“Marx wanted us to be aware of how capitalism can make us aliens to our own bodies, to nature…” I scrunch eyes up and think about the £9,000 per year university fees and additional accommodation costs involved in my higher education. Sheer, unadulterated hypocrisy! I bite the tip of my biro and wish it were my lecturer’s head.
“Think about it. How far can something progress in a linear fashion if its main ethos is to consume, faster and more efficiently?” Professor Lynch’s voice seeps out of his laptop speakers.
It’s my final year studying sociology. Sometimes I wish something would hurry up and swallow us all into a pit, but then again there would always be those who would somehow manage to climb back out only to start the whole disgusting process again.
“We are constantly consuming. Eating. Always pursuing the next goal that somehow equates to progress… or at the very least, a full stomach”, the lecturer’s voice seeps out of the laptop speakers.
“…And that’s all for today’s class. Stay safe. Stay at home.” The feed goes dead.
“£9k per year for youtube teaching, that’s daylight robbery!” jokes Ayla as she jabs me in the ribs, her voice echoes around the porcelain tiles of the tube station.
I shrug my shoulders, “This place is amazing…look at all the moss hanging from the ceiling”.
“Didn’t take you for much of a horticulturist Stu…” her dark eyes draw me closer “You might have been able to make an actual living with that qualification” she says as she coils her hair around her finger.
Sass. That’s one thing Ayla has in bucketloads. Kilos and Kilos of sass.
She moves in for a kiss and I push her away, a wry smile on my face, “You’ll see Ayla. When society falls apart I’ll be there to document it.”
“Well there sure as Hell’s nobody here now… Spooky, isn’t it? I hope you document it”, she says, neck cocked and an expression drowned with sarcasm.
“Do you have the board?” I ask. Changing the subject.
Ayla reaches for her satchel, pulls out a wooden board, six black candles and a leather bound book and places them on the floor.
“You mean this board and these candles?” she says.
I nod. I was kind of hoping she may have forgotten our little arrangement. I take a deep breath of the air, static and heavy with years gone by.
“Ok then. You really want to do this?” I ask.
Ayla’s eyes flit up and down. “I need answers”, she says. She fiddles with her necklace, a silver rose with black thorns, “this was hers. She wanted me to have it. You know how much this means to me”.
I sometimes forget that underneath all that front, is a person dealing with grief. Ayla ushers me to sit down.
“Besides I’ve been doing my homework…” she says as she reaches into her bag and produces a crayon. “There’s a section in this book that says seances are particularly effective when the environment is silent…and with this quarantine in place, and us being in an abandoned tube station and all…. Well, I suppose it would be easier to hear.”
On the grimy tiles of the old underground station Ayla draws a pentagram and sits herself opposite to me.
“Time to find out who really killed my sister”, she says as she lights the match.
The candles dance in the darkness. Despite there being no trains down here since Victorian times, there was still a breeze.
“We need something of Maya’s”, says Ayla as she clutches her necklace. “This should do”, she says as she reaches behind her neck and unclasps it.
Ayla’s face, illuminated by the flames seems almost serene. We sigh in unison.
“I hope this works and you get the answers you’ve been looking for”, I say.
“Me too boyo,” she says as she settles her chain onto the Ouija board.
“OK. So there’s a few rules…I will ask the questions. We have to hold hands, keep one finger on the planchette at all times and do not break the circle until we end the seance by saying goodbye…clear?” Ayla explains.
I nod, “crystal”. I keep my gaze locked on the board.
“We come to speak with Maya Alfonso…” Ayla’s voice bounces off the walls and dissipates. Her grip on my hand is tight.
Nothing. We wait. One second, two seconds, three seconds, 15 seconds pass. There’s a faint drip drip drip of water from somewhere in the neverending ink that surrounds us.
“We come to speak with Maya Alfonso… Move the planchette if you can hear us”, Ayla repeats.
Time passes as though it were stuck in glue. As though the air around us were in the process of coagulation. I squeeze Ayla’s hand and she looks at me, wide eyed “did you hear that?” she says.
I shake my head, “Nope”.
“Sounds like something…breathing”, she whispers.
I shut my eyes and keep them shut, in my head I count to three before I reopen them.
“Maya if you can hear us. Move the planchette…or move your necklace”, Ayla stutters.
The wooden triangle jolts.
“…Are you moving it?”
“Of course I’m not moving it Ayla. Are you?”
She shakes her head and bites her lip as she reads out the letters, ‘N’ ‘O’ ‘T’ ‘M’ ‘A’ ‘Y’ ‘A’
The candles flicker, as though someone sprinted a lap around us. In the distance, there’s a crash as though furniture is being dismantled.
I can smell smoke, as pins and needles begin to attack my finger.
“What is your name?” Ayla asks.
All but one candle snuffs out simultaneously. Through the twilight I can see Ayla has removed her finger from the board. She lets go of my hand.
“You said not to break the circle!” I say.
Her hair flops over her face as her back jerks upwards, legs and arms bent at right angles. I try to flail backwards, away from her. To some other part of the darkness that didn’t include this living nightmare.
She scuttles across the floor, I can hear the scrapes of her fingernails as she moves within inches of my face.
The whites of her eyes glint through the curtain of her hair with no sign of her irises.
“That’s my necklace”, she snaps as she clenches Maya’s necklace.
“What do you want!” I stutter.
“My name is Aamon…” I close my eyes.
Ayla’s perfume hangs in the air as she leans closer, “and I am going to eat you and your friend from the inside out”.
I want to scream but that would require the willpower to fight an overwhelming sense of dread or a belief that if I did scream this thing wouldn’t react.
All I can do is watch as the candles reignite themselves and a tear dibbles down my cheek.
Ayla collapses.
The tunnels were especially quiet this evening. Strange considering you can usually make out the hum of the inner City above. I suppose lockdown measures did equate to a reduced service.
As I shuffle through what would have been the tracks that approach Crystal Palace train station, I can’t help but ponder about my pension. How much longer do I have to man the forgotten depths of this metropolis before I either die or get to enjoy my time as a pensioner. Who knows? I wish I had the money to bet on it.
These warrens often give off the stench of sulphur from the damp in the walls, but tonight it’s especially bad.
The beam of my headlamp leads the way. I’m old enough to remember the hustle and bustle of the station as it used to be, before it was closed in 1954. Times were brighter then, people listened and actually trusted each other as opposed to this endless pretense we call ‘reality’.
Every evening, each week I would inspect the old Victorian tunnels that snake beneath the surface of London.
My job was simple, ensure the tunnels were not open to any liability should anyone ever want to visit this subterranean world. Test electrics, ensure they are off. Fix emergency lighting. You get the picture. I sound as though I’m complaining, but in truth I’m just grateful not to be homeless.
I find the emergency steps, hidden just out of sight and begin to climb onto the platform.
That smell. Now I can place it. Candles.
Now I consider myself a very healthy 68 year old. Don’t smoke. Don’t take drugs. Despite these material facts I swore by on my life insurance policy, I can’t slow the incessant beat of my heart in its bony cage.
The floor is wet. I almost slip over but recover my balance. Beneath the soles of my shoes it feels as though I’m moonwalking on oil.
I tilt my head so the torch can illuminate the source of the leak. Could be a burst pipe. Wouldn’t be the first time.
It’s red. I reach down and rub the substance between my thumb and index finger. My eyes blink in disbelief. Surely not?
Her hair is splayed out on the porcelain in a puddle of blood. Legs and arms twisted. There’s some sort of drawing on the floor along with an array of candles.
My footsteps squelch as I peer over her. There’s a necklace, it glimmers as it sits on the board. I reach down and examine it. Silver markings. Pretty. Worth a quid or two.
I slide the plunder in my pocket. This could pay the bills for a week at least.
My hands shake as I reach for my satellite phone, one modern day necessity that serves a purpose. My mind races, maybe this is all a prank? Some kind of sick joke.
The scream. Full of rage. A man’s scream.
I double check the body of the girl in front of me. Nothing. No movement. Dead. The fading seconds of the cry hang in the void.
The hammer in my chest kicks up a gear. I punch the numbers ‘999’ on the device as it shakes.
“Hello Emergency. Which service do you require?”, says the voice on the other end of the phone.
A hand on my back. I freeze. Try not to make a noise but a little yelp escapes me.
I turn around. A boy, skin as pale as a plague victim stands before me.
“Help me”, he says. His arms wrap around my body as he hugs me. He feels cold.
“Police and ambulance please”, I stammer down the phone.
“How long have you been down here Kid… You have a name?” I ask.
It’s as though I’m trying to communicate underwater, clearly the blood soaked teen was traumatised, or deaf.
The fear ties a knot in my stomach, begging me to stay still or better, hide. Logic dictates action, I tell myself as I command my hand to reach onto his shoulder and shake him.
“What’s your name Kid?” I try again.
He holds onto my waist, head buried in my denim work shirt. I remember the billboards on social distancing and ponder how on earth I was supposed to distance myself from this particular urchin.
There’s no sign of the Police or ambulance so I reach into my pocket for my phone. Surely Mick, that young busybody with his skin stained with tattoos will be working on a site nearby. He’s everywhere, Mick.
I dial number ‘1501’ to make an internal call. I don’t fancy my chances in the underbelly of the City with a dead body and a psychologically fragile teenager in pitch black conditions for too long without going crazy myself. If time were frozen and I were stuck in this place forever I’d say the devil himself would be proud of the Hell he’d created.
The phone rings and there’s a click on the other end as it’s picked up.
I jam the speaker to my lips “Hello…Mick, you there?”
The Kid’s sobs into my midriff. “Yo Grandpa! How’s it hangin’?” says the voice on the phone.
“Listen Mick. Cut the shit. I’ve got a situation here.”
“Right. Sorry Gramps. You need me to get your shopping for you?” says Mick.
Don’t you just hate some young people? Utterly disrespectful.
“I’ve got a dead body and a mute teenager stuck on the platform of the old Crystal Palace station” I blurt. The line goes silent.
“Did you just say you’ve found a dead body?”
“That’s right Mick” I say. I censor the ‘you ignorant tattoo laiden thug’ from my line of persuasion.
“I need your help. Can you get yourself down here. Just until the cops come?” I ask.
“…Yeah. Sure. I’ll be there in five” he says.
I hang up the phone. The job has managed to bore Mick into submission and as such has transformed him into a complete adrenaline junkie. Any sign of adventure or break from the norm and he’s at the forefront, keen to prove to himself that his life is validated in some vain and obscure way.
With both hands this time I rattle him, careful not to touch his skin so as to avoid infection.
“What happened? What were you doing down here? Who is that?” I say as I point to the corpse on the floor.
“Listen to me Kid. The police are coming. You better speak to me before they get here so I can at least try and fill them in” I say.
He pulls his head from my shirt, I notice the fabric is damp from tears.
The kid turns to face the corpse, points and says “Aamon”.
Funny name for a girl, I think to myself.
The clap clap clap of rubber soles ricochet off the brickwork. Further down the tunnel I can make out pillars of light that jut left to right. Torches, finally.
The Kid, whose name I still am yet to distinguish, rocks himself backwards and forwards in the corner of the platform. My headlamp focuses on him, I’m close enough to block him if he decides to run but if he weasles past me the odds are he’ll be free to scarper. My knees are shot and my patience is nonexistent.
“Is that Aamon” I ask the Kid as I gesticulate at the corpse.
No answer. The Kid sobs and places his hands so they cover his ears. Perfect. No chance of getting any info out of the little sod now.
“Gramps!” says Mick, I hear his breath behind the facemask exhale and inhale.
I hate it when he calls me Gramps. He thinks it’s funny, but in truth it’s just another stark reminder that time has caught up with me, that my best years are in the past rather than in the present. I don’t think people realise the gravity of what they say to each other at the best of times.
“You know I hate it when you call me Gramps. I have a name you know!” I reply.
He climbs onto the platform, cocks his head slightly.
“Is that real?” he says, ignoring my comment. The blood flows in ribbens from the girl’s head and waterfalls down the platform edge.
I nod. “So is that” I say as I shine the headlamp back onto the Kid quivering in the corner.
Mick takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it.
“You know, you can’t smoke here”, I remind him.
A plume stretches over his face, “not supposed to kill people down here too. Look how far that rule got people, Gramps”.
Idiot. Still, I was thankful he was here. He could provide the muscle.
“Try and get a bit closer to the Kid, in case he decides to do a runner”, I instruct.
I twist, my joints crack and I’m careful not to slip on the bodily fluids. More torches, at least ten at a push, illuminate the gloom.
“Is that the Police?” Mick asks.
It baffles me that a work employee can reach the scene of a crime faster than the Police, but then again, I suppose not many crimes are reported in abandoned stations.
“Sure hope so” I say.
I feel in my pocket for the necklace, pass my thumb over the thorns, it’s presence reassures me. For a second I imagine myself at home, a glass of Bordeaux in hand and chateaubriand on the table.
Mick pulls me from my reverie, “Mate, are these things supposed to relight themselves?”
“You wh-” I stop myself. Six black candles burn, each one marks the pinnacle of a pentagram.
I scratch my head, “Mick, these are no party candles”.
A man, no older than some of my boxer shorts approaches me with a badge.
Beams from torches blind my vision, “Police! Put your hands in the air”. I do as I’m told and eye the pistol attached to his belt and wonder if he’s ever used it.
While they pat us down, I try to think of the opening line of the Metro, ‘Abandoned station records its highest figures in years as a dead body, mute child, moron and a fossil of a caretaker decide to take the scenic route home’. Never did fancy myself as a reporter.
A medical worker attends to the body, places two fingers on the girl’s neck and shakes his head.
“I’m Detective Grey”, says the young man. His hair is short, crew cut style and is cleanly shaven.
I offer a handshake but retract it and offer a nod instead, “Teddy Donoghue.” Never can be too sure who carries this Godforsaken virus.
Meanwhile, a woman with a polaroid camera captures all the gory details of the murder scene.The flash errupts and I can make out the severity of the wounds, her neck lavender blue and a fissure the length of a ruler down the flank of her skull. Mick endures a host of questions from his respective officer and the Kid with no name halts his rocking to be led away, back down the tunnel with a legion of boys in blue.
The Detective breaks my observations, “Mr. Donoghue…are you listening?”
He sighs, “There’s a few questions I’m going to have to ask you, ok?”
For a whipper snapper, he had an impressive set of black rings under his eyes “Sure go ahead,” I say.
“Did you move the body in any way?”
I shake my head. There’s a certain item of jewelry in my pocket, but I didn’t have to disturb the body to attain it.
“What are you doing down here? Do you know the victim?”
“I’m the caretaker, so I just work here. I don’t know who that girl is, or who’s that Kid that they’re carrying down the tunnel. The only guy I know here is Mick. He works with me,” I keep it short.
“Can you explain to me your relationship with Mick. Why was he here?”
“I needed someone down here with me, Detective. Backup, if you will”, I reply.
His eyes look me up and down and from his waistcoat he slides me his business card which I pocket, alongside the necklace.
“If you need to talk about this to someone we have very experienced counselors. Also, if you remember anything out of the ordinary about this case, please feel free to call me,” he says as he adjusts the tie around his collar.
The Detective clears his throat, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave London for a while…just in case we have more questions”.
“Thanks Detective. I’ll keep it in mind.”
He cuts me loose before Mick, I note. Maybe it’s because I’m an older gentleman and they consider me less of a threat than a muscle clad man who openly flouts the smoking laws, skin albush with tattoos complete with an Essex accent. With these legs it’ll take me an eternity to resurface above ground anyway, I brush it off and assume there’s got to be some perks to being a living relic.
I throw the palm of my hand in the air to signal ‘Goodbye’ to Mick, who flashes a smile and middle finger in return.
I scuttle down the chasm, back above ground to what some may call normality.
Aboard the 227 bus towards Sydnenham, rows of cars lie in wait for their owners to return. Bus advertisements that once exalted expensive brands, replaced with the NHS slogan ‘Stay at home. Protect the NHS. Save Lives’. The world flashes by in a blur, for the first time since I can remember I’m grateful. Thankful for the wheels that with each rotation, moves to bring me closer to home. A safe place.
Aboard the bus, a mother tends to her child and a supermarket employee flicks through the feed on his phone after a long shift. They’re wearing facemasks, even the infant. It’s not that a killer virus doesn’t scare me, it does; especially at my age. It’s just that as I sit on one of the many empty seats on this mobile asylum, I’m aware of something scarier than a parasitic viron that chokes people to death. Fear itself.
The bus meanders past Crystal Palace Museum, the bell rings. The family alight. No one ushers a word, not even a meaningless ‘Goodbye’ to the driver.
Outside a man in tattered clothes, slumps against the wall of a Shell garage; a cardboard placard with writing that no one is ever going to read.
The bus pulls out. We’re all so close to each other, but far away at the same time. Secular society to a T. As a once famous philospoher once said, ‘If a picture is not posted on Facebook, does it exist?’ I cough a little at my own joke and look around, paranoid.
I think the real fear is, when left alone with our conscience, will we be able to explain to a jury well versed on our dirty excuses and secrets exactly why a certain act of ours was valiant or villainous.
I reach in my pocket for the necklace. I have a talent for lying, especially to myself, especially if it’s convenient that I gain from the fall of the fruit. Still, needs must.
I press the ‘call’ button on the seat in front of me and there’s a correlating ‘ding’. My knees click as I drag myself onto my hind legs by holding the bar.
“Thanks” I say to the driver as I step onto the pavement. Layers of amethyst and rose quartz forge an igneous sky, I find it strange that while nature is in the midst of a human cull she remains so hideously beautiful.
I turn down Sydenham Avenue and head to the solace of my flat. Once inside I flip the lightswitch and stick the kettle on. The place needs a lick of paint and a bit of a clean, but it’s home.
The chair creaks as I transfer my weight onto it. The table is full of junk mail and an assortment of bills I’m yet to pay as well as my laptop. I cup my head in my hands and sigh, there’s no rest for the wicked is there? Wouldn’t want those precious multinational corporations to miss out on dividends to their shareholders while the rest of us struggle to cobble together enough money for groceries, even if we were still able to work and weren’t Furloughed.
The concept of opening the bills and the never ending kaleidoscope of financial opportunities, or lack thereof, disgusts me and instead I reach for the necklace. I check for blood spatters or any signs of foul play only to discover that the piece is in fine condition, not even a scratch. A smile graces my lips as I place the rose pendant with it’s silver chain on the tabletop.
The kettle wails as it nears its journey to 100 degrees centigrade. I crack open the screen of my laptop and search ‘where can I sell jewelry near me’. The majority of jewelers are shut, as per government instructions, but I find a Polish Shop in New Cross called ‘Lituanica’ that also has a precious metals department.
From the periphery of my vision I detect movement, then a thud. The kettle quits its infernal racket as I place the palms of my hands on the table to get up.
On the floor is the crucifix from my grandson’s funeral. For a second the image of his pallid complexion, the oxygen mask around his jowel and the perpetual beep of the ICU unit stings into my mind. I swat the reverie away, replace the wooden item on the wall and attend to my tea.
A frown contorts my face. My brain races, perhaps the crucifix was knocked off kilter by the vibrations of passing traffic, would a twenty tonne truck do it? Or maybe it was the neighbours putting up a shelf? There had to be a rational explanation. There always was.
I tut to myself, cursing my own imagination. It’s just one of those things, no need to procrastinate on how it happend, if the virus has taught me one thing it was that if the odds for the unlikely were insanely low it didn’t restrict them from occurring.
Steam pours from the spout of the kettle and I watch it arch and twist as it climbs the cupbaord. I select my mug from the otherwise empty compartment, add the sugar and the teabag and decant the water.
It’s too quiet in here, so I whistle the first tune that comes into my head. I start with the opening chords of ‘Can’t take my eyes off you’ by Andy Williams and head to the fridge for milk. I dash a splash in the mug and stick the bottle back where I found it.
At the table with my cupa I study one of the envelopes, on the front there’s a stamp with my electric and gas supplier on it. I twitch in my seat as I rip the seal and reveal my latest bill.
My eyes strain to make out the kilowatt usage but can make out the monstrosity of the final amount due fine and dandy. I screw the bill into a ball and throw it on trajectory for the bin but miss it by about a meter.
The crucifix drops from the wall and makes a thwack on the floor, once again. From my seat I move to inspect the rogue item. The standby light of the TV screen flickers off and the screen bursts to life, I freeze. The fear returns, it saturates every pocket of air I breathe; laden with ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ anoxic in its seduction.
The LED display parades world leaders behind their respective national flag and flashes to the UK. A graph that maps fatalities from the virus marks an upward trend, it cuts to the newsroom “Thanks Jill, is there any evidence to suggest that we can expect to see the death rate fall anytime soon?”
I wheeze as I kneel, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about the timber cross in my hand and Jesus just stares back at me as if to say ‘Your move’. I hang the cross back on the wall. On the table, there’s a cornucopia of bills but no necklace. In a blink the microwave bulb flares and the turntable begins to rotate.
Gasping, I force myself to investigate. Through the window of the appliance door, sparks rocket at all angles and the smell of smoke pollutes the air. I turn off the dial and it makes a ‘ding’. Stealing a moment of relief, air fills my lungs and my thoughts return to the job before me.
I open the door to the microwave and vapour evacuates the site of the disaster like rats from a sinking ship. The tea towel nearby the oven is dry, so I wrap it around my hand and count to three in my head. From the knot of smog I recover the offending article and through the fabric of the cloth the heat stings at my fingers. The necklace clunks as it drops back onto the tabletop, complete with the rag beneath it.
My heart pulses in my chest, as though trying to break free of my body. The chime of ‘Brrring Brrring’ fills my ears and I make my way toward the hallway to collect the call.
It’s as though someone punches me in the stomach, the front door is wide open. I make out the garden with its rose bushes and assortment of brambles and above that an obsidian darkness that blinks back at me with the same numbness as a lens from one of the many satellites lost in space.
‘Brrring Brrring’ I wait and hope whoever it is hangs up so I can avoid confrontation.
‘Brrring Brrring…Brrring Brrring’
My knees express their displeasure at having to move in the form of several pops. I slam the door against its frame and triple check the locks, ensuring the chain is attached.
The phone continues its incessant tirade, part of me longs to smash the handpiece and stamp on its tiny electronic parts until silence is eventually achieved. Using the wall to support my back I slide towards the wretched phone.
“Hello” I stutter down the receiver. The line sputters, the rustle of a breeze the only audible element.
“Who’s there?” My ears strain to hear but I make out a child’s wail, only the noise is relentless and lacks the required space for a person to breathe. The cry is distant at first but as each second passes, grows closer and louder until the author of the noise can no longer logically resinate from an infant but to some kind of repulsive alarm loop. The scream changes pitch, shrill and caustic it pierces my eardrums. The device smacks back against the cradle as I hang up.
Count to three and take a deep breath. My chest burns as oxygen rushes to replenish the demand on my lungs, the small suburban world of my flat spins 360 degrees and spews me into the bathroom.
With both hands I prop myself against the washbasin and study my reflection in the mirror. Wrinkles stretch across my complexion as though superhighways, my hairline once fecund now barren; despite my physical decline I smile back at the image, proud.
“It’ll take a lot more than that to knock this old codger into a coffin”, I chuckle at the mirror.
The tap releases a stream of water as I twist the knob. I cup my hands together and splash the liquid over my face, letting it cool my forehead. Without water we’d cease to exist. The earth as we currently know it would be nothing but a lifeless slab of space rock and yet, we assume it will continue to provide; what a selfish species we are, I think to myself as the droplets swan dive from the apex of my bald head.
I respire, slow and easy as I douse myself once again with water, careful to keep my eyes closed. The TV, from the kitchen/diner muffles the words “We are doing everything we can to provide PPE to those on the frontline at this time of crisis,” I reach for the towel and dab myself down.
I count to three. The world rushes back into view as I hang the towel back upon the hook. Water spits from the tap as I turn the knob. Something brushes against my skin, lubricious in nature.
A pit of snakes seethe about the porcelain. I struggle to swallow as I force myself away. Through the metallic cylinder a fresh serpent plops into the ever growing pool of horror.
The creatures spill over the edge of the hand sink and slither toward my legs. I kick one against the bath and it makes a satisfying thud. There’s a collective hiss as the legless lizards advance, writhing in front of me, baying for blood.
I reach for the door. A serpent coils itself round the handle and launches itself at my arm. I swat at it with my spare limb but it only serves to tighten its grip. A sea of hungry mouths wriggle closer as I make it to the bathroom door and slam it behind me.
The plasterboard cracks as my arm crashes into it as I attempt to stun the animal to relinquish its grasp. A sensation, similar to that of a hypodermic needle as it punctures skin, emanates from my forearm as the snake plunges its fangs into my body. Blood pirouettes off my radius and collects in puddles on the floor, instead of the vertebrate clinging to me as though it were a leech, it dips beneath the flesh; a bulbous trainwreck that leads toward my bicep.
The front door is open, again. I ignore it and speed towards the kitchen. A swell of pressure roams intravenously towards my shoulder and I spy the knives on the counter. The viscous trail of sludge arcs up my arm, I pull the small yet sharp blade from the rack and trace with my free hand the exact location of the serpent’s head. It’s yet to travel to my neck, its jaw snaps open and shut like an overused dustin lid.
With the tip of the knife I make an incision and claret seeps from the wound. I reach inside the void and release a howl. My digits search the warmth of the laceration and I feel the creature dart to avoid them.
My heartbeat quickens as I trap the muscular tentacle between my index and middle fingers. Another countdown to three. 1,2,3. I rip my arm away as the offender struts bullishly left to right in search of the path of least resistance, fluid redecorates the carpet a sanguine hue. Scales, emerald and bloody protrude at a steady pace from my body until I’m finally rid of the intruder. The snake unleashes a hiss, I pin it down in the kitchen sink and hack away until I dismember the thing with the blade. The tail falls lifeless and joins the rest of the carcass in the basin.
I search for something to apply pressure on the wound. I remember the tea towel and swivel to face the table complete with the necklace and its myriad of bills. With a shaky hand I grab the fabric well aware that it’s missing a certain piece of jewelry and wind it round the lesion until I tie it in a bow.
I scout the open space for the first time. The plasterboard is no longer cream and the words ‘ego tecum vivit comedent’ plague every cubic millimeter in biro.
On the TV set a scientist reasons with a presenter, “We must reconsider the fundamentals of consumer culture. Everything we put into our bodies, every item we bring into our home has a history and we must consider where it has been before we decide to buy it”.
Knife in hand, the world spins, my legs give way and I slump against the sofa.
A hiss emerges from the corner of the room.
—
Word Count 5,881
Written By Sebastian King 17.04.2020
Credit for image: Nacho3
Idol Hands 