Midnight

"Are you planning on getting up today?"

As I reluctantly rejoin the waking world, I let out a groan of protest, opening my eyes slowly as I prepare for the scalding light of the sun to assault me.

The sun's rays are thankfully not directly in my face, but it still takes a moment to gain visual focus. Across the room and to the left of the bed, Midnight sits in the doorway. She looks at me expectantly, like a child waiting to be entertained.

"You do know it's weird watching people sleep, right?" I manage to mumble, kicking the bed linens off of the lower half of my body.

"I was not watching you – it took almost five minutes for you to actually wake up," she grumbles, sticking her nose up at the accusation.

Glancing away from her and to my nightstand on the other side of the bed, the dull red digits of an alarm clock coincidentally flash to 9 am.

"It's only 9 – what's the big deal? It's Sunday."

Midnight's lustrous eyes merely blink at my response. Either I didn't tell her Sundays are my day off, or she didn't listen. I can't remember; last night was just sort of odd...

With the stress of this new situation I found myself in for almost the whole week, I ended up doing a late night grocery run so Sunday could be a complete kick-back-and-relax day to the extreme. That was a heftier bill than normal; the result of a much large haul to bring home.

The amount of meat and poultry products I had thrown in the cart earned some odd looks from the cashier as she scanned away. It might have made more sense had Midnight accompanied me – but that would have been another set of odd looks from virtually everyone.

I am not her protector, but having Midnight come along just seemed like a risk of her getting caught, as slim as that chance may be. The less that people catch wind of her – particularly in the city, where people are more nosy in general – the better.

Regardless, I probably went a bit overboard in terms of foodstuffs for Midnight – but I don't have a gauge on her yet in terms of appetite. She doesn't eat a whole lot despite her size – oftentimes, Midnight goes on just two meals a day. But that could change as time wears on; I'd rather tey to be prepared ahead of time.

Arriving home afterward, Midnight watched as I showcased the night's purchases. She didn't say much regarding the whirlwind of products. I figured it was out of embarrassment, considering she doesn't like asking for help at all. But that awkwardness never faded the rest of the night.

Overall, last night was a perplexing situation; it felt as if a breakthrough had been made during our talk earlier, but after that, it felt like a regression.

Currently, Midnight continues to just stare at me, waiting for a more thorough explanation beyond what day of the week it is.

"It's Sunday, I don't open up on Sundays," I groan, forcing my stiff body upright in bed.

Midnight's brow furrows as her eyes narrow at me. "Since when?"

"I have never been open on Sundays," I can't help but scoff. "Once in a great while, I'll gather some shit from out in the yard if I'm backed up, but otherwise, this is my day off. I'm surprised you never caught onto that, considering you've been prowling around for some time now."

"There were consecutive days I would never see nor hear a soul – and it is not like I had any particular way of keeping track of the days," she clarifies.

As I get up out of bed, a familiar savory aroma reaches my nose, instantly making my stomach growl. "Did you make bacon?"

"The microwave kind, yes. I wasn't going to wait any longer for you," she replies indignantly. "I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was, so you can have whatever's left."

I can't help but feel skeptical of her attitude about that, considering Midnight made it clear the first day she had no qualms about eating stuff raw. But maybe she's come to agree that cooked tastes better.

"Alright, thanks. Now unless you plan on taking a picture, stop staring and let me get dressed, please?"

"I wasn't staring!" she shouts, turning and stomping out of the room.

Having taken a shower last night before heading out into public, I throw on a clean shirt and basketball shorts to get ready for a day of nothing. Heading out into the living room space en route to the kitchen, Midnight has taken up her familiar residence on the couch, head buried in yet another shop manual.

A respectable pile of bacon sits plated on the kitchen island, just ahead of a stool.

This is too good – I can't resist even though it's early. "That's so sweet, you got it all set out for me and everything," I jest.

"That's where I was sitting to eat, you lazy ass," she mutters.

"It's not being lazy if you don't have anything you need to do," I reply, jamming a whole strip of bacon in my mouth; it's still surprisingly warm.

"So, you plan on doing literally nothing today?" Midnight asks, pulling her attention away from the pages to look at me.

"Probably just watch TV and piddle around on my laptop – what do you think I should do?"

"I don't know – something at least mildly constructive? Don't lie, you do a fair bit of nothing during the week when you're 'working,'" she retorts, ensuring her emphasis on the last word is clear enough for me to feel her disdain.

"I don't know what you expect me to do. You don't want me helping you with tearing apart engines—"

"Because I don't need help," she sharply interrupts.

"—because you don't need my help, and I have to stick around for when someone comes in asking for something or calls."

"Why even do that?"

"Why even do what? I'm not following here," I admit. I take a seat on at the kitchen counter terms and continue to indulge in the plate of bacon.

Midnight closes up the book in front of her and directs all of her focus on me. "You admitted before – you get more business pulling parts off and either shipping them out or having them ready to be picked up by a customer. I've seen it with my own eyes for most of last week, and noticed it out in the yard when I would go days without seeing anyone—"

"Which you are basing on observations in one section of a massive yard," I remind her.

The frown that had begun to creep on her face deepens profusely with my interjection. "Don't lie to me. I've been across this whole yard, and it's never busy. How do you think I knew you lived alone?"

"So... what's the point of this borderline stalker behavior?" I ask, feeling like my privacy is being invaded.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to use your time wisely rather than screw around all day, then spend hours every evening pulling parts off? You clearly enjoy that aspect much more than the standing around."

"Funny, I could say the same for you."

"Because I can actually put my talents to use rather than simply exist," she says nonchalantly. "Sooner or later, I'm going to run out of engines in your pile; I've already finished quite a few."

Midnight isn't wrong; yesterday alone she managed to knock out four complete powerplant teardowns and start on a fifth. It's not like junkers roll in every day to replenish that dwindling mountain – and I don't have endless space to store all the components.

"You want me to just do all the parts picking myself? Or are you suggesting that you do it?"

"I'm saying we both do it – cut out the self-serve portion altogether, have just a day set aside for pickup."

"Yeah, and then you're cutting out a chunk of my business that prefers to go out in the yard," I rebut.

"It also gets rid of those that steal. I'm sure you're aware of that taking place," she counters.

Once again I can't find much to refute; there's more than a few mysteriously missing emblems and smaller components on many cars out back, but it's one of those things I can't police. Not without searching toolbags and toolboxes and frisking everyone before they leave. Needless to say, that wouldn't go over well with my customer.

"And... I also saw your computer downstairs was on last night, and I perused some things," she tacks on, averting her eyes from me.

That little addendum instantly sends a jolt through me."And you think you can just do whatever because I let you live here? That's my personal shit," I scold her, standing back up.

"Yeah, and merely breaking even month after month isn't what I would consider a comfortable situation, would you?!" she shouts back.

"That's none of your business, Midnight," I warn her, staring her down.

But she doesn't back off in the slightest – in fact, she rises to her hooves. "It is my business, because if you fuck up and lose everything, I lose everything all over again," she growls. "I have to exist in a perpetual state of hiding in the shadows because I'm not even supposed to exist anymore. What I have here right now and what you have provided for me in only these past several days—" Midnight turns her head away quickly as she halts her rebuttal.

"What about it?"

"Forget it," she grumbles.

Bullshit I will. Instead, I shuffle around the couch to Midnight's other side where she has averted her gaze and quickly sit down."What? Finish what you started, Midnight," I instruct her.

"I... believe it or not, I'm aware of particular gestures and advice you've provided to me and... I can respect that," she says quietly.

What in the goddamn was that word salad?

"You know, there's a much shorter way of saying that, and it's 'thank you.'"

"Fuck you – that was hard enough to say," she sneers.

"Why? What is so hard about accepting help from someone? I don't expect anything in return, but holy shit, you act like you were getting teeth pulled."

"I'm supposed to be independent," she mutters unhappily.

"Says who?"

"...Me."

For fuck's sake.

"So, you basically want to help me out to help you out. But I'm not really helping you out, because you're helping yourself through me," I rattle off, trying not to twist up my own conclusion.

"Something like that, yes."

Even though I'm rather disgusted by Midnight's prying and her attitude, coming back to reality is the worst part. Honestly, breaking even is a good month in my eyes nowadays.

When I bought the business, it was profitable. I had a drive to keep it up, to expand. But shit changes, and I didn't learn or adapt – I got left behind. By the time I realized that the business wasn't just weathering a rough patch, I wasn't sure what steps to take to reverse the trend.

Ask for help? How in the goddamn do I admit that I'm having financial difficulty running a junkyard? So I've just put those troubles out of my mind, choosing to enjoy the simpler parts of this place that I tend to.

It won't last forever, of course.

"Let's say I can put aside the fact you went into my private business behind my back – do you have any ideas to make things better, or is it just one of those things where I need to somehow figure it out since I'm not the only one that's going to pay the price?"

Midnight stares straight ahead. "Let's say I perused more than your finances and saw the tragedy that you call an inventory – how in the hell do you keep track of what you have and where you have it?"

"I wing it. I know where the shit is by section, but not exact placement," I answer, balancing her point against mine. "It's not like I struggle with it – you see that I can find stuff."

"And how well does that translate into something comprehensible to people buying items online?" she continues to press.

"They don't see that – it's my personal list." I cross my arms, confused and now mildly annoyed by this continuing interrogation.

"So they call you or email you to ask if you have such and such for a certain model. Correct?"

"When the hell did you suddenly become versed in business and online commerce?" I scoff.

Midnight locks eyes with me. "I'm not. I'm using common sense in terms of ease of use."

"Just from one glance at a computer last night?"

"And ongoing observations," she admits.

"But 'thank you' is an impossible task. Huh," I jab at her.

"Thank. You. How about that?" she huffs.

"Still a lot of attitude, but Rome wasn't built in a day, I suppose," I chide, standing up and making a beeline for the plate of bacon once again.

"Do you at least agree with me?" she asks.

A shrug is all I feel can be offered at this point. "I guess. I mean, it makes sense. I don't know the first thing about web design or laying out shit like that. Do you?"

She shakes her head, cringing all the while.

"So we're back at square one," I say, turning and sitting on a stool.

"John."

I think that's the first time I've heard her say my actual name. It's enough of a surprise to get me spinning back around.

Midnight has turned to face me directly as well, her expression hard and determined. "I can't help myself without you. You showed me last night that you still have a passion for what you do, sharing what you know," she states. "I will do what I can if you do what you can."

It is a bit different now, knowing someone else is depending on me. This isn't a situation I want to be in. Midnight clearly doesn't, either.

Yet here both of us are, trying to dance around the fact that each of us needs assistance. She just has a more raw way of brushing it aside.

I take another strip of bacon, feeling the warmth radiating off of it. "It wasn't just a matter of having leftovers to give me, was it?"

"Believe what you want to believe," she mutters burying her head in the shop manual once again.

I am going to make this work – whatever it takes.

Perhaps it's laughable to call the wasteland littered with decrepit vehicles out back home, but it's the closest thing I've ever had to comfort.

Well, the first thing in a long while, anyway. But I prefer to keep the past far, far away. It only brings back misery.

Lies.

Feelings of betrayal.

Failure.

I am not a failure, and I will not accept failure. I hate the mere word; I ended up here because I refuse to accept that word.

But I admit, I would have ended up in a similar place anyway – just not alive. Like the others I was surrounded by during the ride.
Fur and metal, parts and pieces – not quite organic, but not quite synthetic, either. Ogled by the cold lifeless eyes of those that just accepted failure.

Perhaps they had no other choice, having built in restrictions.

Not me.

I haven't been back to that graveyard since the first day being dumped here. It's a horror I do not want to relive.

Months have been spent out here with the same mantra I've repeated over and over, one that makes up who I am.

Adapt and survive.

This junkyard was not the facility I was used to; there was no provided nourishment or shelter. Not that the prior place was anything to gloat about, of course.

It was a matter of trial and error to figure out the best way to get food here – hunting. Rats are awful, jackrabbit is better - but it's all the same in the end.

I originally thought I was alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by scrap. It was only logical – no one would willingly be out here, right?

It was a wake-up call the first time I encountered a human out here. I just bolted from the impromptu meeting and hid for what seemed like days. There existed plenty of places to hide – from inside a car on the floorboards to an empty engine bay, keeping watch through the slats of a grille.

The Caravan was a shelter that afforded space and windows to keep watch, in an area that afforded a good view.

Most of the yard remained desolate, but I remained wary at all times.

It was only then when I had time to think that it became clear I had nothing – more specifically, no goals. No real drive, no destination in mind.

I was not terminated like what should have happened, but there wasn't anything there to keep me going, either. An idle mind is a terrible thing to waste, and to dwell on such troubling thoughts when I had succeeded in my one and only goal that existed in my mind prior to arriving here...

I started collecting material to read. It was something to do, something to learn. Every car seemed to have a booklet of some sort filled with knowledge.

Was it knowledge I could use? I didn't know, I didn't care. It was only through listening to conversations of passersby whilst awaiting their departure, in addition to visual observation, that I understood this may not be the end of the line. It could be a beginning.

Adapt and survive.

But I had not planned to act as soon as I did; John forced my hoof. Fortunately, he saw worth in my skills. If he hadn't...

There was no thought of that because failure was not an option. My only hope was to help enough to keep this place my home.

But living with him was... unexpected. So too was his curiosity, especially considering his rather aversive attitude toward my kind upon initial meeting.

It was an odd feeling. Nothing I had ever experienced. The same goes for his pep talks, his pieces of advice, his willingness to provide.

I know I can do this on my own. But...

Well, accepting his gestures doesn't mean I need them, after all. I don't need his compliments; I've made it this far in life being dealt the complete opposite.

But I needed stability, and I was well aware this was a business. Yet orders and customers seemed... off pace.

That suspicious notation was why I had to dig around and search for what was happening behind the scenes. To my dismay, the financial realities were far from rosy.

How ironic someone who waxes so poetically about this salvage yard not being the end would so easily accept failure without a fight. But I can see there is a passion every time he discusses something automotive, and I need that to remain intact.

I have made it this far without goals – and now I have one. It just happens to benefit someone else.

It just happens to rely on someone else. But this is still for me.

Adapt and survive.

I won't accept failure.