Pyg

THE CHANCE TO ESCAPE

D aylight lasered through the split in the mothy brown curtains and I buried my face into the pillow, inhaling my own smell. Over the last few months I’d noticed a change in my scent; sometimes musty, sometimes sour, never particularly pleasant. Upon further examination, I discovered clusters of wiry dark hairs sprouting under my armpits and, more disturbingly, in other places. When I’d asked Mum about it, she just chuckled her soft, buttery laugh, kissed my forehead and said, “Georgie-boy, you’re nearly fourteen. You’re turning into a man. A little extra hair will soon be the least of your worries.”

And she wasn’t wrong.

Pyg stirred at the foot of my bed. I patted the blanket, and she crawled low, like a ninja, along the bare floorboards and hopped up next to me. Her wet nose nuzzled at my arm until her head poked through from under my smelly armpit.