Untitled by Lee Mathews
Drip, drip, drip! The incessant rhythm of a demented demi-god lost in his own reverie, with no followers, no faith and only a very faint lingering respect for the decency of his position The creature throws his eyes upward in search of light, any light, anything. His pupils dilate in the irony of a situation that would see him rendered blind if his wish were to be dramatically granted. Beside him, the sniveling whelp refuses to move, or think, or see. These things come in threes don’t you know. Up and around, up and around, up and around and out… Into the light, the sweet, glorious warmth of the sun and a totally different picture of the world. There are two sides to every coin and while those up here could sleep on the edge of a two pence it is up to those less fortunate to suffer the darker side of life. Three souls reside upon the astral plane and lounge to the sounds of a gospel choir crooning their very best, warbling away the glorious silences the world has to offer in an inane need for noise. Of the three; one is bopping his head out of time to the music; the other is trying to imitate his close friend for he hasn’t a notion of what else it is he should be doing; while the third has arrayed herself across silken cushions piled underneath and struggling against her weight like so many charred bodies crushed by the Panzer that lurches its way over the obstacle. What fun. What pure unmitigated joy. Can’t you understand now why it is people feel it necessary to wile away the days in their own metal coffins or electro-lit gas chambers in the hope of their numbers coming up? More fool you! I have wandered through cast corridors of dark, burnished wood and dull brown wallpaper broken, halfway up by a sill that separates one brown from the other; how drab, how dreary. Yet there is an interest to this place. Why? I cannot rightly say but there certainly is. The two parallel spines of the sills that march away into the distance are broken intermittently by the extremely rude intrusion of a door, or a passage, that briefly breaks the monotony and branches off into some other reality. It is these points of illumination that make this place tolerable. Each door is an enigma unto itself. It would be enough to just stare at the outside of each beautiful specimen. How the floow just in front is scuffed from the innumerable passage of traipsing feet. The steel of the handle is burnished from so many turnings. Its oval surface reflects myself, a mutated bulbous form. Perhaps that is closer to my truer self but then, that is not really a question I am qualified to answer, is it? The paint is a thinning white, you can almost make out its original colour and as if that was not enough to betray its age, the paint is flaking. Yet, there are not wanton flakes to be seen on the ground. Why is this I wonder? Who knows? Who cares? Come to think of it, I don’t. I place my outstretched hand on the cold surface and slowly shift my weight forward, urging the door to yield to what I hope is a superior pressure. Don’t be locked; please This is what unfolds before me. Are you ready? -You chose the right profession. You know that don’t you? -What? I’m saying, you chose the right profession. The recipient of this statement cast her eyes downward and began to rub her arm. She did this when she could think of nothing else to do. It were as if she were trying to rub herself out of this awkward moment, as if her hand was a magic eraser that would remover her presence from this situation and leave nothing but perhaps the remnant of an arm when movement finally became impossible. -Perhaps. It’s too late now anyways. There is too much invested into this for me to back out now. Well I could, but I can’t if you know what I mean. Quitting would mean change in everyone’s eyes. A total system reboot and to be honest with you, I don’t think I could face something like that right now. Having to redefine myself so -Well you know this will be your last chance. -No. No it won’t. The questioner sits back. She has tried her best. Done what is expected of her and can now relax in the knowledge that she is a good friend. Criteria met, goals accomplished, another good days work. There is nothing else to be said, so she doesn’t. She gets up and makes a display of haking out her coat at this silly little person. Signalling to her that she is done with this tiresome temper tantrum and she is washing her hands of it for the time being. You don’t get paid overtime in this line of work and be damned if I’m hanging around gratis. The questioner’s exit is similar to that of a slug. If one were to have the right kind of eyes a trail of disapproval would mark the path she took out of the room, glistening and pungent. One could not help but notice its presence; this is one elephant that won’t be ignored. The recipient sits, eyes tracing the stain of slime that has invaded her living room. She thinks ‘her’ as, typically speaking, this is ‘her’ living room. People would generally agree that this room belonged to and reflected the personality of one Alary Clarke… but hey know not what to say. Alary has the inside track and is in fact fully aware that this room is nothing but a shell she has slipped into as a convenience to others. Her shell is labeled and filed, allowing for quick identification and recognition of the manner in which one should treat Alary Clarke. But Alary knows the shell for what it is. A prison from which she is planning escape, a straightjacket of convention that wraps her hands protectively around her chest just in case she gets any…funny ideas. Her escape will be spectacular, unforeseen and momentary. She has found her door and there is but one thing standing in the way, the lock. Unlike Alice she has no magic bottle, nor does she receive any assistance from those peculiar voices supplied by one in the depths of an externally induced giggle fit. A shame. She sits on ‘her’ sofa in complete silence and without motion. The act is off and preparations have begun. She does not need her arms; bound or non-existent they are unnecessary now. Back in the corridor something is beginning to happen. Open the bay doors Hal. Open the doors. You have but one chance to weather this storm. Riding the waves of a creation from hell. This is the end my friend. My one true friend…the end.