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Catherine

Damon's been MIA since our cake drama a week ago.

Meaning, I've been alone for seven days.

Meaning, the apartment was quiet at seven in the morning.

MEANING! I do not miss him one bit...

Okay I lied.

It's kinda difficult to ignore the fact that I don't get heart attacks whenever I walk in the kitchen and not see him without either his pants or his shirt on anymore. Thank the heavens it hasn't occurred to him to just go on 'Adam-the-first-man' on me yet.

I got up too early and I couldn't go back to sleep even if I tried. Now I know what they meant when they said something about the 'deafening silence'.

Shuffling my way towards the living room, no pants, no mouthwash, no combing, no nothing to make me look decent except my Winnie the Pooh t-shirt and the legendary ladybug lingerie.

What. It's not likely for Damon to come home on a Tuesday. Besides, it's six in the morning.

I looked around. Now where did Damon put the DVD's remote control? Catching a glimpse of something rectangular wedged in between the sofa, I groaned. Sure he was good at cooking, and he washes the dishes most of the time but the man's like a snake. Rubbing my eyes as I leaned to get the remote, I saw one of his shirts carelessly thrown on the armrest that with a little movement would probably fall on the floor. And it did.

Climbing on the sofa and bending over to retrieve it, I saw his shoe under it.

See what I mean?

A snake!

I got up, fully awake now and realized that this place was squeaky clean when I lived here alone.

Now though?

A shoe beside the door, its partner under the coffee table. A towel draped on one of my angel figurines, chips that didn't quite make it to his mouth whenever he watched football and his team was losing.

Smell the masculinity Catherine.

...

Masculinity stinks.

The only mess I contributed were the heels I tried to wear last week. I can't get myself to touch them okay? They're radioactive. And I was too tired to even consider cleaning up. I was back to my old routine before Damon showed up in my kitchen. Turning towards the DVD player, I hit play and decided to clean this place up before I go to work.

Putting the remote down, I grabbed one of my shoes. I got down on my knees and reached for his shoe under the sofa. Just then the music started playing from the speakers.

I quickly got up and held his shoe as a microphone. You've got to give the man credit. Even his shoe smells like apples.

Nodding my head to the beat, I waited for my queue. Raising my hand that held my high heel:

"I want to break free."

Walking around and picking Damon's mess along the way. If I'm going to be a maid for an hour, might as well make this a musical production. He's not here anyway so that's cool. Wiggling my bum every now and then and the occasional fist-in-the-air.

"I've fallen in love! I've fallen in love for the first time and this time I know it's for reaaal. I've fallen in love."

Throwing his clothes at a chair by the window I picked up the broom. Sliding my way in front of the television. Nobody's stopping me. I'm Beyon- Freddie Mercury.

As I swept the floor, the carpet long gone, I lip-synced my way to making this living room look like a living room. He doesn't know how to use doormats and the dirt from outside gets inside because of him so I decided to get rid of the carpets instead. The floor was made from fine wood but had to be waxed twice a week. A task I have failed on doing since I got back to work after I decided to tag along with him. We had books to publish and I had manuscripts to read. Rose gave me the 'naughty-kitty' look when I entered my office last Tuesday, forcing me to spill the beans when I don't even like beans and there was nothing to spill.

She called me kitty for a reason. (According to her) Cats were sweet creatures, may be affectionate when they want to but don't want too much affection in return. That about sums it up for me. Cats can't taste sweetness.

Cat can't seem to taste sweetness either.

After clearing all his stuff and by clearing I meant that I shoved all of his apple-scented shirts on a laundry basket, I turned towards his bedroom.

Should I go in?

Damon hasn't even seen your room. How dare you invade his privacy.

With my good conscience speaking, I took a step back. Maybe I could just do his laundry instead. A have time to spare anyway.

Laundry-shmaundry. He wouldn't even notice if you entered his room. He's not here. He might even thank you for cleaning his stuff when he arrives.

I took two steps forward, holding the doorknob now. He doesn't have to know. Besides, he might be lying when he told me he quit smoking. Electronic cigars my patoot. He might have apple scented weed for all I know. Slowly turning the knob, I pushed the door open.

For a man who can't put his laundry on a laundry basket, his room was tidy. So tidy, it made my room look dingy. I always drew the curtains at my room. But his were wide open, the sky still a bit too dark, but what little light the sky had, it got curious enough to peak into his space.

It's been a week since he left his room but I can still smell his scent. I need to tell someone about this. It's becoming a habit to sniff whenever he's near me. Surely, this must be unhealthy.

Damon's scent wasn't like any perfume or eu de toillete. His was like the reddest, juiciest apple you see when you walk on a farmer's market with an old man saying that it was freshly picked. And you don't know how it would taste but you love the color and bring it up to your nose to smell anyway.

I placed the laundry basket at the end of his bed and touched the pale blue cotton of his sheets with the tip of my fingers. The sheets felt cold. I took a couple of steps back before running forward and jumping as I neared the bed. I felt the softness envelop me. And so is the faint scent of him as I reached for one of his pillows. Hugging it before burying my face on its fluffiness.

Hmmm...apples.

****

The moment I felt someone's hand touching my hair, I knew I was going to die.

So instead of screaming like a banshee, I kept my eyes closed.

"I know you're awake...bonbon."

I covered the lower half of my face with the pillow. My breath probably stinks so saying good morning isn't a good idea. I still have my eyes closed as I felt him get up from the floor and I risked a glance.

I should've opened my eyes when I heard his voice.

Flinging the blanket he probably put on me, I got up so quickly, I felt like the floor was moving. The man leaves for seven days and comes back looking like this!

Torn shirt. Tattered jeans. Taut muscles.

Shaking my head, I tried to erase the last remark from my mind. I fell asleep in his room. On his bed. Now how am I going to face Benjie?

Two logical adults my patoot.

Damon looked at me with surprise as I marched my way towards him and pushed him inside his bathroom. I refuse to speak. Not before brushing my teeth that is. I waited for him at the door, determined to ask him on where he's been. I would've just said 'Oh hey Damon. I see you forgot to bring extra clothes. Were the chimneys that awful? Have you encountered booby traps meant for old Saint Nick while cleaning them?'

I'm not usually this nosy but I live with him. Rather, he lives with me. I don't want to wake up one morning and see him bloody dead on my couch. The blood won't come off easy and I'd have to buy a new one.

I heard the door open from the bathroom and my determination slowly diminished as I saw him wiping his face with a wet towel. He got rid of his shirt but I didn't even notice the muscles now. There were red lines on his arms. His chest. As he turned to get a new shirt from his drawer, I saw red marks on his back too. Either he has a woman who's into marking-what's-hers or he just went to battle with someone who had claws that weren't sharpened on a regular basis. I approached him.

"What happened...?" I wanted to touch the offending red marks but balled my hands into fists. I raised my head to see him looking at me. He didn't speak.

"Don't tell me the cars were squirming because I'm not buying it." I crossed my arms on my chest and raised a brow at him.

"No bonbon. The cars were well behaved. It was the ones who wanted to steal the cars that squirmed."

I frowned as he got out of his room, all the while putting on his shirt. He was wearing boxers and I would've been mortified but I have other things that needed more of my attention.

"Be honest with me Damon."

I stood beside the refrigerator as he opened it, producing an apple. He looked tired. He had a week-old beard and his eyes looked darker than usual. As if they weren't dark enough. I looked up at him. This charade has to stop right now. I need to know who I'm living with and the fact that Damon might be into some illegal shiznick isn't helping.

"Are you doing something illegal? Are the cars from The Garage stolen? Are you wanted?" He was on the act of biting down on the apple but stopped when I started talking. I quickly covered my mouth.

You just can't wait until he's well rested and you already brushed your teeth, can you Catherine?

"I'm not a criminal, bonbon." he sat down on one of the kitchen stools and I moved towards the other side of the table, gripping one of the chair's backrest.

"Then...what are you. What exactly do you do?"

He put his apple down on the table and stared at his hands for a brief moment before looking at me.

"Me, with the other guys guide souls to where they're supposed to go."

I looked down to see my knuckles turn pale. This is not happening.

"So you're an angel then..." he slowly shook his head. This is just a dream.

"A...demon?" Still, he shook his head. An awful dream.

He got up and walked towards me. I couldn't move. It's either he's telling the truth or Ellie let some nutcase live with me for the past month. Ellie thought wrong if she wanted a man to make me feel safe. This man is not safe at all. Not one bit.

Not an angel. But not a demon either. Guides the souls of the dead... My eyes widened as my mind coined the right name to call him, to call them.

"Reapers..." I looked up at him as he slowly nodded.

Well whattaya know!

I'm living with a reaper. With Damon's identity finally out in the open, I suppose fainting is in order.

And as I felt myself slowly blacking out, I remembered what he said about him doing something random every week.

I thought it was Toss-A-Taco Tuesday. Not Tell-Catherine-That-I'm-A-Reaper Tuesday.

Well if the Big Guy wanted to shock me, He did a great job. It's as if I heard him yell 'Plot Twist!' the moment Damon dropped the bomb. He must've been applauded by the angels by now.
Before succumbing to the darkness, I had the strength to whisper something as my body slumped against his.

"Toss-A-Taco Tuesday my ass."

✂-----------------------------------------------------

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