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| Since you been gone (3585 words) (formatting sorted out) | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| 14 November 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||||||
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Lazy writers - song lyric Bit darker. I tried to capture the increasing claustrophobia as the story goes on by changing the writing style. Not one of the stories I'm sure about. ambivilent. Brickbats welcome.' I get the same old dreams, same time every night Fall to the ground and I wake up So I get out of bed, put on my shoes, and in my head Thoughts fly back to the break-up These four walls are closing in Look at the fix you've put me in Since you been gone, since you been gone I'm outta my head, can't take it Could I be wrong, but since you been gone You cast the spell, so break it He was running through the streets. Up ahead Annie was running from him. He was trying to catch her, but she didn’t understand. She was frightened of him, upset. He had done something wrong. He couldn’t see her, but he knew somewhere up ahead, just out of sight, she was running. He reached a crossroads, and he didn’t know which way to turn. He started to run down one of the streets. It was the wrong one, but now he couldn’t stop running. There was something behind him. He had to run. He had to escape. He couldn’t turn round, couldn’t see what it was. His legs were failing, he couldn’t run fast enough. It was Annie chasing him. He knew it was her, without seeing her, and she filled him with dread. She wasn’t the mousy little girl he had chatted up at the nightclub. She was altogether more powerful, more frightening. And he hadn’t noticed how, but now he was running across the rooftops, leaping over alleys in slow-motion flight. But she was gaining on him, he could feel her on his heels. Suddenly there was a street cutting across the roofs he was running across. He prepared himself for one last desperate leap, but he stumbled, tripped on the edge and suddenly plummeted. He woke up, arms flailing at the air, legs caught up in the duvet. The fear from the dream was still there in his stomach. He lay there for a moment, weak from the fright. Something was not right. Something… He turned to Annie, but she wasn’t there. Damn, that was what was wrong. They had fought last night. Fair enough. He couldn’t really expect anything else. She had found out about… what was her name? Carol? Kathy? Somebody he had met at the hotel last week. Note to self, delete all incriminating text messages from phone. What did she expect though? He was away the whole week. What should he do? Become a monk? She must know that it didn’t mean anything. It was just his dick getting hard. The fact that there was some slapper there at the time meant nothing. Jesus! It’s not like they were married or anything. He sat up, then immediately lay down again. Christ, he had put a few away last night. She had gone storming off to the spare room, screaming all sorts of shit at him, and he had opened that bottle of 20 year old malt he had meant for Christmas. Had he finished it? He didn’t think so, but he must have had a damn good try. His stomach churned, his head hurt and spun, and his mouth felt as though it had been carpeted. He tried again, slowly. Supporting himself on the wall, the wardrobe, anything he could lean against, he made his way to the bathroom. He was still too dizzy to stand still, so he sat on the toilet, girly style. The dizziness started to pass. He didn’t think that he would need to upchuck now. He filled the basin with cold water, then plunged his face into it. He held his breath for as long as he could, then sat on the edge of the bath, face buried in the towel. He didn’t think he was up for a shave. His hands were still trembling. Besides, it was Saturday. He would clean his teeth, though. The thought of putting the toothbrush into his mouth made him nauseas again, but it had to be done. The taste in his mouth was foul. He cleaned his teeth, fighting the retch impulse, then spat it out into the basin. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. There, reflected back to front across his forehead, she had written ‘bastard’ in lipstick. Oh, very mature. He must have been well out of it last night. He rubbed at it with a flannel. It remained there, pretty in pink. Bitch! He lathered up the soap and attacked it. The worst of it went, but still you could faintly make it out. What the hell did they make this stuff from? Maybe he could hide it. He tugged at his fringe, trying to hide the… What the hell? She had scalped him! An uneven chunk of his hair was missing from the left side of his fringe. The bitch! The spiteful cow! “Annie!” he shouted, then grabbed the top of his head as his brained slammed into it. Damn, this hangover was bad. OK, he had been caught out with another woman, but this was taking things too far. He stormed into the spare room. “Annie…” but she wasn’t there. He checked the kitchenette and the living room. She wasn’t there either. He looked out the window. Her car was gone. Just as well she had run. Just as well he didn’t catch her this morning, or hangover or no, he would teach her a lesson. Wait till she came back, though. Then a vague memory stirred. Hadn’t she once laughed at an article where a woman had cut off the leg of every pair of trousers her husband had? His Armani! He rushed back to the bedroom, but his stuff was untouched. His good suit, his shirts, everything looked OK, except… What was wrong with this picture? It took him a moment to realise. His stuff was fine. Her stuff, however, wasn’t there. He checked the drawers. She had taken all her stuff. He must have been in a coma last night. The rushing around was now coming back to punish him. He felt queasy. He went into the living room and sat on the sofa. Stuff her! She had been the one that wanted to move in anyway. And she was always on at him about staying out late, or putting his stuff away in his own flat, or wanting to watch some girly shit on TV when there was a match on. Stuff her! He was better off without her anyway. To be honest, she had been getting on his tits lately. Too clingy. He would probably have dumped her soon anyway. Stuff her. God, he felt ill. He slowly got up and made his way to the kitchenette. He downed a couple of parcetemol. Muesli. That was his cure for hangovers. Muesli to settle the stomach, and loads of water. He didn’t feel like eating, but he knew from experience that he would feel better for it after a while. He switched on the TV, found the news channel and slumped on the sofa, muesli bowl in hand. He let the news wash over him, forcing a spoonful of muesli down at irregular intervals. God he felt ill. When he felt up to it he would need to go the hairdressers. He had a beanie he could stuff his head into, so no-one would notice. If the lipstick was still visible after another wash he could pull the beanie low over that too. Maybe he would stay in this evening. Maybe not. If he had recovered he would go out. Stuff her. He might pull tonight, just to show her. It would be her fault, treating him like this. God he felt ill. He closed his eyes for a moment against the light from the window. That felt better. Maybe a short nap, then he’d try to scrub that bitch’s message off… … He had a crick in his neck, and his arm had gone to sleep. It was dark. He rubbed his eyes. The clock in the corner of the TV news channel said it was just after 5. Shit! He had slept the day away. The hairdresser! He had missed it. There was no chance of getting there now. Stupid bloody woman. What was he going to do now? He dragged himself into the bathroom. His guts were like water now, but his stomach had settled, and the headache had dulled. He’d be right as rain in an hour or so, after a shower. Still, he’d give the pub a miss tonight. He didn’t feel like company. Besides, there was still his hair to sort out. He wondered whether he might risk a go himself, just to even up the fringe. He sought out the kitchen scissors and held them over his fringe, looking in the bathroom mirror. Every time he tried to get the blades at the right angle, he tilted his hand the wrong way. He couldn’t get used to the mirror inversion. His eyes told him to go one way but his hands went the other. No, he’d have to pull a sicky on Monday and get it cut then. After his shower he poured a bowl of cornflakes, made himself a coffee and sat in front of the sports channel. The hell with it, he’d have a smoke as well. She had tried to make him smoke out the window, and it was his bloody flat! Might as well have a whisky too. The hell with her. He was single now. He could do what the hell he wanted. Hair of the dog, and all that. Sometime later he was watching the match. It wasn’t particularly exciting, but what else was there to do? Something caught his eye. Just on the periphery, a quick movement. He turned sharply. There was nothing there. Just the wall, the window. Maybe it was shadow from outside. A pigeon flying past the streetlight, or a car turning somewhere. He went back to watching the no-scoring match. There! Again. Something had moved. He got up, and walked towards the window. As he reached the window a wave of nausea hit him, and the window leapt forward, hitting him on the forehead. He pushed himself back, falling to the floor. God, that was weird. The whole freaking wall had moved forward and hit him. He pushed himself back, sliding his backside across the floor, away from the window. Then he started to feel foolish. Of course the wall hadn’t moved. He had seen out of the window, and suffered a bout of vertigo, that was all. He was still a bit shaky from last night’s session. Or maybe it was something more. Perhaps he was going down with the flu. His dad had always said, ‘the best cure for a cold was to go to bed with a bottle of scotch and a good woman, if you could find a woman willing to buy you a bottle of scotch.’ Guess the good woman bit was out of the question. Bitch! He regained the anchorage of the sofa, and felt a little better. He drained the last of the scotch into his glass. Well, that was a waste of good whiskey. The way he had chugged it back the last two nights it might have well been a bottle of Teachers. He started to channel surf. When had Saturday Night become such a crap night on TV? 500 cable channels and not one thing worth watching. He should have gone out tonight, not stayed in like a whining puppy. Too late now. Again, something moved, making him flinch. Damn it, what was that? It was bloody irritating. He would close the curtains. He lifted himself heavily off the sofa and slowly moved towards the window. As he got closer the nausea started to rise again. The memory of the nightmare popped into his mind. What the hell was up with him? Maybe it was food poisoning. He was a couple of feet from the window now, and the wall seemed to be pulsating. He was sweating, scared he would fall. Scared he would plummet to the street below, and this time he would not wake up in time. He closed his eyes and reached out. Blindly he pulled at the curtains, but in his mind’s eye he could still see the terrible drop. Then he staggered back, opened his eyes and made his way back to the sofa. Maybe he should lay off the booze, at least for a day or so until his system sorted itself out. There was some American cop show on the TV. He let his mind gently numb itself with the standard clichés. He was the tough one. She was the naïve rookie with insights into people. He was the junkie that would make good right at the end. Blah blah blah. The wall pulsated again, out of the corner of his eye. It was like it had jumped forward 2 inches then jumped back one. He looked at the wall again. The curtains were closed. There was nothing there. But he had the uneasy feeling that the wall was a little closer than it should have been. Maybe it was a brain tumour, making him see things. He grinned at himself. Plonker. It was a twitchy eye, poor sleep and whisky. He slumped further down in the sofa, rested an elbow on the armrest and supported his head on his hand. The spread palm shielded the wall from his sight. He really ought to go to bed, have a decent night’s sleep. But he was lethargic. He would go later, not just now. Watch a bit more TV. Maybe later… He was walking down the street, and he had forgotten to get dressed. Maybe people wouldn’t notice. He needed to get back to his flat and get some clothes on. People started staring at him. They were pointing, but he couldn’t hear them. They silently shouted at him. He didn’t understand. He started to run, to get back to the flat, where he could change. The crowd started to chase after him. And there was Annie, at the head of the crowd. He was running through fields. He vaguely knew this field. Up ahead was the bay where he had holidayed with his parents when he was a kid. People in the crowd chasing him were gradually being absorbed by Annie. She was as big as a house now, and every time she absorbed someone else she became bigger, faster, more powerful. The sea was up ahead. If he could reach the sea he would be safe. She was right behind him now, reaching out. Oh my God! The cliff! As he fell he awoke, and he was actually falling. He cried out, but he was only falling from the sofa. He lay there for long seconds, lying amongst the shards of the cereal bowl, milk and soggy cornflakes soaking into his T-shirt. Then he sat up, looking around. What was he doing here? OK, last night. TV. Must have fallen asleep on the sofa. Damn. What was wrong with this picture? Apart from the crap on the floor and the TV hissing to a dead station and him falling to pieces? Something wasn’t right. The room. It was smaller. Sure it was. Wasn’t it? He ran his hand over his face. Don’t be such a prat. Of course it wasn’t smaller. It was his room. There was the sofa, and the sideboard, and the stereo stand, all where they should be, all fitting into his perfectly normal size room. Only it looked smaller. He reached for his fags. Empty. He had smoked the last of them last night. Damn! He needed a shower, wake himself up. He picked himself up and walked towards the door. As he got closer it seemed to shrink. Was he going to fit through? It seemed to him that as he tried the door frame pressed itself forwards, trying to squeeze him but not quite touching him. And then he was in the corridor. This wasn’t normal. The corridor was out of proportion. The walls seemed to twist and bend as he walked. It reminded him of a Twilight Zone film. Was he sick? Maybe he had better phone the doctor’s on Monday. After the bathroom he staggered into the kitchenette. Every door he passed through gave him claustrophobia, as though they were trying to squeeze him. LSD! The bitch was trying to poison him. Of course. How? He’d eaten just cereal since the bust-up. He poured the remaining milk down the sink. Ha! Gotchya! But where would she get a tab from? Annie was the straightest person he knew. Wouldn’t even keep quiet that time the shopkeeper had given her too much change. Maybe it was from those weird women she hung around with sometimes. Something odd there. They weren’t normal. Kept giving him that knowing look, like they were saying ‘He’s a man, so he must be a bastard, right?’ But the LSD thing still didn’t ring true. She wasn’t on acid, he was pretty sure of that. And when did she have time to get it? The whole row had flared up on the fly, no time for her to have planned it. He couldn’t face any food. Besides, he didn’t trust it anymore. He made his way through the distorted corridor to the living room. It was definitely smaller. Tape measure. Sideboard. He dug around in the cupboard in the sideboard. Ha! She hadn’t thought of that, had she! He measured the dimensions of the room. He felt uncomfortable close to the walls. He felt as though they were trying to bulge out at him. 18 feet 5 inches long. 10 feet 3 inches wide. What was it meant to be? Still. Had a baseline now. Would know when it shrunk. Ha! Think you’re so clever, but you’re not too clever for me, are you? He sat back in the sofa. What to do? Maybe he should do a runner. Get out of the flat with its freaky moving walls and psycho corridor. Get a breath of fresh air. Sort his head out. He moved towards the door, but it was so small. Could he get through now? As he neared it he started to feel sick again. It was waiting for him. He couldn’t see why he thought that, but that was what it was doing. What if he got halfway through and it shrunk again, trapping him there, slowly squeezing the life out of him? Even if he could get out the room, out through his front door, there were the stairs. What if he had an attack of vertigo again? He went back to the sofa. Maybe some more TV could calm him down. He switched channels, and as he did so the wall leapt again, out of the corner of his eye. He was sure this time. He changed channel again. There! It did it again. That was how she was doing it. Distracting him. Waiting. Then shrinking the room when he wasn’t looking. Gotchya, you bitch. He took the tape measure and measured the walls. They were definitely making him queasy now. Couldn’t get too close. 18 feet 5 inches. Was it 5 inches before, or 7? Shit! Should have written it down. Plonker! Write it down. 18’ 5”. Would know now. Should he risk another channel change? He could prove it this time, without any doubt. But that would mean she would shrink it yet again. No. But Sunday morning TV was worse than Saturday night. He was stuck on some politics show now. He was thirsty. Should have taken a drink when he was in the kitchenette. Too late now. Shit, what was he going to do? His stomach was churning again. He closed her eyes. Annie was now bigger than a house. She was bigger than the trees. She was bigger than the world. She was standing on the horizon, her face filling the sky and she was reaching out for him. Her giant hand filled his vision. Jesus H Christ! He opened his eyes. He wasn’t even asleep and now she was inside his head. The room! It was tiny. He measured again, crawling on the floor to avoid the oppressive ceiling, sliding the rule across the floor to avoid getting close to the walls. 18 foot 5. Still. Impossible. Unless… The crafty cow! She was shrinking the tape measure as well. Oh God, oh God, oh God. What was he going to do? The telephone was on the wall, impossible to reach now. He couldn’t even sit on the sofa. Too high. Too close to the ceiling. Lie on the floor. Pull feet up, tuck knees in. Get away from walls. Not even hiding it now. Walls getting closer. Even as he watched. Pushing. He tried to shrink away in every direction. It wasn’t fair. It was just the once. Just the one that she had caught him out on. She didn’t know about anyone else, so they don’t count. Doing all this to me, just because of the one time. Close eyes, and she’s there. Open eyes, and see crushing walls. God! God help me. Now they were so close he couldn’t breathe. Frightened to use deep breaths. Use diaphragm instead. Little rabbit breaths. Still not enough. Dizzy with lack of air. Oh God. Annie, I’m sorry.
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