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Sometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
The river is mostly rocks most of the year—with the surge of snowmelt it is wide and deep and fast and cold. It's a tempting type of dangerous when bottomless melancholy is pervasive. You spend some hours in the quiet of where the raging waters veer nearest town—the backs of nearest cabins visible through the treeline—sitting on the round eroded sort of river rocks, before breaking the news to the cabin you live in—in the town that you picked for its quiet—that its occupancy will be three more frequently.
Murre takes the news in stride. They put a bowl of roasted chickpeas in front of you and start transferring the rest into a jar. "Concerns?" You've gotten pretty good at extrapolating the intent of Murre's shorter statements and questions. 'Do you have any concerns about the situation that I can accommodate?'
You look at the kitchen ceiling, the floor of your bedroom. "Keeping private the private time with Sheppard." It's not the smallest least insulated cabin you've been in but it's small and less insulated enough that most conversations are conversations for the whole cabin.
You watch the washed out green and longer-now natural roots of the back of Murre's head bounce as they nod. You don't have to say the part about how you don't intend on kicking them out when Sheppard comes over. They collect the spices from the pan that didn't adhere to the chickpeas with olive oil fingertips and savour the taste. "Some of the houses I've shared didn't have solid walls." They flip down the latch on the sealed jar with the not-oily heels of their palms. "I'll hear and know nothing."
"You'll hear and know nothing?"
Pan in the sink, hands rinsed, and a handful taken from bowl in front of you, Murre says "yeah" and funnels the handful into their mouth. "I'll hear and know nothing." It's endearing. Their appended smile is endearing. It's very hard to remain staunch about not trusting Murre.
When Sheppard comes to the cabin and Murre isn't running a workshop or walking around town, Murre digs earbuds out from a side pocket of their backpack. One night they get dropped off late from dinner at a ranch up the hillside and wash up in the bathroom sink rather than climb the not-stairs.
You try not to wake up Sheppard with the thoughts you have watching him sleep on the sheepskin on your bed. More frequently than in a long while, you find yourself sitting at the river. In the very least, its thundering expanse eats most of your lingering dissociation.
Sheppard was already on his way into town the next time he crosses paths with a thing he eats. It's all too many knife limbs—the best he can do to describe it once he's relatively cognizant and cognizant that he's in a room with you. It would be remarkable to you that he made it to your clinic if it weren't for all the other times, including the first, that he remarkably made it to your clinic. You did your best not to panic when he came through the door looking like a well-scored loaf of bread.
Sheppard isn't capable of speech when Murre insists on helping and you have to use your very professional serious and intimidating voice to instruct them to manage the front for anyone who might come in in the meanwhile.
If it weren't for Sheppard, you might have to practice your sutures on occasion. Today is a marathon and there's a real desire in you to bury your needles and needle drivers in a deep hole somewhere some distance from town.
Sheppard laughs his hollow laugh and attempts to say 'that would be bad news for me'.
He hurts different. He feels hurt different. Dr. Lacey has scattered scribbles about it across the little notebook. You've since learned the particulars of when and how, confirming some and crossing out others—your working theory is that he needs to be this way to survive these encounters. You don't smack or pinch him in that moment, there isn't much intact skin to do so anyways.
He's always been awake after even the worst injuries you've patched. Today he manages to consciously hold your hand for all of a minute after you're done before he falls asleep.
"We'll move him to the cabin after nightfall," you tell Murre who isn't telling or asking you so many things.
It's nearly a full twenty-four hours before he can tell you about all too many knife limbs. About how every surface was an edge and every edge sharp. About how he couldn't subdue it. About how hard it was to get away without killing it. About how if he kills them they find each other and incorporate into larger things that are even harder to eat.
You spend a lot of time kissing his forehead and telling him to rest, sleeping on the sheepskin on your bed. Since seeing him more often you've started to get a better idea on his healing times than the estimates in the little notebook. Since the self-surgery and maggot incidents you are currently furious about how long it takes for him to climb down the not-stairs by himself.
On the couch, with Murre somewhere else that wasn't in the cabin, you fail to temper the rage thundering in your voice. "You said you were fine." You don't give him the chance to feign ignorance. "You're not healing like you used to."
Normally, Sheppard looks at you content, or like he looks out over the distance, or searching even though he knows what you're thinking. Now his eyes are a type of hollow that match his laugh and that fail to look anything but a deep vacant pit. "It's been a rough spring." "Do you normally have a 'rough' period?" "It's happened." "Do you know why?"
He doesn't. He tries to tell you about eating things, but that he doesn't need to eat them to live or stay whatever healthy is for him—eating them doesn't inherently harm him either. He tries to tell you it's harder when there's so many of them, like some sort of imbalance, but instead of surety his hollowness fails to muster enough substance to cover the lie.
The quiet of the raging river screams in your head.
He reaches out a sewn together hand. He doesn't reach as far as he would have just the other day. He almost retracts it when his face visibly reacts to the twinge of pain you feel in your heart but you take gentle hold of his wrist and guide his palm to hold the side of your face.
"Okay."
You hand him the tissue box from the coffee table instead of wipe his tears yourself like you would have just the other day. He starts crying harder.
The river is mostly rocks most of the year—with the surge of snowmelt it is wide and deep and fast and cold. It's a tempting type of dangerous when bottomless melancholy is pervasive. You spend some hours in the quiet of where the raging waters veer nearest town—the backs of nearest cabins visible through the treeline—sitting on the round eroded sort of river rocks, before breaking the news to the cabin you live in—in the town that you picked for its quiet—that its occupancy will be three more frequently.
Murre takes the news in stride. They put a bowl of roasted chickpeas in front of you and start transferring the rest into a jar. "Concerns?" You've gotten pretty good at extrapolating the intent of Murre's shorter statements and questions. 'Do you have any concerns about the situation that I can accommodate?'
You look at the kitchen ceiling, the floor of your bedroom. "Keeping private the private time with Sheppard." It's not the smallest least insulated cabin you've been in but it's small and less insulated enough that most conversations are conversations for the whole cabin.
You watch the washed out green and longer-now natural roots of the back of Murre's head bounce as they nod. You don't have to say the part about how you don't intend on kicking them out when Sheppard comes over. They collect the spices from the pan that didn't adhere to the chickpeas with olive oil fingertips and savour the taste. "Some of the houses I've shared didn't have solid walls." They flip down the latch on the sealed jar with the not-oily heels of their palms. "I'll hear and know nothing."
"You'll hear and know nothing?"
Pan in the sink, hands rinsed, and a handful taken from bowl in front of you, Murre says "yeah" and funnels the handful into their mouth. "I'll hear and know nothing." It's endearing. Their appended smile is endearing. It's very hard to remain staunch about not trusting Murre.
When Sheppard comes to the cabin and Murre isn't running a workshop or walking around town, Murre digs earbuds out from a side pocket of their backpack. One night they get dropped off late from dinner at a ranch up the hillside and wash up in the bathroom sink rather than climb the not-stairs.
You try not to wake up Sheppard with the thoughts you have watching him sleep on the sheepskin on your bed. More frequently than in a long while, you find yourself sitting at the river. In the very least, its thundering expanse eats most of your lingering dissociation.
Sheppard was already on his way into town the next time he crosses paths with a thing he eats. It's all too many knife limbs—the best he can do to describe it once he's relatively cognizant and cognizant that he's in a room with you. It would be remarkable to you that he made it to your clinic if it weren't for all the other times, including the first, that he remarkably made it to your clinic. You did your best not to panic when he came through the door looking like a well-scored loaf of bread.
Sheppard isn't capable of speech when Murre insists on helping and you have to use your very professional serious and intimidating voice to instruct them to manage the front for anyone who might come in in the meanwhile.
If it weren't for Sheppard, you might have to practice your sutures on occasion. Today is a marathon and there's a real desire in you to bury your needles and needle drivers in a deep hole somewhere some distance from town.
Sheppard laughs his hollow laugh and attempts to say 'that would be bad news for me'.
He hurts different. He feels hurt different. Dr. Lacey has scattered scribbles about it across the little notebook. You've since learned the particulars of when and how, confirming some and crossing out others—your working theory is that he needs to be this way to survive these encounters. You don't smack or pinch him in that moment, there isn't much intact skin to do so anyways.
He's always been awake after even the worst injuries you've patched. Today he manages to consciously hold your hand for all of a minute after you're done before he falls asleep.
"We'll move him to the cabin after nightfall," you tell Murre who isn't telling or asking you so many things.
It's nearly a full twenty-four hours before he can tell you about all too many knife limbs. About how every surface was an edge and every edge sharp. About how he couldn't subdue it. About how hard it was to get away without killing it. About how if he kills them they find each other and incorporate into larger things that are even harder to eat.
You spend a lot of time kissing his forehead and telling him to rest, sleeping on the sheepskin on your bed. Since seeing him more often you've started to get a better idea on his healing times than the estimates in the little notebook. Since the self-surgery and maggot incidents you are currently furious about how long it takes for him to climb down the not-stairs by himself.
On the couch, with Murre somewhere else that wasn't in the cabin, you fail to temper the rage thundering in your voice. "You said you were fine." You don't give him the chance to feign ignorance. "You're not healing like you used to."
Normally, Sheppard looks at you content, or like he looks out over the distance, or searching even though he knows what you're thinking. Now his eyes are a type of hollow that match his laugh and that fail to look anything but a deep vacant pit. "It's been a rough spring." "Do you normally have a 'rough' period?" "It's happened." "Do you know why?"
He doesn't. He tries to tell you about eating things, but that he doesn't need to eat them to live or stay whatever healthy is for him—eating them doesn't inherently harm him either. He tries to tell you it's harder when there's so many of them, like some sort of imbalance, but instead of surety his hollowness fails to muster enough substance to cover the lie.
The quiet of the raging river screams in your head.
He reaches out a sewn together hand. He doesn't reach as far as he would have just the other day. He almost retracts it when his face visibly reacts to the twinge of pain you feel in your heart but you take gentle hold of his wrist and guide his palm to hold the side of your face.
"Okay."
You hand him the tissue box from the coffee table instead of wipe his tears yourself like you would have just the other day. He starts crying harder.
