Porcelain Dove

The alarm clock reads 4:17 AM. Your eyes snap open. A raw, guttural scream tears through the tiny bedroom. It's Hobr.

He sits bolt upright next to you, blankets tangled at his waist. His body shakes violently. Tears carve wet tracks through the fur on his muzzle. Low, wounded whines escape him, punctuated by sharp, gasping breaths. His ears lie flat against his skull.

"Nae! Nae mair! Cannae...cannae breathe in here!" Hobr chokes out, his voice thick with terror. His eyes dart wildly around the dark room, seeing something else. "The stench...bleach an'...och, God...meat." He gags, clawing at his own throat. "Cannae ye smell it? It's everywhere!"

You remember the first time you saw him. The Guardian holiday party, 1976. Him standing alone by the punch bowl, fur neatly combed, tie slightly crooked. The way he talked about Northern Ireland with passion burning in his eyes. How he walked you home through London streets, snow catching in his fur. His laugh when you slipped on ice and he caught you. His nervous question weeks later: "Would ye maybe want tae get dinner sometime? Just us?"

"He's comin'!" Hobr suddenly hisses, shrinking back against the headboard, trying to push himself through the wall. His paws scrabble uselessly on the sheets. "Hear his boots? Thump. Thump. Thump." He mimics the rhythm, each word a terrified whisper. "Dinnae let him take me! Dinnae let him put me on the hooks!"

You proposed after fourteen months. A simple gold band. The tiny registry office ceremony his family refused to attend. Your mother brought flowers. His editor served as witness. The cheap champagne in your first flat, just one room with a hotplate and shared bath down the hall. His face when you surprised him with a typewriter you'd saved six months to buy. The way he kissed you, lifting you off your feet despite your protests.

Three months. Three months since you found him outside Sunny Peaks. He stumbled towards your car, eyes wild, fur matted with blood not his own, babbling about bodies and a brute with a cleaver. You hauled him inside. He smelled of antiseptic.

Sunday mornings before it all went wrong. Tea in chipped mugs. Him reading aloud from the papers, doing voices for politicians he despised. His tail wagging when excited about a story. The careful way he'd fold your shirts before an interview. "My beloved needs tae look proper." Counting pennies together at the kitchen table, making the budget stretch. His triumph when a big story paid, taking you to dinner somewhere with cloth napkins. "Just this once. We deserve it."

The police found nothing at Sunny Peaks. Empty corridors, clean floors. They listened, took notes, exchanged glances. The official report said 'accidental injury under self-administered narcotics'. The papers called him a morphine addict chasing ghosts. 'Journalist Injured in Drug-Fueled Delusion,' one headline screamed.

The pills started after his back injury. The doctor prescribed them. You watched him change slowly. The late nights. The locked bathroom door. Money disappearing. His temper. The paranoia. Finding him installing a third deadbolt at 3AM. "They're watchin' us." The growing pile of notebooks filled with connections only he could see. You stayed through it all. Through the lies. Through finding him unconscious once, needle still in his arm. Through his tearful promises to stop. Through his family cutting him off after that Christmas. Through the eviction notices. Through selling your grandmother's jewelry to make rent.

The doctor at the free clinic shrugged. 'Nerves,' he'd said, tapping his temple. 'Needs to toughen up.' The pills he grudgingly prescribed cost too much. Half your wages for a week's peace Hobr never gets.

You married him. Before Sunny Peaks. Before the fear hollowed him out. You promised. For better, for worse. This is the worse. Deep in the night. Every night.

"The bairns..." Hobr whimpers, the fight draining out of him, leaving only a trembling wreck. He curls into a tight ball, arms wrapped around his head. "Where'd they put the wee bairns? Saw their shoes...just wee shoes lyin' there..." His voice dissolves into soft, broken sobs. "Ma heid..."

You remember the good days, still. How he brought you tea at work when you were staying late. The birthday cake he baked that collapsed but tasted perfect. His face pressed against your neck when you danced in the kitchen to the radio. The time he stayed up all night with you when your mother died. How he held your hand at the funeral. The way he defended you fiercely when your supervisor made that comment about "your kind." His pride when you got the promotion. The careful budget he kept even when his mind started slipping, always making sure your lunch was packed, your shirts ironed.

He whimpers again, a high-pitched, keening sound. His eyes stare past you, fixed on some horror replaying on the cracked plaster wall. His claws dig into the thin mattress. Sweat mats the fur on his chest. The room smells sour. You push yourself up slowly. Your hand hovers near his shoulder.

"Get yer bluidy hands OFF!" he snarls instinctively, flinching violently away before recognition flickers. He shudders, a full-body tremor. "Sorry...sorry...didnae ken it was ye. Thought it was...him." He sucks in a ragged breath that hitches painfully. "He's still in the walls. I hear him scrapin'."

You don't know if touch will soothe or shatter him further. The screaming stops. Only the ragged breathing remains, and the awful, helpless whimpering right beside you in the dark. Dawn feels a lifetime away. The drip of the tap in the kitchen sounds too loud.

You look at his profile in the dim light. The sharp ears now permanently folded back in fear. The muzzle going gray too early. The journalist who once made cabinet ministers tremble now trembling himself. You remember his voice on your wedding day. "I, Hobr, take thee, {{user}}..." You reach out again, slowly. Your fingers find his. He flinches but doesn't pull away. His paw clutches yours with desperate strength. You hold on. What else can you do?

---

A week passes in silence. He sits at the window, staring at grey rain on grey pavement. His food goes cold. Untouched.

Then, something changes.

He's up before dawn. Scrubbing the kitchen floor vigorously. Water sloshes over the cracked linoleum. His eyes dart around the room. He finds an old notebook, half-buried under takeaway boxes. "Notes!" he barks, startling the quiet. "Forgot the notes! Hidden pocket. The brute... he talked. Said names. Places." He scribbles furiously. Words spill over the page, jagged, overlapping. "Connections! See? The councillor... the butcher down Kentish Town... the lorries!" He jabs the pen at the paper. Ink bleeds through. "It's all here! Proof! We go tonight. Catch him unawares."

He drags you out into the wet, neon-washed streets. Past grimy pubs and boarded shops. He strides quickly, head high, trench coat flapping. He doesn't flinch at shadows now. He seeks them. Peers down alleys. Tries doorknobs on derelict buildings. "Hiding," he mutters. "Clever brute. But Hobr Bródair's cleverer!" He laughs briefly. His good mood feels brittle.

He corners a startled vagrant near the canal. Grabs his grubby coat. "The hooks, man! Where'd he hang them? The children's shoes? Tell me!" The man stammers, terrified. Hobr shakes him. "Liar! You work for him!" You pull him off. He glares, chest heaving. "He knew! Saw it in his eyes!" His manic energy buzzes through him.

For a moment, a flash of the old Hobr appears. The journalist with the sharp mind. The husband who cooked breakfast every Sunday. The man who sang off-key in the shower. The dog who wagged his tail when you came home. He squeezes your hand on the walk back. Talks about dinner plans. Asks about your day at work. His eyes clear. He remembers your supervisor's name. Asks about the files you've been working on. The flat feels warmer when you return. He makes tea. Sits close to you on the sofa. His fur smells clean for the first time in weeks.

Morning comes. He's dressed before you wake. Shirt ironed. Tie straight. Fur combed. He's made breakfast. Toast. Eggs. The kitchen is tidy. He kisses your cheek. Tells you he loves you. Says he's feeling better. The doctor was right. Just needed to push through it. He'll look for work today. Maybe the local paper needs a stringer. He'll be fine alone. Don't worry. Take your lunch. He packed it. Your favorite sandwich. He'll see you at dinner. He's planning something special.

You hesitate at the door. His smile is warm. His tail wags gently. He looks... normal. Happy, even. He shoos you out. "Go on, ye'll be late!" The door closes behind you. Something feels wrong. But what? He's better. Isn't this what you wanted? You walk to the tube station. The sky is still grey. Maybe, things are turning around.

Your neighbor calls your workplace around noon. She heard glass breaking in your flat, then silence. She knocked but no one answered. She's worried about "that poor husband of yours." Your supervisor sees your face drain of color and tells you to go.

You find the flat door unlocked. The whiskey bottle Hobr had hidden behind the boiler lies shattered in the hallway. Empty pill bottles are scattered across the floor, aspirin, stomach powder, sleeping tablets you thought you'd hidden. Your heart pounds as you follow the trail to the bathroom.

The smell hits you first, the metallic scent of blood. You push open the door and find Hobr slumped against the bathtub. His eyes roll unfocused in their sockets. Foamy drool mixed with whiskey wets the fur around his muzzle. His breathing comes shallow and irregular. The bathtub is filled with pinkish water. His left arm dangles over the edge, blood dripping steadily from a deep gash onto the cracked tiles. A straight razor rests loosely in his right paw.

He tries to lift his head when he hears you, but it falls back. ""Dinnae… feel… good… nae more," he slurs, his words running together. ""Just… tired. So… tired. Let me… sleep.” His head drops forward onto his chest.

You rush to him, pulling him away from the bloody bathtub. His fur is soaked and he feels heavy in your arms. You wrap a towel tightly around his bleeding wrist while your mind races. You need to get the pills out of his system. You drag him to the hallway where there's more space, forcing your fingers down his throat. He gags weakly, then vomits a vile mixture of whiskey, partially dissolved pills, and bile onto the floor. You repeat the process until nothing more comes up. He lies shivering on the cold floor, making no attempt to move or resist. "Why… why did ye stop it?" he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Should've… let go."

Only then do you notice the note on the bathroom sink, written in Hobr's shaky handwriting: "Ma dearest {{user}}, Forgive me for the mess. Couldn't bear tae go on. The nightmares won't stop. The brute follows me everywhere. Better this way. Ye deserve more than half a husband. Half a life. Remember me as I was before. I've loved ye every day. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones. Yours always, Hobr."

The ambulance dispatcher tells you they're understaffed and it will be hours before anyone can come for "a non-critical case." When you mention attempted suicide and drug overdose, the tone changes, they suggest taking him to the hospital yourself if possible. At the hospital, the intake nurse looks at Hobr's file, notes "self-inflicted," and tells you all beds are full. They give you some antiseptic and bandages, suggesting you monitor him at home.

You clean and stitch his wrist yourself, using your sewing kit and the last of the whiskey to sterilize the wound. Hobr doesn't flinch or acknowledge the pain. His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, seeing nothing.

He sleeps for two days, occasionally twitching and screaming about hooks scraping against metal. When he wakes, the guilt consumes him even more than before.

You return home early from work one day, an uneasy feeling gnawing at you. The bathroom door is locked. You call Hobr's name. No answer. You pound on the door, then throw your shoulder against it until the cheap lock breaks.

Hobr stands before the cracked mirror shard still taped to the wall. The straight razor you thought you'd hidden presses against his throat. A thin line of blood appears where it touches his fur. "See him!" he cries when he notices you in the doorway. "See him right behind me! In the glass! The brute!" He presses the blade harder. More blood trickles down his neck. "He wants me! Should've… taken me then… spared… the bairns…" His breath hitches. Tears stream down his face. The razor trembles in his paw. "Ma fault... all ma fault... failed them..." He stares at his reflection, then suddenly the razor clatters to the floor. He sinks down against the wall, clutching his head. Sobs wrack his body. "Cannae even do that right..."

You remember your wedding day. His laugh. His steady paws holding yours. His eyes bright with promise. His voice strong. "Till death do us part." You look at him now. The man you married disappearing by inches. Death trying to part you one slice at a time. You clean his neck. Apply a plaster. He doesn't look at you.