by Bitchy & Useless
I have Hugh Grant locked in my attic. Please don’t misunderstand me! I’m also locked in the attic. The one distinguishment is that he’s a celebrity locked in a stranger’s attic in the middle of bushland nowhere, and I’ve known Hugh all my life and have a key.
Hugh slumps against the wall, letting himself slide downwards as the reality of the situation dawns on him. He eyes snap upwards to the lock, back across the room attempting to locate the source of a scuffle in the dark, before a final pivot to lock his gaze on Dolly, who was already eagerly approaching him. Eyes shining and never leaving Hugh’s, Dolly carefully stepped into the shadows, scrambling noiselessly up a supporting pillar and into the eaves. Hugh cast his terrified eyes to me.
“Is she… is she hunting me?” he asks, his voice incredulous and pitched several tones higher than normal. “Oh.” It came out as a weak croak, and I take too long of a pause for someone tasked with answering a question of such importance. “She’s not exactly ‘hunting’ you,” I swallow, trying to find the words. “It’s more that she’s using her natural hunting instincts in an attempt to um…” I glance at Hugh, hoping to bolster my courage, but his pointed features had turned a sickly grey colour. Coughing, I try again. “… An attempt to get close to you.” I finish, glancing up at Hugh just in time to see the scream leaving his mouth. “GET HER OFF ME!” Hugh yelps in what I imagine he’d describe as a quite undignified manner, gangly legs scrambling beneath him. Dolly, her nose dutifully snuffling at Hugh’s edges, was now scrambling across the back side of his torso. Hugh’s frantic movements did nothing to assuage her curiosity, or for that matter, her grip. She lays comfortably, now poised safely against Hugh’s neck and giving him the occasional snuffle.
“She isn’t going to hurt you,” I say at the now paralysed Hugh, his horrified eyes trembling as he stares at my other quolls. Dottie was snarling protectively in front of me, Donna was scrambling around in my backpack looking for Zoloft, her head occasionally popping up from the depths to peek through the zip, and Daisy is tucked neatly into the hollow of my collarbone. “I know they can be aggressive, but they’re only trying to protect me.” I brush away the urge to cower from my idol, feeling suddenly defensive. “Plus, they’re quolls!” I add, filled with new wonder at the utter minuteness of my babies. Hugh seemed to have a similar moment of clarity, and he finally relaxes and lets out a trademark sigh of exasperation. His bright blue eyes flit aimlessly around the room for a few seconds before settling back onto Daisy and me. “So, right… Yes, ok they’re quolls… Quolls?” I can’t help the flush rising to my cheeks at his cute British English, so similar and yet capable of producing pure culture shock. “Carnivorous marsupials,” I giggle. Hugh looks just as bewildered as before, so I continue. “Marsupials are like kangaroos – they’re mammals that produce underdeveloped young and continue the gestation period in a pouch. We actually have lots of marsupials that are native to Australia.” I say proudly. “And my Dottie has six babies in her rudimentary pouch right now!” Hugh’s ashen face takes on a grim nauseous quality. “Right.” was the clipped response. An uncomfortable silence settles between us, and Daisy nudges me. Trying to brush her off, I turn my attention to the snarling ball of speckled fluff between me and Hugh. Dottie seemed to be vastly uncomfortable with Hugh in the room, and Donna was hiding within view of her mother. I try patting Dottie soothingly, hoping the gesture will show both her and Donna that I’m safe, but she only whips her head around to hiss at me before returning her vigilant eyes back to Hugh. Daisy nudges me again, this time harder. I scoop her up in my hand and pointedly plop her into the hood of my sweatshirt.
“How long do you think we’ll be here before your mother can sort of,” Hugh makes some flustered British gestures at the door. I blink at him vacantly, completely having forgotten that he had no sense of my quolls’ delicate sensitivities. “Sort of, you know, let us out?” he tries again, looking at me expectantly. I wonder if I should tell him that I can unlock the door whenever I want to, but decide that sharing that particular piece of information would be to do myself a disservice. I deserved this. “She works night shifts.” I tell him flatly, choosing not to look at his expression. It wasn’t that I wanted Hugh to be uncomfortable, I just felt this was my one and only opportunity to meet Hugh, and by extension to understand my father. And besides, I hadn’t technically lied. My mother was likely seeing her “doctor” friend – too afraid to spend large or really any amounts of time in an actual hospital, my mother has a Belle Gibson esque friend whose word and script pad are considered law in my home.
Hugh looks like he genuinely might cry, so I quickly scoot myself a little closer to him, careful not to offend Dottie. “Hey, it’s not all bad! We have a million things to talk about.” I remind him sagely. Blue eyes slide incredulously in my direction, and Hugh’s head rolls slightly in disbelief. “I know everything about you,” I say, taking hold of his smooth hand. I briefly examine the connection between us, marvelling at the almost child-like softness and untarnished skin so different than my father’s rough worker’s hands. “And I think you might be the key to knowing everything about myself.” I conclude softly, peering into Hugh’s face for some sign of understanding. Sighing again, he seems to resign himself and slides a little further into the floor as his body relaxes. “Alright, ok,” he says, his eyes moving as he slots unknown pieces into some mental puzzle. “So, what about the quolls then, what are they for?” I feel my heart flood. I don’t have the vocabulary to describe the ecstasy I felt when my idol asked me about my babies. It felt powerful, like a great culmination after a long wait. “I have agoraphobia.” I reply happily. “They help me leave here.” I sigh, gesturing vaguely around my cluttered attic. I look to his shoulder for Dolly only to find that she isn’t there – she’s moved further away from Hugh’s face, sniffing him now with a faint air of suspicion. This realisation led me to another; Daisy was frantically scrabbling around in my hood, trying any movement she can to get my attention. I frown. Hugh, following my gaze, attempts an amiable chuckle. “I don’t think they like me very much.” My frown deepens. “They used to.”
Dolly gives Hugh one last contemptuous sniff before leaping unceremoniously from his arm. She hauls her small and pristine body over towards Dottie, and the two exchange an almost imperceptible message. I don’t notice the communication, my thoughts dazzled by proximity to Hugh. Daisy has abandoned hood-based communication, and is now desperately looking between my eyes and Dolly, begging me to understand. All I see is Dolly sauntering off in her usual hoity gate, her obnoxiously fuzzy behind swaying with the confidence of an adult female model. I don’t see Dottie advancing towards Hugh, corralling him towards the corner, trapping him. Pushing Daisy away, ignoring her and my gut, I glance behind me to welfare check Donna. Her head pops up from my backpack, several loose and broken chlorpromazine tablets clutched in her small and desperate hand. “Um, listen, I don’t exactly want to bother you, but I’m starting to think…” Ignoring Hugh’s softly British protests, I continue to watch Donna, barely aware of my other three quolls’ activities. Donna looks at something behind me, retreats her furled paw back towards herself, and dives into the depths of my bag again. From the sound I can tell she’s moved on to heavier drugs, a fat box of lithium prodding me as Donna searches through my various prescriptions. Not feeling anxious at all, I start to laugh at her tiny antics, but instead of my own chuckle I hear a bloodcurdlingly British scream.
I turn to him, my heart rate plummeting and my stomach dropping. Before I can understand what I’m even looking at, a warm spurt of liquid smacks into my eye. Hissing at the intrusion, I swipe furiously at my eyes, seeing and not seeing the coagulating fluid covering my fingers. Hugh has one hand aimed defensively at Dottie, but the other hand is weakly fluttering over his neck. Angry spurts of blood slam at his pallid fingers, and my mouth opens in pure horror when I realise that Dottie has settled into a patient bundle, snarling ceased. Following her gaze, my eyes drag over Hugh’s body, barely registering the rapid movements of my quolls. Daisy’s mouth is matted and stained, and her paws leave small bloody prints over Hugh’s impeccable linen shirt as she surveys him coldly. I feel a shattering mix of sob and gasp crack past my lungs as I watch my perfect baby emotionlessly administering deep bites across Hugh’s neck and armpits. She seemed to be deliberating bite sites with swift, detached efficiency, targeting weak points of skin and subcutaneous weaknesses. Dolly chitters the occasional encouragement, and Dottie amiably gathers herself off the floor and begins her approach.
Hugh, now slumped almost entirely on the floor with only his shoulder wedging him vaguely upright against the walls, splutters out a gurgle, and warm blood spatters my cheeks. Daisy takes the opportunity to squirrel her way down his torso, biting into Hugh’s likely designer Chinos and biting at the delicate skin of his groin. Hugh is so covered in blood by this point that I can’t even distinguish where he’s bleeding from, and all he can offer me is a weak British moan. My arms flop helplessly to my sides; I’m paralysed. I can’t deny my babies, and it doesn’t look like there’s too much I can do from here to save Hugh. Fat tears mingle with the blood on my face, the warm liquids on my face swirling together indistinguishably.
Dottie had made her way up to Hugh’s profusely bleeding throat at this point, and was looking up at him as though she were making a decision of very little importance. As I watch, she takes her small hand and positions it diagonally against the small globular nodule of Hugh’s right eye, and before my thought processes have even caught up to the sight before me, she scoops the eyeball out. Hugh lets out a final scream of British defeat, “Oh wanky tit basket!” He dies, Britishly, slumping lifelessly in a pile of his own mess and innards. Having discarded the eyeball, Dottie busies herself scratching at the remaining muscle tissue, wiggling her paw to create a tunnel through the socket. I sob, broken, my shoulders curling until I’ve found myself curled up on the floor. Daisy’s small face enters my tear-blurred field of vision. I squeeze my eyes closed, not wanting to see the carnage and blood obscuring her beautiful fur, and more tears push their way out from my ducts. “Why?” I croak, letting my eyes open to meet Daisy’s. “You didn’t have to do this. I didn’t ask you to do this.” I cut myself off, overwhelmed by lachrymation anew. Snuffling, she placed a gentle paw on my face, and I leaned into the gesture with my everything, sobbing.
Vaguely, I become aware of smaller, softer noises reverberating from the hoarded piles around my attic room. Blearily looking up, I don’t identify the source of the sounds at first. Bracing myself, I muster enough courage to drag my eyes up to Hugh’s face, his eyeball sat wetly beside him. There’s something wrong with the eye socket. I look back at Daisy, uncertain, and she stares back, willing me to continue my visual exploration. Desperate to understand, I focus my eyes on the hole in Hugh’s face, trying to forget that the mutilated face had once belonged to him. To my horror, I realised the noises were coming from underneath his skin, and if I focused enough, I could see tiny pink creatures with just not enough hair innocently munching away. I turn my head sideways and spit bile onto the floor, my throat and nose burning. I look back up at Daisy, and I see that she and I understand one another. My babies, my sweet tiny and polka dotted quolls, had provided food for their babies. Carrion. And I could never forgive them. I could never hurt them, but I couldn’t stand to see them either. The flow of my tears began to steady, and I lay motionless on the floor, staring at the puddle of blood and bile in front of me, dissociating.
Donna ceased her frantic backpack raid, and once again peaked her small head out from between the zippers. In her tiny hand she clutched a large needle wrapped in fairly flimsy plastic: olanzapine. Her young eyes swept over the chaos of the room, and she looked momentarily crestfallen. Then, glancing down at me, she returned to her bag search with renewed vigour, her small body pushing on all sides of me as she once again braved the depths. I didn’t see Donna’s head reappear. All I heard was the triumphant clatter of the razor blade on the wooden floor.
