to stretch their legs they'll see I'm gone. I’ll take the apple slice back with me. In a way it was kind of a gift so maybe I can use it to lessen the blow.

My thought stops short as suddenly a new smell emerges. I tilt my head up as it wafts past. This is something separate from breakfast. It’s sweet, yet nutty. 

I leave the apple slice–I’ll come back for it–and follow the scent. It takes me to the far side of the kitchen towards the corner. There’s never food over here usually. But now there is. 

On the floor is some kind of board. It has a metal bit and on that is a dollop of something brown–the source of that delicious smell. 

The whole thing is about my size. I wonder what it’s for. It’s almost like it was made for me. This could be a table, and that’d make this the plate. Just like how they eat. Maybe I’m not as sneaky as I thought. 

Even though it had a gross, hairless face it didn’t try and eat me. It didn’t do anything mean. Maybe that’s a friendly face. A big, scary, friendly face. Being friends with giants doesn’t sound so bad, we do share a house after all. 

I'll gather this up and bring it back. We'll all eat and I'll tell them. It'll be okay. They'll get mad, but it'll be okay. And if I take this and there’s more tomorrow, that’ll prove the chef is giving me breakfast too. Hopefully I can convince the folks to let me out of their sight again. 

It’s kind of sticky, but I bet this stuff tastes just as good as it smells.

A spring uncoils, releasing a single, deafening snap.