The creature of caprice

This short story is an *IA Writing Competition (creative work category) entry.

In this room, the door is locked, the drapes closed and the air is stale. Dust smothers the books scattered across the threadbare old carpet. The bed sheets are tangled. Ticking on the floor, a clock without hands tells no time.

He sits at a desk by the wall, slumped forward with his head resting on crossed arms, the harsh lamp light white on his skin and the strewn hand-written pages, pages and pages.

Occasionally, he sighs and stirs, his bare feet shifting the discarded pizza cartons underfoot. His fingers are clenched. A cold cup of coffee stands side by side with a glass tumbler and near-empty bottle of cheap whiskey.

Beyond the drapes, wheels shriek and horns bray, like querulous monsters disputing territorial rights. The glass and bottle rattle. The lamp shudders. Slowly, as though moving an immense weight, he sits up.

Pushing back his chair, he stands, swaying and adjusts the sagging waistband of his urine-stained briefs. A racking cough doubles him over. He props himself against the wall with one hand and covers his mouth with the other.

Coughing abrasively, he gazes at a crack in the peeling plaster and picks at it with his fingernail. It flakes and crumbles, dust to dust, to the floor. He leans closer, pressing his lips against it.

"I'm going outside," he whispers. "Today, I'm going out."

Closing one eye, he peers into the crack, the wall cold against his cheek. Deep in the darkness, he glimpses a brief blink of light. He shivers and leans away.

"I am going out," he repeats, his voice flat and devoid of conviction.

He covers the crack with his trembling hand. The taste of plaster dust fills his mouth.

Rolling his shoulders, he swings around to focus on the bottle of whiskey. It glows in the dull lamplight. He inhales deeply and steps forward. His arm reaches forward, a numb appendage, a remote probe and as his fingers brush the desktop, he knocks the coffee cup to the floor. It bounces on the carpet without breaking. Distant laughter causes him to grimace.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

Resolutely, he grasps the bottle and dashes whiskey into the glass tumbler, gulping the liquor down quickly. He swallows hard. Outside voices, muffled and indistinct, momentarily distract him.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he says and pours another drink.

The voices continue as he lifts the tumbler up against the light. He squints into its warm amber depths, vague motes shifting and pulsing in the bright glow, defying scrutiny. The background murmuring sounds like shoreline waves rolling in, rolling out

"I said shut up," he whispers, voice breaking, hand jolting, liquor spilling onto his wrist.

Waves sweep in and out in an incoherent mumble. Wheels hiss and engines rumble. Heels click; staccato stilettos. He tosses down another mouthful and shuffles across the floor to the window drapes, cocking his head and pressing an ear to the musty fabric. The waves fade, lost in the roar of a revving motor.

"Can’t you stop?" he asks and answers himself: “No, you can't.”

A car door slams. Someone chuckles and the traffic hums louder again.

"Please stop," He whispers, clutching the drapes.

He closes his eyes. His pale body trembles as the humming worms its way into his brain like a surgeon's sterile finger. Brakes squeal and a dog's bark sounds like a gunshot.

"Okay, okay, I'm going now," he says. "I'm going."

Stooping, he retrieves a pair of socks and shakes them into shape, pulling them onto his feet while swaying on unsteady legs. Shadows sway around him. He stumbles to his desk and sits on it for support. A stack of poetry paperbacks topples to the floor. He never could grasp Joyce but enjoyed 'Under Milkwood'.

He grabs a crumpled t-shirt and twists into it, wincing, glancing around at the empty picture frames on the walls, the cracks, the stains, the wisps of cobweb hanging from the watermarked ceiling. He shakes his head again. The four corners of the room are gates to darkness.

"Anytime I want, you know," he mumbles, lowering his head. “Anywhere I want.”

Hilarious laughter echoes outside as wheels hiss by and, inside, something scuffles under the window. The clock’s blank face just stares and stares.

He grabs the bottle of whiskey and tips it to his lips, splashing the biting liquor over himself, soaking his stained t-shirt. He gasps and coughs and the bottle drops to the floor from his shaking fingers.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

He clutches his unshaven face and pulls at the loose pale flesh, plucking it: so soft, so malleable, so ephemeral. He tilts back his head and yells as loud as he can, but his voice sounds weak and far away.

"Stop it!"

As the darkness swells in the corners of the room, the lamp light flickers and brightens briefly before reverting to its usual dim yellow pall.

Glancing around, he spots his jeans on the floor by the tousled, unmade bed beside the broken clock, beside several empty liquor bottles and a hunting knife. He leans forward, balancing on distant feet. He shakes his head and turns for the door, only to fall to the mattress, countless kilometres below.

He lies motionless, breathing the little breaths of a sparrow he once found on a hot summer footpath, his shallow chest scarcely stirring, his thin legs drawn up close, his arms wrapped around his knees. Rolling over, he curls up amid the sweat-stained sheets and listens to the distant wailing of what might be a train or low-flying plane. Almost imperceptibly, the floor vibrates and the pillow hums.

He flinches at the sudden sound of knuckles knocking on door. The tapping is light but persistent and a soft voice calls him:

"Wakey, wakey, time to go, sonny boy!"

He sits up, shivering. The sour air in the room feels cold. He stares at the sickly yellow light of the desk lamp, his head humming, a twinge of pain causing him to glance down at the blood-peppered sheets around him. Stuck to the pillow is a crushed cockroach.

He swallows a thick phlegm and examines the bloody little holes along his forearm. The wounds are new, throbbing. Another knock on the door startles him.

"Sonny, are you ready?"

He rises but his legs buckle beneath him. He sits on the edge of the bed, his mouth dry, his throat constricted. He stares at his punctured arm.

"Yes, I'm here," he answers hoarsely. "I'm still here."

The knocking repeats. "Sonny, are you up?"

"I'm up, I'm up!" he shouts, clutching his wrist, now noticing more tiny bloody holes in the palm of his hand.

The knocking continues, insistent, echoing, slowing down, winding down, sound in slow motion.

Clenching his teeth, he lunges to his feet, stumbling forward. He slams his shoulder against the door and rattles the knob to no effect. Coughs punch his chest. He slaps his sternum as if to jump-start his heart and slides to the floor, his head between his knees.

Movement catches his eye and he glances up. Papers rustle, books tumble, and shadows pulse on the walls. He pulls three drawing pins from his forearm and struggles upright. Something small darts beneath the window. How did a possum get inside?

Staring at the drapes, he blinks rapidly, trying to focus his blurry vision. A passing radio jabbers outside and cars screech at one another. Abrasive voices and brisk footsteps hurry by. He hears someone whisper his name.

"Who is it?" he whispers back.

He shuffles to the window and clutches the drapes. The rumble of passing trucks rattles the room. He steps back and pauses, freezes, motionless, as someone behind him sniffs.

Slowly, he looks over his shoulder at the small, silhouetted figure squatting on his desk. It shakes its bristled little head, its long ears twitching, its brushy tail lashing. Red eyes gleam in the gloom.

The knocking on the door resumes. "Are you ready, sonny boy?"

“Yes, yes!” he shouts, stumbling to the door. “I'm ready now!”

Seizing the handle, he shakes it with increasing fury, punching the door until his knuckles sting. He presses his lips to the cool timber surface and squeezes tears from his eyes.

“Please, just stop it. I don't want to do this any more!”

His fists clench hard, harder, aching. The staccato tapping grows louder. He opens his eyes and looks up at the creature perched on his desk. It shakes its haloed head and waggles an admonishing finger.

Michael Kumashov has worked in multicultural affairs, writing short speeches and briefings for state government MPs. He has been published in science fiction and fantasy magazines.

* Full IA Writing Competition details HERE.