The Servitor

Part 1

Poor Tosca is hiding in her little house at the bottom of my bed. Only one tiny white paw sticks out as she grips the side. I imagine I can feel her shaking.

The heat of fury rises in me, seeing her like that.

Seriously, what's wrong with these people? How many times do I have to ask for consideration and kindness? Yes, for myself, but mostly for poor little Tosca.

I get up and call her into the kitchen, hoping food might help keep her calm. She follows, her tail down.

I wish I could move away from this horrible situation. But I simply don't have the money right now, so I'm stuck here for now. It's why I'm working all the hours I can. I want to stay hopeful that my work will help change my circumstances soon, though it's a challenge to remain optimistic at times like these.

The sigh coming from my depths is impossible to suppress, as I clean Tosca's bowl and put fresh food in it. She's rubbing against my legs and asking me to hurry, which makes me feel she hasn't been too traumatised by this morning's banging noises from upstairs. But, like me, I know the trauma of the past few years, of living here, resides in our bodies. My heart breaks every time I open a packet and Tosca jumps at the sound.

I sigh again as the upstairs neighbours also stomp into their kitchen. The noise above us increases and I take my tea and Tosca's food bowl back to the bedroom. At least, it's quiet in here now. If their routine today is the same as every morning, they'll leave for work soon. Hopefully, once they're gone, I'll sleep a little more, as usual. I'm too tired to get back to being creative and writing my current novel yet.

I lie in bed and listen to them putting on their shoes, slamming their door as they leave, tramping down the stairs and banging shut the main front door even louder. It's difficult to understand why people would be so inconsiderate, especially given this beautiful building houses only five apartments. I wonder how many other occupants they've woken with their door-slamming.

Pulling my eye mask over my eyes, I start the breathing rhythm that should relax me and put me back to sleep soon.

When the phone on my bedside table pings me awake, the time reads eleven o'clock and I'm grateful for the extra hours of sleep.

Blissful quiet reigns above me.

I'd better get up because my schedule is packed and I must do what I can before the neighbours return home for the day, and their noise stops me in my tracks again.

En route to the bathroom, I pop into my study and switch on the lights and my computer in my sound booth. Recording my previous book while writing the current novel in the series is helpful because it keeps me in touch with the story and allows me to build on it without effort or going back to re-read chapters.

After a quick shower, I feel much better, ready for the day. My energy levels are higher than expected.

My phone rings as I enter my sound booth.