u/No_Gravitay

This morning, while the gray sun first cast its rays, I gazed out my window to see the fields.
Despite my house overlooking every blade of grass, my eyes and I possess an intuition not to overstay the welcome we have been granted. 
After all, the field has no ability to stare back.
I have accepted that it is not my duty to observe them as they waver and bow together.
They are pushed and pulled by the sharp white wind without a single thought. The grasses possess no ability to acknowledge my existence. They live perfectly content as they are, and I am not to interrupt their peace.
They mold into one, blurring together into their own sea.
Like a spring of melted gold, bubbling and churning over itself.
But when I truly look, I see every blade for what it is. An individual. Eyeless, mouthless, earless.
A stalk, wearing a hat of brass beads.
I avert my gaze back into my own home.

The cutting wind rises in intensity, bringing up a bout of worry in me.
For every day, when the wind blows, the gable twists, and the roof falls further from its post. 
For a short time after the wind first came, I wondered what would become of my fellow creatures that call the roof’s shelter home.
My question was answered on the day I first became the witness to its slow hunt.
To my knowledge, the arc of the roof performs its executions via crushing, like a giant wooden venus flytrap. 
They are too ignorant to notice, the squirrels, the raccoons, and the mice.
Little do they know, slowly sneaking up on them, blink by blink, is not a predator, but the arc of their hiding place itself.
When the wind blows, the gable twists, and it brings them closer together.
The bodies become a single blended mass. The sound of bones breaking disguises itself very nicely as the creaking of a house settling.
They join the structure, assisting the roof with the burden of its weight.
Every day I hear less and less of them burrowing holes into the wood of my ceiling in search of escape.
The decay attracts more animals, who are eager for a scavenge. And as they are nature, they eat what they can, even when it is their own brothers and sisters.
I hear their pittering and pattering, I hear their feasting, but they stop eventually. Because when the wind blows, the gable twists. 
And when there is no more flesh beneath to hold up the great arc, it leaves its post once again to hunt. 

I adjusted my position in my wooden seat as the wind cut a cold sting into my spine.
I turned a page in my book, pinching and rubbing it to ensure the pages didn’t stick together.
A small snap caught my attention. My eyes drifted upwards of their own accord. Not discovering anything of interest, they drifted further. Finding themselves at the window again. I quickly redirected my gaze back to my book.
As I began the next paragraph, the first word suddenly vanished.
I squinted and leaned in.
The word had been replaced by a small splatter, darkish red in color.
“Is this how you thank me?”
I jolted and quickly stared up at the ceiling.
The words echoed through my head.
I hadn’t spoken in months, I simply haven't needed to. This fact brought a peculiar idea to my head.
My ears rang as I recalled the noise, which had already become a memory, but it refused to associate itself with any voice I had heard before. So the noise remained anonymous.
I felt a sense of tingling in my ears. Provocative thoughts of hatred and rage gathered within me. The voice is a gift, so you must use it.

I shook my head violently to rid myself of the thoughts.
I looked at the first word once again. It was still gone.
Another drop fell onto the first word, causing the liquid to spread further. I had to take action now.
I stood up sluggishly, my knees cracking and jittering in protest. 
I ventured across my room, avoiding the containers sprawled across the floor, and stepping carefully across the loud, squeaky planks.
I made sure to only put the ball of my foot on the ground to avoid acquiring a splinter, which is one of the greatest discomforts.
I stopped between my door and my window. Next to my foot, there was the deer’s hide I kept as storage. I gently unfolded it, and brought out a teacup. 
It had three chips out of the handle, and one out the bottom. A high level of quality compared to the majority.
I scrutinized its appearance, searching for the egregious imperfection that has caused many others to be discarded.
There were four sky blue spiral designs on the surface. The basin was nicely shaped, the yellowing was mild, and it gave me quite the pleasant sight.
A dull snapping sound came from behind me. 

I widened my eyes, craning my neck to my window, which was closed, scanning over the ceiling, which was still just as raised, and observing the floor, which was not dipped or cracked.
I stood up fully, resting my hand on my chest and breathing slowly to calm my heart.

After a moment, I squatted back down to the hide, and carefully folded it over again to prevent too much exposure to the outside air.
I went back to my chair awkwardly, thrown off balance by the acquired object in my left hand. I leapt over the buckets and wooden scraps, stretching my legs as far as they could to minimize the steps wasted. 
When I arrived, I leaned over and placed the teacup in the precise spot I had been holding my book when the drop landed.
I looked up at the ceiling. The wood was a deep, stained brown.

Quietly, I positioned my book back to its rightful spot in front of my eyes, and licked the blood off of the missing word. I strained my vocal cords to read it.

“Behold,” I read.
My eyes drifted to the next word, “I am”
A drop fell into the teacup.

"I Witness" - A short story by No_Gravitay