|
RICHARD KORBETT
"Anomaly" Art by Rafal Hrynkiewicz. Copyright 2007
In the beginning: the beast… Richard Korbett was a man of many vices. His past was soaked in blood. If not for the choices he’d made, he could’ve been ‘normal.’ He could’ve believed, bought birthday cards, visited family and friends, accepted charity: pies, cookies, enjoy a quaint visit for an idle chat. He could’ve loved and accepted love. If not for the beast, he could’ve been all these things and more. But the beast held power, and it had finally caught up with him. He was a law-abiding citizen. At forty-six, he went to work everyday, never called in sick, and was never late. He was a good employee. His landlord, Mr. Fyuesterman, referred to him as, “A quiet neighbor. Always keeps to himself. Richard never complains.” He was, in the words of Mr. Fyuesterman, “the perfect tenant.” He paid his rent three days in advance every month. “Richard, thank you,” Mr. Fyuesterman always said about the rent. “I appreciate you being on time. I never have a problem with you.” His neighbor, Miss Dall, liked him as well, at least at first: “Oh, hi, Richard!” she’d say. Miss
Dall was a short, cheerful woman. She
lived across the hall with three cats in number 36.
Miss Dall brought Richard homemade cookies and chocolate pies on
occasion, but she was worried about him.
He spent all his time alone.
He never had people over, and the way Richard greeted Miss Dall,
troubled her. His smile
looked forced, as if her presence pained him.
Miss Dall wondered what Richard did at night. After
a time, she stopped bringing things over.
Richard began to frighten her. Alarm
bells rang in the minds of various tenants throughout The Coachman (a
modest apartment complex in downtown Of course, it was no secret Richard liked to drink. Some suggested A.A., but he laughed at the idea. His problems were greater than alcohol, he’d said. He’d proven how long he could go without touching the stuff. Months, sometimes. Once, he’d gone an entire year-and-a-half without a single drop. Throughout The Coachman, Richard Korbett became a regular topic of conversation: “Something happened to him,” some said. “He’s just trying to get over it.” “He needs to find a nice young girl,” others said. “He should start going to church.” Richard had found his girl, and his church came in fifths. All
those years ago… He discovered alcohol at the age of fifteen. He’d gone to a party when he was a sophomore. A friend had invited him. Richard did not have to acquire a taste for drink; he liked it right away, not only the taste, but the way it made him feel. Life’s confusion became tolerable. It prolonged his years. Drinking kept the horrors at bay, the beast from gobbling him up. Drinking—in a strange twist of fate—had saved Richard’s life. Lately, he’d retreated to his ‘old self.’ He was here now. No persuasion, no ribbing, just a simple nod. Yes,
dear. Of course, dear.
Anything you say, dear. He was sitting on the floor, shirtless, his back against the entertainment center. He was wearing unwashed jeans with crusts of vomit embedded in the denim. A fresh urine stain at his crotch sent a sharp, acidic stench to his nose. He wasn’t concerned. Richard’s prerogative was to keep a full supply of alcohol, sit in the leisurely bliss of catatonia, and tip the bottle back. Life was a playground of horrors, and it was his duty to forget. The
‘old self’ had been battling the ‘new self.’
He didn’t know which one he liked better. Oh,
yes you do, he thought. You
like the old self. You like
the old self much better. True. Richard liked the ‘old’ self, the one who pushed the ‘new’ Richard aside. His concern came with forgetfulness. Childhood, he thought. How much of his childhood could he drown in alcohol? He was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, a perfect, antisocial outcast. He had oblivion, nothing more. Goodbye responsibility, priority, care. At
one time, a violent Richard had come to the foreground.
It happened with Danine, his girlfriend at the time.
More than ten years ago already.
He couldn’t remember why he’d gotten so mad.
They’d gone to dinner one night.
Afterwards, all he remembered saying was, “Get in the
goddamn car!” He’d
grabbed her by the arm, yanking her shoulder from its socket.
Danine’s arm had popped. He’d
asked her a simple question was all.
He couldn’t remember. The
tone she’d used to answer had infuriated him.
“I’ll pull your goddamn hair out of your fucking head in
clumps! I’ll shatter that
pretty porcelain face all over the sidewalk, if you don’t get a move
on! Do you want me to spell
it out for you in blood?” Danine had been terrified, her eyes wide with fear. No one had ever talked that way to her before. Richard tried calling her later in the week, but Danine never answered. It was as if he couldn’t remember acting like an ass. Danine had her number changed. She’d left a message for him at work. If he tried calling of stopping by, she’d call the police. She’d had to go to the hospital because of her arm. No big deal, Richard thought. He had more important things to worry about. The beast smiled in the dark, not saying a word. It nodded, agreeing—virtually complacent—and breathed shadows deep into its lungs. * His
current state began on Monday, April 17th, at “Man! It’s a beautiful day!” he said. Richard went to the bathroom for one last look at himself in the mirror before heading out the door. He straightened his tie, looked at his clean-shaven face, and rubbed a hand over his wet, black hair. He smiled to himself. In his opinion, he wasn’t a bad looking guy. He considered himself handsome. When he opened the front door, he saw the woman standing in the hallway. The world slipped away: priority, responsibility, care. In a flash, Richard was transported to a time long ago. He was a boy again, even though he was forty-six and on his way to work. Terror gripped his windpipe and squeezed when he saw her. He’d not be taking showers for a long time now. Something to do with, Psycho. For a second (as he stood with the door open, looking at her), he was vulnerable and naked, standing in the shower as a boy. The woman took a step toward him bringing a knife into view. The colors faded from the hallway. Everything turned black and white like in the movie. She was not an ex-girlfriend, nor the traumatic memory of his mother… She is all that and more, Richard thought. He nodded to himself, accepting the dark twist without a squabble. As a child, he was obedient. He proved his faithfulness. He closed the door, though he never shut her out of his sight forever. She was, in fact, the demon from his past, somehow related to the beast. She was here now to stay. She can walk through walls, he thought. Back inside the apartment (forgetting about work, his day, his life), Richard smiled, happy to return to his ‘old self.’ She held sway, played him like a puppet. He did everything but pop his thumb in his mouth and suck. He did not call into work, telling them he was sick. He went to the window, pulling the drapes over the bright sunshine he’d let in just minutes ago. It’s fun not caring about the world, he thought. It was funny. Despite how horrifying, it was sometimes a relief when she appeared. Richard was not surprised to find he’d missed her. * Afterwards, he drove the Chevy Rabbit to the liquor store, purchasing all the booze he could. He emptied his entire checking account. The employees thought he was having a party. They helped him load his car with cases of cheap vodka and whiskey. One of them had asked him about it. “No, it’s all for me,” Richard said. The liquor store attendants looked at one another, raised their eyebrows, and shrugged. “It’s your liver,” one of them said. He drove back home, slipped the chain into place, and bolted the door. He set the boxes on the kitchen counter. He did not waste a second. He broke the seal of the first bottle and drained a fourth of it seconds. He was anxious to get started. The warm swoosh of alcohol moved through him, easing, pacifying, and calming his thoughts. * Alcoholism had its joys, of course: layers of filth, like a carpet on his tongue, the cold sweats, body trembling, a painfully swollen brain, and that ceaseless ache throughout his bones. He enjoyed smoking now, too. It simply added to oblivion. An entire bottle of aspirin wouldn’t dull that jagged pain behind his eyes. He’d tried all that before. Nothing but alcohol helped. Nothing but alcohol worked. He’d gone to therapy before, too. He was smarter than his therapists. He’d taught them a few things about life and how to survive. Richard needed time to think, put things in demented perspective. That’s why he was here now: back against the entertainment center, tipping the bottle back. He was a puppet, and she pulled the strings. Drink, he thought. Escape
from the horror. He’d
never meant to become an alcoholic.
Every drinker said the same.
But drinking, anymore, rang with tones of destiny. True
love, not so lost. Sit
beside me. I’ll make room
for you. There’s always
room for you. He never pushed her away completely. She was family, the best of lovers, the woman in the doorway… Aren’t
women and drink the same, he thought?
Another lover? A
testimony to my manhood? She
is nothing without me, and I can be nothing without her.
He would live and die by that alone. Death was inevitable, painless, the woman seemed to say. Just don’t think about it, Richard told himself. What else was the bottle for? Hadn’t someone said you drink to forget? Jackie Gleason? The irony, Richard thought, was drinking hadn’t killed or maimed him. Drinking had kept him from going mad. Richard closed his eyes. A hulking beast with blood red eyes—slavering in the shadows—crouched lower, studying his every move. Those
are not your claws and teeth. That
is not your drool, wanting me. Soon,
he’d be in pieces, torn apart, drawn-and-quartered on the living room
floor. He didn’t know how
he knew this, but he did. This
is my corner to hide, my refuge. I’m
safe under drink’s spell. This
is when I have the most control.
This is how I…survive.
He hid in dark corners made by fables, fairy-tale things chuckling as he went mad. Elves sprinkled magic powder on his nose. Richard laughed in the fantasy. Anymore, he didn’t think about fairies or magic powder. He thought about her, that unfairy-tale-like princess, that benevolent little benefactor made not from milk and honey...
* After the morning of April 17th—when he saw her in the hallway—he performed the ritual: tune out the rest of the world, heavily imbibe. He’d been drinking from morning until night for days now. The carpet moved in watery motions to his thoughts, a swirling vortex, like a whirlpool of blood. Was the apartment about to capsize, or was that the carpet making tempestuous waves? Funny how drinking made him feel he was on the ocean. Richard chuckled at the irony. Already, he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten or taken a shower. The bathroom was off limits anyway. No
trespassing, Richard thought. Danger
Zone. He
was lucky he wasn’t living on the streets.
That will come soon enough, he thought. Richard opened his red-rimmed eyes. Alcohol oozed pungently from his skin. His veins opened wide, making his blood travel faster. The room shifted again. Half of the apartment rose violently upward while the other dropped hellishly low. The beige carpet (now blood) swirled under him like a whirlpool. Any
minute now, he thought. This
is what we’re waiting for. To
drown in the living sea. Mr.
Fyuesterman would stop by before long, wondering why he hadn’t paid
the rent. He’d been
through all this before with other apartments, other landlords, the
eviction notice taped to the door demanding he vacate the premises.
I will see you on the street, my lady, Richard thought, and giggled. He laughed so hard, he tipped to the side. He clutched the bottle, righted himself, and took a drink. The cubicle at work, where he took calls for Axes Company customs, was also a thing of the past. Had they tried to get a hold of him? Didn’t he have a paycheck waiting for him still? He couldn’t get to the door even if he wanted. It didn’t matter. He had only enough strength to tip the bottle back, so that was what he did. Just
the remedy, doctor, when I can lie flat on my back.
Will you take me to the liquor store?
Quality meant nothing. He couldn’t afford it. Going cheap always lasted longer. Put
those things in a great big box and get me a carton a’ smokes, will ya?
The cure for his derangement, the gift he sought in the eternal round of fate, a simple chemical to abate his torture… People
are affected differently by the same thing, he thought.
My happiness is otherwise unobtainable.
He was thankful for small miracles: a few more bottles, the blackness of sleep… Strength
to live. Bring me wealth and
fame. Take my troubles away.
I always wanted to be a…a baseball player. Richard smiled, toasted his newfound obsessions, and lifted the bottle to his lips.
* The demon came with reckless abandon. Trauma often followed the drunken haze. Was that what they meant by withdrawals? Why was he drinking again? Was it simply addiction, or was there another reason? It was hard to tell anymore. Not that he worried about it. A few simple meetings would cure him. “Hello, my name is Richard Korbett, and I’m an alcoholic.” “Hello,
Richard!” He fell through eons of space. He wondered if she were in the background (she and the beast) waiting for him to fall. Was she smiling? A snap went off in his brain when he went back to his old self. She forced the door open, prying it from its hinges. Sometimes, she came with ease. When he managed to put his life back together—when he managed to salvage the miracle of priority, responsibility, and care—she materialized again. It was as if she didn’t want him to get comfortable in his daily, normal routine. When he started dating again, she beckoned from the shadows, her smile stretching wide through the crypt of his brain, revealing maimed and bloody teeth. I
am always here, Richard, she seemed to say. I’m
not going away. She had control. Yes, the puppet again. He loved and despised her at the same time. She tormented thoughts and spirit. Then, when she’d had enough, she went away long enough for him to put his life together again. When he grew comfortable in his routine, she appeared. It was a vicious cycle. He knew life (in a manner of speaking) was over. Work wasn’t an option. Taking showers, too, was pointless. In order to withstand the trauma, he had to drink. In drink, he could withstand anything. Ah, he thought. Private isolation. The unending supply to obtain oblivion. He didn’t have to travel far. World gone. Forever. He took the phone off the hook, not that he had to worry. He hadn’t friends or family he could call. During his stupor, he often looked over, seeing the boxes of whiskey, still full. The sight gave him reassurance. He could relax knowing all those bottles were waiting for him still. His concern was not to run out of alcohol. No
screams from my childhood. No
daggers in my brain. A reptilian monster with radiation under its scales crept across the carpet. It crawled into Richard’s skin and made a home in his bowels. The beast raped him from the inside out. After a time, it moved outside his body and physically abused him. A dried urine stain patched the rug beside to him. A splash of vomit crusted the couch. Discharge had hardened on a pair of sweats lying in the corner of the living room. He was too drunk to worry about any of these things now. He was helping the beast gain power. The smell, however (with the windows closed) was an entity itself. It grew sharp, virtually tangible like the beast. He
didn’t care. He basked in
the glory of “Give me my medicine!” Richard hollered, and laughed. It was a love affair, and he savored every second. Go
sun! Run behind the clouds!
Darkness here and nothing more.
He’d made the decision. Drink was magic. Life had granted something he could rely on. What laughter? he thought. He didn’t dream of building kingdoms. Life wasn’t that precious. His claims to beauty had turned to dust. My blood is spilling all over the place. It has never been so much outside of me. “To Oblivion,” Richard said, and raised the bottle, his back against the entertainment center. His savage experiences washed away in the living sea… *
From the front door, a ceaseless knock startled him, rousing him from his fever. Richard jerked bolt upright and opened his tired eyes. “Mr. Korbett!” Mr. Fyuesterman shouted from the hallway. “Mr. Korbett, are you in there? The rent is past due, Mr. Korbett! You’re several weeks late, you know?” Did he? Wow! Several weeks! This had already gone on longer than he’d thought. But he couldn’t get up from the floor! How was he supposed to pay his rent? Richard leaned over, giggling at the thought. “Mr. Korbett!” Mr. Fyuesterman went on. “I’ll have to put an eviction notice on your door if I don’t hear from you by the end of the week! The sheriff will stop by inevitably, Mr. Korbett!” Like
the sea, he thought. Inevitable.
Like the sea. The current pushed him under. It, too, had a ceaseless rhythm. Mr. Fyuesterman made several more attempts before giving up (at least for the moment). Richard raised the bottle, nodded, and toasted Mr. Fyuesterman. * It was ridiculous, laughable even, the way it all began… He’d gone to the bathroom after his mother demanded he take a shower. She was a giant rolling pin with arms and legs threatening to crush him, brown eyes furrowed in a declivity of anger. The sight of his mother made him tremble with fear. When
he looked back (a man in his mid-forties), Richard couldn’t help but
laugh when he thought about her. Mother
was nothing compared to her. Oh,
momma, what I could do to you now. You
were really nothing, momma. What
boy did not have it hard, he thought? (Many,
he thought, thirty-eight years later.
Many have it pretty damn good.) But
not you, Richard, my little lamb. Wendall
Talbott, Richard’s best friend in the third grade, owned an uncanny
ability to tell stories. Richard
had been easily influenced. Wendall
held power to mesmerize. He
retold stories he’d heard or seen on television, adding flair to make
them more compelling, more horrifying, or entertaining: storylines from
old movies, stories he’d read in comic books.
Wendall’s older sister, April, had been babysitting him the night his parents had gone to see Psycho. Wendall waited all night for his mom and dad to come home, hoping to hear bits and pieces of the movie through his bedroom door. Everyone was talking about Psycho, it seemed. Wendall was lucky to be awake, he told Richard, when his parents came home. He beamed, listening to them as they stood in the hallway. Wendall had kept his ear pressed to his bedroom door. As luck would have it, they were still talking about the movie when they came home: “Don’t take a shower, honey,” Wendall’s mother said. “You don’t know who might be in there.” “No more scary movies for you,” his dad said. “Knifed her to death,” his mother continued. “Dug up his own mother just to have her near. What a fruit-cake.” “You mean psycho.” “Gruesome. Then dressing up in his mother’s clothes...” “Gives me a few ideas.” Wendall’s mother giggled. He asked his parents about the movie later, but they were reluctant and overprotective. He was too young, they’d said. Wendall could imagine worse anyway. He divulged the story to Richard the following Monday at school, making up a different plot, and embellishing the scene in the shower. They were in the library at school. At the desk, Miss Mitt, a pencil-shaped librarian, drummed her fingers along the counter, looking at the boys with disapproval. Miss Mitt peered over silver-framed spectacles, gray hair tied back in a painful-looking bun. Miss Mitt reminded Richard of an underfed vulture. The boys ignored her. Richard listened to Wendall’s story with rapt attention. The movie unfolded brilliantly in his mind. The way Wendall related the tale, Richard couldn’t imagine the movie being any better. (Years later, he told himself, it couldn’t have been that simple. He never pictured Norman Bates dressed as a woman. What he saw was something worse. Maybe he hadn’t heard Wendall correctly?) It stayed with him over the years. He remembered the posters advertising Psycho. Bloody bathroom scenes came to life in his mind, a lunatic woman holding a knife. He had no explanation for why his imagination had gotten the best of him. All he knew was how unnatural it felt. He was eight-years-old when Wendall told him about Psycho. For two years afterwards, whenever he stepped into the shower, the lights seemed to dim. The bathroom turned into a stage of horrors. He imagined worse already… It’s
just your imagination, he thought at the time. You
know that. It’s not real.
Her holding the knife isn’t real.
It’s just a picture to scare you. When he shut his eyes to wash his hair, however, it was worse. He saw almost too well! Damn Wendall anyway! All he had to do was close his eyes. Knowing he had to close his eyes (because the shampoo would sting them if he didn’t) terrified him. The horror materialized with more power behind his lids. The shower—as a boy—was the worst place to be. Richard anticipated ablutions with horror. Wendall’s story had become an entity. At eight-years-old, his life began to unravel. When he was ten, true horror presented itself… * He was running around the bases after classes let out. It was a beautiful, warm day in May. He was ten-years-old now. Wendall’s tale had softened over two years, but Richard thought of it often. It was more a fading dream—the monster standing in the shower. In all actuality, it was biding its time, growing more intense as the years went by without him knowing. It isn’t real, Richard told himself. No time for batting cages. Today was the day his life took an inevitable, dark turn for the worst. Today, she wasn’t just a thought, a vision. Today, she came to life… Crazy like a fox, he thought. Black love like death. Two girls carrying schoolbooks giggled at Richard from the behind the backstop, but he wasn’t pay attention. He had a game to win, a series! He was batting for the championship! The day was perfect for it. One of the reasons he was here now. The grass was lush and green in the outfield, the sky a perfect blue. Large clouds floated lazily by. “Korbett steps up to the plate,” he said, spitting onto his palms. He rubbed his hands together and grabbed an imaginary bat. “Here comes the pitch! Korbett swings! It’s a deep fly ball to center field! It’s back-back-back! Holy cow! It’s outta here!” He trotted around the bases, putting his hands to his mouth. He made loud, cheering noises from an imaginary, jam-packed stadium. “Korbett has won the game! Richard Korbett puts game seven in the palm of his hand, and the Dodgers win the series! Can. You. Beeee-lieve it?” Richard didn’t trot across home plate. He slid. He was an original. He’d been sliding into every base (including first) since school had let out that day. He’d worn his only pair of white pants. The pants reminded him of the white pants baseball players wore, and that’s why he was here now with the girls laughing at him, and the entire city of Los Angeles (even though he was in Colorado, and they didn’t have a major league team then, and his father had always been a Dodgers fan) going crazy! His clothes were filthy. Streaks of dust and dirt covered his face. His dark hair had lost its shine. The girls behind the fence still laughed and giggled, making fun of him, but Richard ignored them. “Korbett has just won the World Series!” he cried. “Drinks on the house!” (Even as a boy, he was faithful to Oblivion.) Why shouldn’t he smile? Creatures weren’t coming to life in the shower then. The woman was only the product of his imagination. He’d learned how to ignore her. He was still celebrating when he got home. His mother—when he walked through the door—put her hands on her hips and frowned. “What the hell have you been doing?” she asked. He forgot about game 7. Instantly, he felt like a wounded puppy. His mother didn’t wait for a reply. All she did was point in the direction of the shower. “You get in there right now, young man! I can’t believe my eyes! You think your wardrobe comes from the Tooth Fairy?” Richard skulked to the bathroom and shut the door. Blue rugs lay on the floor. Blue curtains with white flowers in vertical rows covered the window. Even the shower curtain was blue. He peeled off his clothes and turned the shower on, trying to recapture the moment when he’d made contact with the ball, sending it over Dodger’s Stadium and into The Twilight Zone, but it was useless. Richard put his hand under the powerful streams, making sure the water was warm. He stepped over the tub and pulled the curtain closed. He grabbed the bottle of shampoo and squeezed an absurd amount of glistening gel into his palm. He rubbed it into his hair, building up the lather. Something odd about the moment, he thought, a voice whispering from the blackness, asking him why he wasn’t…afraid? Richard opened his eyes, and there she was standing in the shower with him, a naked, fetid thing, a wet ghoul with long black hair. The light dimmed, the gloomy stage. His eyes opened wide in terror. Why do I keep coming back to this same horror? he thought. He’d never felt more vulnerable. Here she was, not a product of his imagination, but real. Very real. If he reached out, he could touch her… Richard took a step backwards, shaking his head. His heart leapt into his throat. The water valves gouged his thighs. Knife-like shadows etched her face. Her hair was wet from the shower; pale blue breasts sagging sickeningly to her belly. She was roughly the same height as Richard, but aged and hag-like. Bile squirmed in the pit of his stomach. He thought he was going to throw up. Despite the terror, Richard closed his eyes, trying to will the image away. Please,
dear God, this isn’t real! She
isn’t there! It’s just
my imagination! When he opened his eyes, the woman was still there, only now she held a butcher knife. Her thighs were cottage cheese, eyes like agates. The woman took a step toward him. Rot wafted into Richard’s nose. A thick black substance oozed over her lips, splashed to the floor, and splattered his legs. This wasn’t Psycho! This had nothing to do with Psycho! Norman Bates looked nothing like this! His brain reeled with panic and terror! He took another step back, but he’d gone as far as he could. The water valves only gouged deeper into his thighs. An inky murk surrounded him. Yes, the dimming of the lights. It gave the woman the hue of a vampire. She took another step and raised the knife. Richard screamed and clutched the shower curtain, not thinking, just wanting to bolt, to escape! Soap stung his eyes. During his flight, he got tangled in the curtain and fell over the tub and onto the floor. The shower curtain ripped away from the rod. He was doing more harm than good! The curtain grew arms, suffocating him! He couldn’t breathe because of the plastic. Was she doing that? Had she brought the shower curtain to life? He couldn’t find his way out! He screamed for his mother, but the curtain was an entity, wrapping around him. Where was the woman in the shower? Was she still there, knife in hand, waiting to bury it into his flesh? Richard wailed at the top of his lungs! He tore and clawed at the curtain, but he wasn’t strong enough! He couldn’t find an opening! He couldn’t breathe! His mother wouldn’t hear his muffled screams anyway. She wouldn’t save him. He was doomed to die in the blue plastic, stabbed to death by the woman in the shower. Wasn’t that why the curtain had arms? Rolling around on the floor, Richard bit into the plastic. If he could bite a hole in it, he could breathe. Somehow, he found the edge of the curtain, peeled it off, and gulped for air. He scrambled to his feet. He ran naked and wet—soap in his face and hair—to the bathroom door, not daring to look behind him. He grabbed the knob, twisting it, but it wouldn’t open. “Mommy mommy mommy!” Richard wailed, tugging at the bathroom door. A futile, click-click between turns was all he could manage. Why did he lock the stupid door? “Mommy mommy mommy!” Still, the door wouldn’t open. Where was the lock? How come the lock had disappeared? Richard glanced over his shoulder. He had to see where she was… She was larger than he remembered, maybe because she was right behind him. Her face took up the entire scope of his vision. Burn patches—bleeding at the edges—spotted her flesh in the shape of foreign countries. Spiders crawled over her hair and face, dropping to the floor. Her skin was pale, wet clay. She was melting, it seemed. The knife was only inches away! Richard continued to scream, turned to the door, and tugged at the knob, openly blubbering. Why couldn’t he open the goddamn door? Something rotten and corpse-like moved over him… He looked behind him again… Her tongue was spotted black and green, a mouth splotched in ink. She chuckled, the sound grating over dirt. She stepped closer. Spiders swarmed over Richard’s feet, around his ankles, and up his legs. He wailed in terror and tugged desperately at the knob. Suddenly, the door came to life. The knob turned with volition of its own. The door pushed him violently backwards and onto the floor. Where was the lady in the shower? What had happened to the door? Was it, too, coming to life? Richard looked everywhere, but she was nowhere is sight. The woman had disappeared. His mother, however, stood in the doorway, with her hands on her hips. She wore a thin, floral-patterned dress. Her eyebrows were thick and black, angled toward a patrician nose. “What the hell is going on in here?” she screamed. He brought his knees up under his chin, shamed by his nakedness. Steam from the shower fogged the room. He was breathing heavily, hyperventilating, his chest heaving up and down. He cried hysterically. He sat on the floor and tried to catch his breath, eying the bathroom like a wild animal. What could he say? She’d think him mad if she didn’t already. How would he explain his terrified yelps? “You mind telling me what the hell is going on in here?” his mother demanded. “Have you completely lost your mind?” Richard looked around the bathroom. It didn’t make sense. Had he imagined the woman in the shower? “Well?” his mother asked. “What have you got to say for yourself?” Through his ceaseless sobbing, he tried to speak: “Mmm
...ma ...ma ...mom?” “That’s what I’m asking you,” his mother said, taking her hands off her hips. She crossed her arms. “You know I’m standing here. You don’t have to address me.” “Uhh…” he said. His teeth went off on a clicking tangent. “A ...lady.” His mother frowned, eyebrows angled. “A lady?” Richard nodded vigorously. “Uh ...huh.” “What lady?” she said. She didn’t act as if she believed him, but he couldn’t stop now. He had to tell her, had to tell her everything because if he didn’t, she’d thrash him. The woman in the shower was nothing compared to the terror his mother instilled. “In ...the...shower,” he said. It took all his effort not to scream. “A lady in the shower?” his mother said. “She ...she ...had a knife, ma, and…” She cocked her head, widened her eyes, obviously amused. “A knife, huh?” She reached out—supposedly to help him off the floor—then drew back. She noticed the curtain on the floor. “Damn you, boy!” she said, yanking him up off the floor. “Look what you’ve done!” She whirled him around, facing the shower. Richard trembled, wet and cold, teeth chattering. “You think your father and me make lots of money! You think I want to go into town and buy another shower curtain! What in God’s name is the matter with you? Stupid, senseless brat!” She yanked his arm with each emphatic word. It felt like rubber. “You go to your room and don’t come out ’til I tell you,” she said. “I’ll take care of you later.” Richard was happy to go. He put on some clothes after drying off and sat on his bed. He hugged himself, rocking gently, sobbing, the woman in the shower still vivid in his mind. * His mother went to the store to buy another shower curtain. When she got back, she asked her husband, Herbert, what they—as parents—should do about Richard? Wasn’t his behavior a trifle lunatic? What was the matter with him? Why don’t you spend some quality time with your son, Herb? Herbert ignored her. He didn’t even glance in her direction. He held a beer on the arm of the recliner, eyes glued to the television. The Dodgers were on. “Herbert? Herbert, are you listening to me?” * Richard lost contact with Wendall as the years went by. Other friends he’d acquired also slipped away. What could he tell them, his mother and father, the friends he had? That a woman materialized out of thin air and threatened to stab him when he took a shower? At twenty-one, trying to piece his life together, the woman showed up on his doorstep (He noticed as the years went by that she enjoyed surprising him). Even then, she was dripping wet, as if still in the shower with him. Black ink pooled over her lips and onto the floor. She never did anything. She never said anything. She didn’t have to. Richard could hear her clearly: “Look
Richard. Here I am.
Time to go back to your old self.” He obeyed. The sight of her transformed him in seconds. At twenty-one, Richard grabbed the keys to the car, his checkbook, and drove to the nearest liquor store… I’m
your little master. He wondered why she didn’t kill him, why she chose to traumatize him instead. She
likes watching you suffer. It was part of her plan, driving him further from priority, responsibility, and care. Wash
me away with drink, she told him.
Wash me away, and I’ll come back more vivid and powerful
than you can imagine. When
her presence no longer affected him, he regained a sense of normality.
He looked for a job, found another place, and tried to live like
everyone else. Going back and forth from the old to the new was a vicious cycle. He’d been doing it for thirty-eight years now. * In his apartment, he sat on the carpet still with his back against the entertainment center. The carpet was a living sea of swirling thoughts and intoxication. The lamp beside the couch separated, becoming two. Richard grabbed the bottle and tipped it back, chugging it down. He loved the feel of the alcohol swooshing through him, sending him deeper into oblivion. The drink was a weapon against her, and surprisingly, it had worked. He knew it was only a matter of time before alcohol killed her. “Yeah,” he said. “Take that, you bitch!” He took another drink. Seeing her on the morning of April 17th had paralyzed him. But he was home now. He was safe. As long as he stayed away from the shower, he was okay. As long as he stayed with his back against the entertainment center, nothing could harm him. * Because
he was fortunate to find a good paying job at Axes Company, Richard was
able to afford a more respectable apartment in downtown The tenants were noticeably quiet and kept to themselves. In the eight months Richard had been here, he’d said hello to three neighbors (including Miss Dall). He’d never used the swimming pool. Water
is all water, no matter how you look at it.
A bath and a shower aren’t all that different.
Was she tormenting others, Richard wondered, or was he her only victim? She had authority. It was miraculous he hadn’t been institutionalized yet. Yes, Richard thought, maybe she worked upon the masses. He was simply one of the many. She goes from one crazy life to another, he thought. Or is that you? Multitudes… She
dances. She sings as she
murders them, carving them into little bits and pieces, a carnival of
dead things, singing songs of joy. He imagined it easily, a dead thing licking its lips, pushing carrion waste aside. Dead things made him, too, she’d told him. He’d been bred for slaughter since he’d been a boy. He was a little lamb himself, singing songs of joy. With enough alcohol in him, she was—at times—attractive, even beautiful, he thought. Through every grotesquerie, he wondered if he wasn’t falling in love. As the years went by, he no longer saw her as repellant, a sickly thing in the shower. She was stately. Shadows brightened her face. They came from glittering disco balls. He was dancing with her. The horrors were only illusions. My little lamb, so black and uncared for. You make me want to cry. She wasn’t confined to the shower alone. She came when he least expected. Once, after he’d woken up, she’d been lying next to him in bed, the pillow under her stained a moldy black. Spiders crawled over her face and across the pillow. Once, on his way to work, he saw her standing on a street corner. She’d been waving at him. “Hello,
Richard.” I
am near. Always near.
Always to you. He would wait to prove his dedication, his loyalty. He was a valiant soldier. He could do anything as long as she was near, as long as she was in his life. He wasn’t meant to live in the demented darkness alone. Richard nursed the child inside, the boy clinging to hope. He wasn’t weak. He could resist. He could quit drinking, he told himself! I
can stop loving you anytime. I
can be who I’m supposed to be. * Trying only made him realize how tired he was, exhausted. He couldn’t run anymore. Take it all, Richard thought. He realized he’d been dead since the beginning of time. Sometime about the beast… He tried not to think about it and took a chug. Funny how the drunken haze sometimes lifted the fog. Why don’t you stand up! Let in some air, for God’s sake! Open a window! Fresh air will do you good, boy! Sunshine is the heart of you! Sunshine will cure that element of derangement. Colored shapes, all different sizes, came to life in the apartment. For a second, Richard thought they were dragons. Was this her doing as well? Distorted, sinister faces emerged, prevalent monsters gaining tangibility. A gold demon sat on a stool by the kitchen and inspected a coffee mug. A black demon sat chuckling on the windowsill pointing a massive claw. A dark blue demon, lying on the couch, held its belly, laughing so hard tears streamed down its distorted face. Massive feet kicked in the air. “Hey!” Richard said, seeing double. “This alcohol isn’t for you!” Diabolical laughter echoed around him. Let them have their fun. He didn’t care. He closed his eyes, trying to will them from existence. Smiling, Richard ignored them. When he opened his eyes, their forms began to fade. Laughter quieted to a whisper. Richard didn’t understand it, of course. Meaning didn’t exist here. He smiled, closed his eyes, and thought about drifting. Turbulent waters of a strange ocean came together above his head. A galaxy of stars emerged, pinpricks of light. He belonged in the dark. He belonged with demon laughter. Naked
in the shower isn’t you anymore. You
may think it is, but it’s not.
Richard tried to stand. After a time, he managed to get to his feet. He staggered to the window, taking the bottle. He knocked over the lamp along the way. The bulb fluttered and died. He opened the curtains, letting in what remained of the evening light. Seeing double—wavering by the window—gathering clouds covered the sky, a red stain to their underbelly. A deep rumble of thunder issued. Rain poured, drenching the neighborhood streets. For a second, he thought he was going to be sick. The people on the street below, opened their mouths, turning their faces toward the sky. Sure, Richard thought, letting the curtain fall across the window. He walked in a staggering line back to the entertainment center and sat down. Let
us drink. Nothing left but
drink. We accept everything.
We are born again. We
make sense out of our lives. Outside,
the rain continued to pour. * It was the best idea he’d had in a long time… You
can be free if you want to. Nothing
is holding you back. Too many years. It was time to let go. He’d lived long enough under the confines of alcohol. How many years now? Richard had forgotten. He
had to think about it for a minute: flight to the swimming pool, no
elevator, south side of the building…
Do
you know what inspiration is? Have
you ever felt this truly inspired? He
was inspired. After
all, he’d never used the pool, and to hell with Mr.
Fyuesterman! Inspiration suddenly made him want to run and dive into the pool. Ah, the embrace of cold water! He’d have more fun swimming than lying here in oblivion, he realized. “Yeah,” he said. “All you have to do is get to your feet. Try standing, boy. Make it to the door.” He thought about Mr. Fyuesterman, what he would do if he ran into him… “Those aren’t shit stains on my carpet,” Richard said. “That’s vomit you’re looking at, buster.” Richard cackled in delight. He didn’t care if he ran into Mr. Fyuesterman. He’d been through enough already. “I’m not hiding from you anymore!” he shouted. “I want to be free!” He didn’t know to whom he was talking. He’d made up his mind. A-swimmin’
I am a-goin.’ But when he tried to stand, he forgot how to operate his legs. “Oh, come on, Rich,” he said. “Don’t let your legs get in the way.” Free forever? Shackled and chained no more? It was worth the risk. Maybe he’d find out she’d never held sway, never been a part of his life. He paused. “You can’t be serious?” He wavered, still drunk, halfway to the door. He burst out laughing, catching the joke. “That was funny, Rich,” he said. “That was really funny. Not a part of your life, when she is the only part of your life!” He paused again. “I am in control! Not you! Do you hear me?” Richard
fell over and crashed to the floor.
The room swayed up, then down again.
He curled into a ball and laughed.
He rolled over. A
bottle of whiskey lay in front of him.
He grabbed it, unscrewed the top, and stood up.
The bottle—once he was up— slipped from his fingers, and
spilled (glug-glug-glug) into the carpet. A
feeling of loss moved over him. The
living room shifted when he tried to grab the doorknob.
The furniture was spinning out of control again.
The couch danced in circles with the recliner. His body quivered. He tried to focus, bringing it all together. He blinked several times. The furniture slowed for a minute, then gathered momentum. He reached out, trying to steady himself, but grabbed empty air. The carpet moved again, a living sea, tugging at his ankles. Richard finally grabbed the doorknob and steadied himself. The room had stopped spinning. It slowed, shifted, then spun in the opposite direction. He closed his eyes, shook his head, opening them a second later. He grabbed the deadbolt and gave it a turn. This was going to take some amount concentration, focus he didn’t have. Richard put his head to the door and closed his eyes again. He wondered if he had the strength for this. Blood rushed loudly between his ears. Or was that water? He opened his eyes. The furniture was spinning still. I’m
really normal like everyone else. I
have a wife and kids, a good job, a nice car.
We have a dog that plays in the yard.
We have barbecues with the neighbors.
We all get along and love each other and have a happy life.
It’s like a Dickens novel.
Richard
laughed out loud. His concern was to open the door without falling over. He could make it down three flights of stairs, he told himself. Someone needed to put in an elevator. He pulled the door wide and stepped into the hallway. The world spun out of control. He braced one hand against the wall, steadying himself, and tried to focus. The walls were an antique shade of white. Framed pictorials of mountainous landscapes lined both sides of the hallway. The end of the hall, however, seemed miles away. There was a door down there somewhere, a stairwell leading to the first floor. Now, if only he could find it… “Just push me down the steps when I get there,” Richard said, and chuckled. Was that whispering behind each locked door, or the voices in his head? The tenants were conspiring against him. They didn’t like him because he spent all his time alone. He was stuck-up, selfish, and arrogant. You
licentious prick! Was he supposed to sacrifice his time for everyone else’s loneliness? “See the way he looked at me when I gave him that pie!” he heard Miss Dall say. “The nerve of that guy paying his rent on time, looking better than the rest of us!” A new world came to life. Richard was listening to a universe of violation, secrets distinctly audible. Behind one of the doors, someone pleaded: “Please...she
rips...she tears...” Behind
another door: the cries of a violent orgy.
No, not an orgy, he realized.
Torture and pain made those pleas.
He heard the sound of a heavy instrument repeatedly bludgeoned
into someone’s gut. Loud,
squelching noises. Screams
issued from the far end of the hallway.
A little girl’s voice erupted in song.
The cackle of an old woman materialized just next to his ear. Stifled
sobs emerged behind “Crazy
like a fox, love. So mad, my
little lamb, you make me want to cry.” |
