did you know? there are devils
living in the bay
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there is a small growth just beneath the medial third of my left clavicle that I haven't told anyone about. it doesn't hurt or move when I touch it, it's just there; an abnormal lump of - flesh I suppose. It has become something of a habit of mine to touch it when I'm thinking or distracted, such as I am now. Perhaps its the flashing lights or blaring bass, but I seem to have entered some sort of a trance. My index and middle finger absentmindedly trace concentric circles around the inconspicuous bump on my chest, palpating its contours through the fabric of my shirt. Without warning, a vision of a girl swims into view. I am vaguely aware of still being seated at the bar facing a wall of spirits, as one is vaguely aware of their breathing or blinking, but my attention is being drawn elsewhere. Just to clarify, out of body experiences are not normal for me. I've never participated in any tarot readings or seances or even touched an Ouija board before, so you can imagine my surprise when her figure suddenly appeared to me, but I have lived long enough to learn to accept surprises. A part of me writes it off as some odd alcohol induced apparition, but whatever, if my drunken subconscious wants to show me visions of pretty girls, I have no reason to protest. There she sits with a markedly disinterested expression on her face, as if waiting for a friend to rejoin her so that they can leave. She has strawberry blonde shoulder-length hair and is wearing a fantastic bright green dress, one that hugs her curves nicely but consists of enough fabric to contain some mystery. Her face is obscured by shadows, but she looks to be about 20? perhaps 24? Certainly no older than 25. A young man with perfectly ruffled dark brown hair slides confidently into the seat beside her.
Hi, what's your name?
Jessica.
That's a lovely name.
It's not really my name. Like, it was my grandmother's name, but I stole it cause I liked how it sounded. Plus, I got bored of my real name. You like it?
Uh, yeah. What's your real name then?
Hmm? Oh, sorry I gotta go. You seem like a real nice guy though. tata
He stares after her in confusion as she gathers her purse, gets up and walks away. He doesn't seem too disappointed though. He simply looks around for a moment, then stalks away to find easier prey. The camera in my head follows her at a distance as she wades her way through the crowded dance floor. She then makes a sharp left turn, approaching my imaginary camera, coming closer and closer. I see her clearly now - she has a small, delicately defined nose and a pair of rosebud lips, as well as a mean look in her mascara lined eyes, filled with some sort of burning desire or intent. Combined with her graceful lankiness, she could've passed for a supermodel. She stops abruptly, her face filling the frame and staring, it seems, straight at me.
Hey.
The tone is accusatory. I hear it being said in my head and then a split second later, when the sound enters my ears. It's then that I realize that the source is standing quite immediately behind me. I snap back into my body, eyes unfocused upon rows of liquor and turn in my stool to find myself being accosted by a skinny blonde in a glamorous green dress - an exact replica of the one that appeared in my head - every detail the same, from her crown down to her cuticles.
You were watching me, weren't you? She sounds sort of offended, but also wary, as if I had been discovered taking pictures of her secretly, which is not true. I had no idea what I was doing.
Excuse me?
Just now, with the guy. You saw all of that, didn't you?
Her inquiry contains no sense of uncertainty. Even though I'm slightly tipsy, I'm pretty sure that this makes no sense. The sheer absurdity of the whole situation and force of conviction behind her assertion, for a moment, overwhelms my common sense and, along with it, the most primal of instincts, that gut feeling that urges you to deny everything and feign ignorance when you're not sure where a question is going. I unwittingly nod in acknowledgement. She shoots me a look that says, I thought so. She allows her gaze to linger for a second or two until she's satisfied that her disdain is apparent to me. She turns around without a word, her bare back visible through the low cut design of her dress. Come. She issues forth the imperative with the urgency and authority of an impatient monarch, and then disappears. Not literally, of course, but it appeared that way. I rise from my seat slowly, searching the crowd for her. As I do this, I begin to regain some of my senses. Who on earth was she? How did she know I was watching her? And more importantly, who does she think she is? Telling me to Come like that. And yet, I feel strangely compelled to comply, as if something disastrous would happen if I didn't. I rest my fingers on the lump on my chest, its familiar shape oddly comforting to me. There, I glimpse her strawberry blonde hair and slender back slipping through an inconspicuous door near the restrooms, painted the same shade as the walls. I make my way towards the door, squeezing through the hot, sweaty hordes of gyrating bodies on the dance floor. The lights seem to flash with increasing frequency and intensity, psychedelic illuminations painting the flailing limbs and bobbing heads, bathing them in shifting incandescence. Suddenly, I feel dizzy. Something in my stomach starts to churn, it's making its way up towards my mouth. An alarm bell starts ringing in my head - I have to get out of here. I push through the inky figures surrounding me and make a dash for the door. The distance starts to span and stretch before me, the wretched doorknob growing further and further away. I won't be able to make it in time. Horror and dread starts to build as something like a great snake uncurls in my stomach. The air grows thick, jelly-like; my body feels the slow push of its resistance. Just a little bit more. All of a sudden, the door appears within reach, the rapidly pulsating lights urging me to enter. I just manage to close the door behind me before retching alcohol and gastric fluid onto the floor. It makes a sickly sound as the viscous solution hits the ground. My throat burns with bitterness and bile. It smells disgusting. I stay doubled over, hands on my knees, waiting for the nausea to subside. Another wave starts to thunder from deep within. As it makes its way violently up my throat, I choke and gag on my own spit trying to expel the contents of my empty belly. I gasp desperately and remain motionless for about a minute. My erratic breathing eventually becomes regular again. It's over, that's the worst of it, I tell myself.
Spoke too soon.
One last spasm, lurking deep within my gut, just waiting for me to let my guard down, launches itself like a rocket heavenward, crashing along my insides wildly and amidst the stifled chaos of my innards trying to escape, I feel something unusual - something that shouldn't be there - begin to rise up my oesophagus. A single pearl made of jelly or something like it enters my mouth. No larger than a marble, its shape on my tongue is unmistakable. There is no discernible taste, but something about its shape, or its size or consistency, or maybe just the fact that it traveled up from my stomach makes me regard it as something vile and unclean. I spit it out immediately with great force and catch a glimpse of it as it flies and disappears from my mouth into the shadowy abyss. It is black.
A breeze hits me and I find myself on some precipice, staring down into a sea of stars. My surroundings are completely dark, there is no light, save for the distant glimmer of the celestial bodies that seemingly surround me, an infinity away on all sides. Before I can figure out where I am or how I got here, I become aware of a slowly approaching figure, backed by the dim inconspicuous glow of the universe as it breathes silently. It closes in, deliberately and with the steady regularity of an unconscious man's beating heart. I am mesmerised by this clockwork procession. By now, I can faintly make out that the figure in the distance belongs to a woman. She draws nearer, slowly. I am beginning to feel drowsy, my limbs feel like lead. With every step, a new feature is revealed to me and I'm drawn deeper and deeper into her strange spell. She has long black hair with gentle waves that frame her face. My eyelids grow heavier. She has almond eyes and a grave expression. The hairs on my arms and neck are standing. Her face is pale, almost glowing, the light reflecting off her skin creating an aura of luminescence about her. My whole body is tense, unable to move, every muscle locked into place. She looks around thirty, no twenty, perhaps eighteen, and then thirty again. Her cheekbones and orbits of her eyes at once look both mature and undefined, shifting beneath the shadows, making her actual age impossible to discern. She stops an inch away from my face and stares straight into my eyes. Her eyes are cold, like the space surrounding us - vacant and unforgiving. She is very beautiful, not like a model or actress, but there is confidence and conviction beneath her skin. Her features are inscrutable - no traces of thought or emotion upon her brow. She takes a single step forward and leans in close towards me, the edges of her cheek almost grazing mine. Her lips open, I can hear them part. They hover just over my ear, and then she whispers something terrible.
This is the part of the job that I hate the most - the drudgery of it all. Check boxes, blank forms, names and dates. The thing about paperwork is that nobody likes doing paperwork, otherwise, we'd be able to hire people to do our paperwork for us and pay them peanuts. I lean back in my chair and put my hands on the desk, gripping the smooth mahogany. I wonder if I could actually pay someone in peanuts. He'd have to really like peanuts, or they'd have to be really really good peanuts. Okay, focus, I tell myself. If I keep letting my mind wander, I'll never be done. I take a look around at the tomes and volumes on the austere bookshelves surrounding me. Orange light from the lamp on my desk casts long shadows across the room. The carpet, furniture and walls are all painted a variant of the same colour tone; it's supposed to create a 'harmonious' work-space - an atmosphere conducive for form-filling and etc. etc. but I just find it really boring. Why is my office so brown? I wonder. I return my attention to the paper in hand. The lines of words start to blur, I can hardly read them. I feel sooo tired for some reason. I take off my glasses and try to rub the sleep from my eyes but it doesn't work. I look at my watch. 4.05am. That can't be right - I never stay in my office past seven. Suddenly, the doorknob starts to rattle. I remain silent, stunned. I hear a key sliding into the lock. It turns, metal tumblers and grooves clicking swiftly into place. The door swings open and the girl from the bar begins to enter casually. As soon as she catches sight of me, she stops dead in her tracks. I wonder if she recognizes me. She stands in my doorway incredulously, her bright green outfit looking very out of place in the midst of a room dominated by brown. Her eyes are wide, shocked. She looks at me as if I am a ghost. After a moment, she finally opens her mouth to speak. In panicked and hushed tones, she utters a single question, each word dripping with dread:
what are you doing here?
I am awake in my bed, completely drenched in sweat. I sit up and look around. I am in my room, but something is not right. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can make out shapes and edges traced in moonlight. The furniture and books have been tossed about as if hit by an earthquake or hurricane. The empty bookshelves lay overturned and broken lamps are scattered across the room, with loose leaves of papers still rustling about. The moon shines in through tattered curtains, half hanging from fractured rings and chipped edges of the windowsill. A girl I've never seen before stands across the room, her back to the door like a startled animal in a cage. What have you done she whispers.
My hand reaches for my chest reflexively, searching for something that isn't there. I look down. The growth is gone.
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i hope horoscopes are actually telling the truth
I didn't read through all of this, I'm far too busy for that sort of thing. And far too important. Busy being important (or the other way round, or neither)
ReplyDeleteThat being said though, it was gripping. Think of it as a complement that I preferred not to read the whole thing so I won't spoil it for myself with a mere cursory understanding (: