The Stain
I never
would have noticed the stain if Lynn hadn’t walked out on me. When she left, I
went into a deep funk and, drinking even more than usual, lay around the house
staring at the ceiling from one horizontal position or another. I wasn’t used
to being alone. The house seemed so empty without her presence, singing or
weeping depending on her mood. And our daughter, my little Sharon, where is my
little girl?
I don’t blame her for leaving. I’m not the easiest person to live with. I
slipped into a kind of gray zone laying on the bed staring at nothing. That’s
how I first noticed the stain. A rusty brown blob with no color and no apparent
shape. I watched it for hours. After a couple of days, the stain took on a
shape I recognized. Sort of like a baseball diamond. I could, if I tried hard
enough, make out the pitcher’s mound and the evenly spaced bases. It reminded
me of that time I threatened Lynn with a bat. I was drunk, of course. I never
would have actually hit her with it but I could see she was terrified. I did
manage to bust up the furniture some and those two lamps her mother gave us. I
was awful sorry the next day. Lynn took me back. Good old Lynn.
A couple of days later, the stain took on the aspect of a face, a man’s face,
but I couldn’t place it until I noticed the cap. A policeman’s cap complete
with badge and everything. I could even make out the badge number—387. It was
the face of that young cop who came to the door that time I was so high on
booze and pills I could barely stand. I must have taken a swing at him because
I woke up in a cell in restraints. That was a bad time and I’m sorry I scared
you, honey. You bailed me out yet again. I hardly deserved such loyalty.
The stain grows larger. There must be a leak somewheres though it hasn’t rained
in weeks. Today the stain looks like a woman, a very unhappy woman. I can see
her sad face. The tears streaming down her cheeks, her hair a tousled mess eyes
pleading for me to stop. But I don’t stop, do I? I hit you to make you stop
crying. I slap your tears away. I strike our daughter, my precious little girl.
And what was it you did to make me so angry? I can’t remember. I am always
angry.
I fall asleep staring at the stain. It is definitely bigger now and the color
is turning from a rusty brown to a kind of greenish brown. My mind struggles to
make a picture of the new shape. It is sinuous and complex. At first I think
it’s you standing in the doorway our daughter behind your back. You are
shielding her from my fury but that is not it. Then it snaps into focus. It is
a dragon, its coils wrapped around its victim, a man, his head inside the
dragon’s mouth. Whoever it is is being devoured. Somehow I know it is me. I am
being devoured.
As I stare transfixed, the stain detaches itself from the ceiling. Is this a
hallucination? When is the last time I had something to eat or drink? I’m sure
I’m hallucinating. It’s so real, it’s almost funny. I try to laugh. But my
mouth is too dry. I try to scream but whatever sound I manage to make is
muffled by the dragon’s moist and toothy maw.
BIO:
Harris
Tobias lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia. He is the author of
several novels and dozens of short stories. His fiction has appeared in Ray Gun
Revival, Dunesteef Audio Magazine, Literal Translations, FriedFiction, Down In
The Dirt, Eclectic Flash, E Fiction and several other obscure publications. His
poetry has appeared in Vox Poetica, The poem Factory and The Poetry Super
Highway. You can find links to his novels at: http://harristobias-fiction.blogspot.com/
Hey, Harry, I enjoyed this original piece about a guy so fucked up on booze 'n' life, that his haunting demons finally snared him.
ReplyDeleteNice one.
Regards,
Col
I always knew there was a truth behind the old saying, "Do not trifle with dragons, for you are small and crunchy and taste good with ketchup." To that I would add, Especially the dragon within you. Pure poetry this. Cool.
ReplyDelete