Hey everyone, as a Friday change of pace, here's another short story that never seemed to get published.
Suburbanality
A distant voice brought me out of
the forest. At first it was stifled by
the rustle of the trees, but I could distinctly hear my name. "Tor." I turned to face the sound. Sam turned to me, tapping the tip of his pen
on the boardroom table, "Tor, can you give us a quick debrief on the
meeting last week with HR?" The
forest vanished, replaced with a nondescript office boardroom, the furniture
purchased from some Scandinavian discount outlet, plywood edges visible through
the laminate that had been peeled away by too many fingers wasting time. The people around the table were equally
worn, cheap suits and polyester ties framing blank faces.
I didn't want to retell that
meeting. Not that I couldn't of course,
but revisiting that meeting was a reminder of how much time was wasted sitting
around boardroom tables dreaming up red tape schemes to keep people
alternatively busy and then bored in the same week. The HR meeting had been particularly boring
with Ms. Collins, the head of HR for the department, babbling along at the head
of the table. "Sure Sam,” I began,
“for those of you who haven't been following the latest developments, the HR
department has struck a Reparations Subcommittee to deal with the issue of back
pay for overtime. Due to my present
light workload following the fall rush, Sam has asked me to represent our group
on the Subcommittee. We held our first
meeting last week and I will be happy to circulate the minutes to those
interested parties when I return to my office."
Was this really my voice? I was
having a hard time believing it. Subcommittees? Minutes? I could feel the
seconds ticking by.
"At any rate, all I can say at
this time is that negotiations are currently ongoing, and we are working to
resolve the back pay issue with management.
There may be a need to strike up some negotiating teams as we are not
unionized, and I'll let you know in the near future if we need
volunteers."
I could feel the eyes of the
room on me, heads nodding in near unison.
They hadn’t heard a single word I had said, each person lost in their
own little worlds. Mine was a forest,
lush vibrant green, soft pine trees swaying in a cool breeze. Occasionally, depending on the meeting, or
the speaker, there may be a mountain off in the distance, its snow covered
peaks visible above the tree tops. Or in
the case of the HR meeting, the presence of Ms. Collins' voice added a brook
happily gurgling along a winding trail headed for nowhere in particular. I wondered what their worlds looked like,
what impact my voice had on them.
Perhaps a small rodent had wandered into their cities and labyrinths. I
would never find out.
"Thanks Tor. That concludes today's staff meeting. We have a tough quarter coming up, so let's
all get back to work." The spell
had been broken. Some shook their heads
as if to deny that reality had been re-imposed on their day. Others merely rose from their seats
languidly, automatons clicking further on to their date of retirement.
I rose from my seat and exited
the boardroom. Stretched out before me,
reaching to the extremities of the floor was ‘the Farm’. Row upon row of grey boxes lined up much like
coffins returning back from war. My box
was number 11E479 sitting at the crossroads of wastings and pain. The Farm was a communist’s wet dream, each
box identical in shape, size, and function.
Everyone had a ‘u’-shaped desk with a computer, one phone and a
lamp. The overhead fluorescents made the
lamp unnecessary, but at some point in time management had decided that holdovers
from bygone days of less efficient automatons were excellent reminders of how
far we had progressed as a society.
I assume the position, hands
on keyboard, feet flat on the floor, back aching ever so little. I stare at the
blank screen in front of me. It stares blankly back.
***
I arrive home around 6:30, a
little later than usual, because Sam had asked me to take care of a few things
at the Farm before leaving. Margaret was
none to happy.
“You could have called,” her
voice, though raspy from trying to catch the children for the last two hours,
could still make its point. “Jeremy cut
his knee while I was making supper, so the rice is burnt. You'll have to find
some other side for the chicken.”
“I'm sorry; Sam wanted me to
take care of one more file. I should've called,” I could have argued that this
was the first time in two weeks that I'd been home before her, this was the
first time in two weeks that I hadn't been the one chasing kids and burning
supper, but I knew that argument was pointless. “Is Jeremy ok?”
“He's fine, just managed to
fall off his skateboard right before dinner.”
“Oh. Ok. I'm going to change.”
I made my way up the narrow
staircase, pictures of my current family, and my deceased parents smiling down
on me in all their black and white glory.
We always got black and white.
Guess we thought it was 'classy-er' then colour. Funny how 40 years ago everyone was getting
colour because it was new and innovative.
These thoughts rambled through my head as I climbed each step.
Closing the door to the
bedroom was like sealing off the outside world.
The sounds of the house and nearby roadway would dim; movements would
become slower, more exact. I reached for
the closet door, feeling the cool metallic knob linger in my hand, turning it
ever so slightly to release the catch.
I take my time removing my
clothes, tossing them into the hamper one piece at a time. Sitting on the edge of the bed in my
underwear, I returned briefly to my forest.
The lush green trees envelope me with their smell. The cool ferns beneath my feet conceal the
paths that I wandered this morning during the staff meeting. I can still hear Ms. Collins' brook off in
the distance. Looking up, I see a raven.
Wings spread wide as it glides down through the branches until it floats level
with my gaze. Tiny black eyes bore into
my brain and its beak opens as if to speak, “JEREMY GET OUT OF THERE RIGHT
NOW!”
Entering the en suite, I stare
at my face in the mirror. There's
something different; something that wasn't there in any of the previous 42
years of my life. My eyes are red, no
that's not it. Maybe it's the tinge of
grey in my hair? The patch has been growing of late. I don't think that's it either. Something though is definitely
different. It's as if I'm looking at a
shadowy reflection of myself. As if I
don't exist, but some futuristic projector is able to impart my likeness on to
thin air in front of the mirror. It's a
bizarre feeling, that doesn't leave until after I have put on my jeans and my
worn Galapagos t-shirt, a gift from a far away cousin for a distant birthday.
“You really should throw that
thing out,” Margaret says when I reach the bottom of the stairs. She's talking about the t-shirt.
“I know, but it's comfortable,
it's me, especially when I'm at home.”
“But it's so ratty, how am I
supposed to get the kids to look nice when you wear that around the house.”
“Who gives a fuck what the
kids wear?!.” My voice rises, the latent
hostility and boredom which has been eating at me all day begins to crack
through the wall separating the tongue from the mind. “Sorry, I had a hard day at work, I didn't
mean to yell, let me get the kids ready for bed”. Margaret says nothing, but her reproachful
gaze means that the argument has just started.
I find Jeremy in the family
room on the couch, his face glued to the television. My son, seven years old, his mannerisms and
judgmental looks reminding me more of his mother each day. “Time to get ready for bed, kiddo”
“But Dad, there's only 10
minutes left” he flashes me a glance that lets me know that if I disagree there
will be trouble.
“What are we watching?”
“Ren and Stimpy” His mother
hates it when he watches this show. I
sit down next to him, take in the colours and shapes moving on the screen, and
laugh half-heartedly at the fart jokes and horrible animation.
The show ends and I lead
Jeremy up to his room. The walls are
covered in superhero paraphernalia. Current favorite Superman has been given
the prominent space above the bed, but unknown to him will soon be relegated to
the second rate space above the dresser, if not tossed into the closet to
languish with the Green Lantern, as soon as Marvel announces its latest run of
comics.
“Dad, close your eyes.”
“Ok,” I turn around and shut my
eyes while Jeremy changes into his pajamas.
Plain white cotton
pajamas. Originally Margaret and I had
thought of getting him some superhero ones given his craze for the mutant
wonders, but because of his propensity to change his mind we opted for the simpleness
of white. They lent him an angelic look,
one that differed significantly from the devilish demeanor that all
six-year-old boys are capable of.
“Dad, I'm ready”. I turn
around and Jeremy leads me down the hall to the bathroom. I watch him put the toothpaste on the brush
and start brushing.
“Remember, 28 times on each
side,” he rolls his eyes and makes a sound, he knows. Where do 7 year olds learn to roll their
eyes? Probably from Ren and Stimpy. I shake my head and wander down the hall to Heather's
room. Heather is my daughter, 11 years
old, and thinks she knows everything.
She reminds me of myself when I was 13 or 14, but lately has also been
taking on her mother's traits.
Particularly making jabs at my growing belly, or my greying hair, and
occasionally commenting on my wishy-washy parenting style. Heather is on the phone, no doubt with
another girl talking about which boys they're going to love or hate this
week. “Time to get off the phone,” I
mouth, pointing at my watch “you know the rules”. She holds up her hand to ask for three more
minutes. I motion back two and she nods
in agreement. My life is one long
negotiation.
Jeremy has finished brushing
his teeth and is getting himself comfortable in bed. “Can I get a story tonight?”
“Sorry kiddo, but you're Ren
and Stimpy shenanigans cost you all the time before bed.”
“But Dad, we were almost to
the part where Bilbo sees the dragon.”
“I know, but we've read this
one already, and it's getting late”. I
look at my watch. “8:30, lights out”.
“But...”
“No buts, you're lucky you got
to watch that cartoon, we'll get back to Bilbo's adventures tomorrow”.
“Aaaaaaalright.” Sigh.
Jeremy closes his eyes and I
pull the comforter up over him. I give
him one last pat on the head and then turn off the lights and close the door.
Heather is still on the phone
when I get back to her room. The look on
my face tells her all she needs to know.
“Jen, I gotta go, my dad's being a pain again...yep.....tomorrow...bye.” She hangs up.
“Dad, why do I have to get off at 8:30? All the other kids get to talk
later”.
“If all the other kids jumped
off the CN...” I stop myself, I am not
my father, “because 2 hours is plenty long enough to be on the phone, any more
and the phone waves will rot your brain.”
“har har Dad. I seriously
can't wait until I get my own phone. When can I get my own phone? ”
“Your mom and I agreed that
when you're sixteen we can talk about getting you your own line, but your
grades have to be good”
“But sixteen is so far away”. Not as far away as she thinks.
“I know, but believe me, it
will come sooner then you want it to. Make sure you're in bed by 9:30”.
“Ok.” She shuts the door on
me.
I wander back down
stairs. Margaret is in the living room
watching TV; the volume assures me that she doesn't want company. I shift my footing towards the den and close
the door. The cool red leather chair
embraces me. I lean over, grab the
headphones and turn the stereo on. Need
to pick something, something relaxing.
Massive Attack. Karma Coma comes through the cans as I put my feet up on
the ottoman. The forest closes in again,
no raven in sight.
***
I am following a path; the trees
around me are silent as the grave. Every
once in a while a cool breeze blows through and my thoughts follow it around
the next bend. Something inside is
urging me on, forwards, towards some undefined goal. It must be at the end of this path. Must.
The next bend firmly behind me
and still nothing but trees. Their green
leafiness obscures the path and my goal.
I pick up the pace as the sky
darkens, knowing that my goal will be unattainable at night. Running through the trees, trying to catch
the wind, the path slopes downwards ahead of me; the next bend hidden behind a
boulder. I stare at the boulder, a relic
of time gone by, the world moving, ever changing, the appearance of the boulder
static, timeless, a souvenir from when the earth was young.
Focusing on the boulder, I
fail to notice the root of a tree lying across the path. My foot gets caught underneath, opening a
gash, and I fall to my knees. The
boulder smiles down in amusement.
I take a moment to recover my
breath. My body is on fire, an itchy
feeling beneath the skin, coupled with the pain of the fall. I remove my tight jeans and t-shirt to
properly assess the damage. Total cost,
minor bruising around the knees, and a badly cut foot, bleeding.
I staunch the blood with my
shirt. My touch ignites pain over my
entire body, oddly not just localized in my foot. My stomach boils up into my throat as the
pain wracks my brain. Synapses fire like
a well-running motor that carries the pain unabated from all areas of my body
to my head.
The blood is flowing
faster. Looking at the cut reminds me
for a fleeting second of my wife. The
gash appears to be widening. I tie my
belt around my leg to slow the flow. The
wound is now an inch wide and the pain is searing. I can see the muscle beneath the flesh,
sinewy, taught with exertion caused by agony.
The lips of the wound begin to
curl back unusually. This must be what
being skinned alive feels like. My skin
continues to turn inside out, the capillaries of the lower dermis clearly
visible over my entire foot.
The pain is excruciating as
the skin on my leg begins to open and reverse itself as well. Looking at my
hands, I realized that this condition is not localized; the skin on my hands is
completely inside out.
“It's only a dream,” I
scream. I smack my cheek with my open
hand in an effort to wake. I don't. The
pain however, causes me to pass out.
Peace.
***
I come to drenched in sweat in
my chair. The headphones dangle by my
side. The clock on the stereo reads '12:00'.
“Wow, that felt longer”, I mutter to myself. The pain from the dream still lingers.
Instinctively I look down at my
feet. The light of the reading lamp
illuminates a long scar running the length of my foot to the hem of my pants,
my wet pants. Wide wake now, I realize
that the cool dampness is not a result of sweat, but of blood. All of my clothes are soaked. The pool stretches three feet in every
direction on the hardwood floor. The
salty smell of blood fills my nostrils causing me to nearly pass out again. I stand up and reach for the doorknob,
thoughts of my murdered children swim to the surface of my mind. Did I do this? I rush into the hall, which is pitch black
with night.
I reach the top of the stairs
in 3 great leaps and rush down to Heather's room. Quietly opening the door, I peer into the
darkness and see her form lying beneath the comforter. A creak of the door
causes her to roll over. She's
fine. A quick check on Jeremy and
Margaret reveals that they too are ok. I
notice my bloody footprints in the hall. I follow them back down the stairs and
into the den. There is no other trace of
blood along the way.
***
The panic continues. My lungs fill and deflate in time with my
heart. “Alright, first thing, I’ve got
to clean this up.” The small part of me
that yearns for order begins to takeover.
The blood is still dripping slowly out of my clothes. Thankfully the entire house is hardwood
flooring. I strip naked, tossing my
bloody clothes on the floor. I reach for
the mop, but stop when I notice the scars.
My body is covered in them. The
scar beginning at my toes doesn’t end at my hemline, but at my groin. It is mimicked on my other leg and arms, and
coupled with circular cuts around each of my limbs, and a big one down the
centre of my torso. Each scar looks to
have healed completely. I feel no pain,
no soreness, nothing at all except a spine-tingling fear that is slowly working
its way from my stomach to my brain.
Before settling into a full on panic
attack, I decide that the best course of action is to clean up the mess. “Yes, before Margaret notices.”
Paper towels in the bin under the
sink, carefully hidden by an empty bag of potato chips, washing machine on
full-tilt (thankfully it’s in the basement), and febreeze drying on the floor
and chair, I slip out into the sunroom that looks over the back deck. Still naked, I reach over to the planter and
shift it aside to grab the one pack of cigarettes left in the house, hidden
from Marge’s prying eyes beneath a venus flytrap, the one plant that’s mine,
which she can’t stand to touch.
“It eats living things!” she had
told me once.
“So do I, but you still touch
me……sometimes,” was my witty reply.
“It will be less often if you keep
bugging me about it.”
Hence the reason for me keeping it,
the plant served as a great place to hide one of my vices. The lighter is cold in my hands, but like
always lights up on the third flick of the wheel. The smoke fills my lungs and instantly sooths
my frazzled brain. Each exhalation is
accompanied by the worries of my mind, transubstantiated into smoke form.
The neighbourhood is eerily quiet at
this time of night. I had grown up in a
big city, lots of traffic, and even more people. Noise was not uncommon even in the eerie
twilight just before dawn. By contrast
this suburban jail of cookie cutter houses and manicured lawns is silent as the
grave most nights after eleven o’clock.
In the suburbs, people were too tired from their days slaving in the
office or looking after offspring to have any kind of nightlife. I think though most just couldn’t think of
anything to do. Sleep is much more
easily accomplished when bored than when one has something pressing on the
brain.
As my thoughts are focused on the
nature of suburban sleep, my gaze is drawn from the well-tended gardens to my
hands and arms. The cigarette falls from
my lips and the burning embers sting the top of my foot before I manage to kick
them away despite the shock my brain is going through. The scars are almost gone. A close examination of the rest of my body
reveals a similar condition with the exception of my foot, where the scar,
although fainter then two hours previously, still stares at me like the grin of
a small animal intent on devouring me.
I retreat from the sun deck to the
den to collect my thoughts, the room no longer smells like blood and there is
no evidence of any of the strangeness that occurred earlier, with the exception
perhaps of the fact that I am completely naked.
I sit back down in the armchair and contemplate the evening’s events. “Perhaps I’m still asleep…” I mutter to
nobody in particular. But it was all so
real. The blood, the smell, the scars,
the cleaning. “But if I am still asleep
then of course it would seem real…but then again, if I’m still asleep I’m
having a philosophical conversation within my subconscious.” This, I think, would not be outside the realm
of possibility.
I decide that the best course of
action would be to fall asleep in my dream, thus ending this weirdness
resulting in normalcy in the morning. I
direct my attention upstairs, climb into bed beside a snoring Margaret and
close my eyes. This time there is no
forest, only the blank space of sleep.
***
“Tor…TOR! Wake
up!” Margaret’s reproachful voice from
the doorway of the bedroom stirs me from my slumber. The sunlight filters through the forest green
drapes leaving the room a smoky hue that mixed with the dark hardwood of the
floor.
“What is it?” I mumble, scratching my head.
“Jeremy needs to get washed up before school, and I
didn’t have time to make lunches last night.
I can’t do both at once.”
“Alright. I’m
up.” I exaggerate the motion required to
put my feet on the ground, just to make sure she understands that I meant
it. Margaret retreats downstairs to the
kitchen providing me time to inspect myself.
The dream was more like a half-forgotten memory, but I still recalled
the blood vividly. The scars that had
seemingly crisscrossed my body only hours previously had disappeared. I hear Jeremy in the kids’ bathroom and inch
my way there.
His smile greets me warmly as it does most mornings, “Dad
look, I’ve already brushed my teeth.”
His smile widens. I catch a
glimpse of half-chewed cheerio sticking to an upper incisor.
“Baloney. Let me
smell your breath.” Jeremy claps a hand
over his mouth to indicate that this avenue will not be explored any further. “Come on then, let’s get this over
with.” With his hand still over his
mouth, his shoulders slumped forward in dejection; Jeremy turns towards the
sink and picks up his toothbrush as if it were a poisonous snake. “Remember now, 28 times on each side.” He nods.
After waiting at the door to make sure I hear the sound
of teeth being brushed, I make my way to Heather’s room and knock. “I’m up, I’m just getting dressed,” her voice
carried through the doorway held that note of angst that all teenagers seem
able to create at will.
“Ok, but make sure you don’t take too long, you need to
eat breakfast.”
“I will.”
I lumber down the stairs, making glimpses at the wood
where I would have stepped with those blood-soaked feet. The stairway discloses no secrets. Neither does the kitchen, where the garbage
can stands empty under the sink.
Margaret is putting the final touches on the kids’ lunches. “So do you want to talk about it?” her voice
catches me slightly off-guard.
“Talk about what?”
I nervously move towards her, worried that she might have heard or seen
something last night.
“Last night.” The
panic began welling up in my throat, reminding me of the forest hours
earlier. My palms begin to sweat, and my
heart thuds in my ears.
“What about last night?”
“You know, your shitty attitude all night.” Relief.
“Oh. I thought I
apologized for that already. Sam’s been
giving me a crap load of work to do, and I came home and took it out on
you. I’m sorry; I’ll try not to let it
happen again.”
“Ok. I believe
you, but can you try harder please, I don’t like it when we fight.” Her arms encircle me from behind like the
leaves of a great willow tree brushing against my skin. I could feel the warmth of her breath in the
middle of my back. As I turn around to
kiss her, I can faintly make out the sounds of the garbage truck pulling up out
front of the house, and somebody has turned on the dryer in the basement.
