Pet

by Akwaeke Emezi

Bitter knew her name was heavy, but she hadn’t minded, because it was honest. That was something she’d taught Jam—that a lot of things were manageable as long as they were honest.

“Monsters don’t look like anything, doux-doux. That’s the whole point. That’s the whole problem.”

Good and innocent, they not the same thing; they don’t wear the same face.”

We are each other’s harvest. We are each other’s business. We are each other’s magnitude and bond. “Yes, child. Angels aren’t pretty pictures in old holy books, just like monsters aren’t ugly pictures. It’s all just people, doing hard things or doing bad things. But is all just people, our people.”

“Nna mehn, Bitter. Are you sure this one doesn’t want to become real?”

Um, what exactly are you? Its chest fur rippled, and it tilted its head. Why don’t you ask your mother? it deflected. She’s the one who made me.

The same Bitter who wouldn’t let Jam get a pet had gone and called up a monster.

Well, little girl, it replied, I suppose you can call me Pet.

Pet hummed, a light vibration shaking through the room. I don’t know yet, I am rife with unknowns, part of the hunt is to make the not-known known. Not just to me, or us, but to the not-knowers, so that they may know, the truth is in the knowing.

There was a time when she would sit beside Jam’s bed and read her N. K. Jemisin books until Jam drifted off, only leaving when sleep wrapped heavy around the room.

When Bitter told Jam that the angels must have had to do dark things, hard things, Jam had thought of Hibiscus and the way his eyes sometimes looked like sad stones embedded in his head.

That is why you are important: there must be a hunter like me; there must be a hunter who is human, who can go where I cannot go, see what I cannot see.

That’s precisely the point, little girl. Your knowing, you think it gives you clarity, sight that pierces. It can be a cloud, a thing that obscures.

Listen to me, little girl, it said. You want many things, you are full of want, carved out of it, made from it, yes. But the truth does not care about what you want; the truth is what it is. It is not moved by want, it is not a blade of grass to be bent by the wind of your hopes and desires.

The truth does not change whether it is seen or unseen, it whispered in her mind. A thing that is happening happens whether you look at it or not. And yes, maybe it is easier not to look. Maybe it is easier to say because you do not see it, it is not happening. Maybe you can pull the stone out of the pool and put the moon back together.

Their worry felt like a blanket they kept trying to throw over her shoulders, one she kept having to shrug off.

Do not measure, Pet said in her head. A monster is a monster. A hunt is a hunt. It is simple that way.

Monsters can be anyone, it said. We hunt them anyway.

How do we know we’re doing the right thing? she asked. There is no right thing, Pet replied. There is only the thing that needs to be done.

know I can’t stop you if you don’t want to stop. But the town will learn nothing this way, the families will learn nothing. They’ll keep pretending all the monsters are gone; they won’t remember to look for them. They might not believe us.”

I think Pet was an angel, Jam said. Her mother looked at her studiously. “Is possible,” she said. I mean a real angel. “I know what you mean, child. Angels could look like many things.” So can monsters. Bitter’s face grew sad. “Yes, doux-doux. I know.”