Monsters You Know
By: Tirzah L. Goodwin
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Copyright 2008-2010 Tirzah L. Goodwin
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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DAMAGED
God, I want a cigarette.
Marcus stood, stretched, and walked naked to the bathroom. He flipped on the overhead light and saw a man in the mirror who'd just screwed the last good friend he had - literally. He'd left Teri sleeping, curled on her side, so peaceful. She reminded him of too many things that he'd messed up. Given time, he'd mess this up too. He yanked open the drawer under the sink and rifled through the contents.
There it is. He pulled out a cellophane pack with one wilted cigarette. Above the lemon-scented candles on the shelf, he found her lighter. Its long neck was pencil thin but he thumbed off the safety latch, pulled the trigger, and lit up. He inhaled the taste of ashes and smoke. Coughing, he pulled in another drag. His chest rattled with each exhale.
Damn,
I forgot how much I love smoking.
He finished the
cigarette just as he heard a noise from the bedroom. Tossing the butt
in the toilet, he flushed and pulled a yellow towel from the rack and
knotted it around his waist. Teri was sitting up in bed, the
daisy-patterned sheet just below her breasts. She didn't bother to
cover up.
"Where'd you find the cigarette?"
She
reached up and ran her fingers through her short, spiky blond hair.
The movement lifted her left breast, drew his eye to it, and for a
second, he just looked. Then, ashamed, he tried to turn
away.
"Bathroom drawer, with every other item you ever
owned," his tone sharper than it needed to be. Marcus felt
awkward, out of time, and he just wanted it to be normal again. He
definitely didn't want to talk about what had happened.
"I
didn't know I had any left." She wouldn't stop looking at him.
Why
wouldn't she just look away?
"Well, now you don't.
It was the last one."
"I thought you'd quit,"
Teri's voice spiked with accusation.
An expectant air filled the room, but Marcus couldn't find the words to answer her real question. For six months, he'd actually had someone to talk with, to be with, and that was gone now just because he hadn't been able to say no when she had kissed him.
"So did I."
He bent and snagged his jeans from the floor. He sat on the edge of the rumpled bed. His back to her, Marcus pulled on his pants, the sound of her breath whispering behind him, beckoning. He wanted to turn around, to crawl back to her and pretend that this would all work out, but even he couldn't lie that well.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" Teri demanded. He could feel her hurt and anger swelling in the air, like a balloon pumped too full.
"What
do you want me to say? I screwed up everything," he admitted
quietly.
"Yeah, well, at least you do it well." Her
tone blistered him with bitterness and his stomach began to throb. He
squeezed the back of his aching neck with his hand.
"Do
you want me to say I'm sorry?" Marcus wondered aloud, "Then,
I'm sorry. I wish I could go back and undo it."
"Bastard,"
she snarled.
Something
slammed into the side of his head and he slid off the edge of the bed
onto the floor. The towel had balled up under his back and his ear
stung. He put one arm under him and pushed himself back to a half
sitting position. Her fist was still clenched, her eyes small, dark,
pinning him to the carpet with a look that said he'd
ruined everything.
"I said I'm sorry. Do you want to hit
me again? It won't change anything. It won't change what I am."
he shrugged, "You knew I was a bastard before you slept with
me." Marcus still couldn't meet her eyes, couldn't bear to see
that disappointment on her face.
"You can be different.
You don't have to be like this," begged Teri. "We could
make it work. You just have to choose to be different."
He could smell the warm scent of her, but the hurt pulsing heavily in the air kept him on the ground. If only it was that easy; he started to laugh. Dry, hurting laughter that tore through him like a claw.
"Some
things you don't get a choice about, Teri. Some things just
are."
"Can't you even try?"
She
had crawled to the edge of the bed, her head on her crossed arms,
still naked. Anger had faded to hurt, she reached a hand out to him
but Marcus scrambled backwards like a crab, away from her, until he
sat against the cool wall next to the window.
"No."
Trying
always ended in bruises, in blood, in screaming until it was quiet.
With the quiet, always came the clean up. He wasn't going to be like
his father, like his blood, "My kind doesn't have relationships,
Teri. We have victims."
"Your kind. You say it like
you're different from the rest of us. You're just like everyone else,
Marcus, you just don't want to try."
She grabbed his wrinkled t-shirt and slipped it over her head and then sat on the edge of the bed, cross-legged. Her pink mouth was stiff, her eyes burning again with anger as she stared holes through him. Marcus tried not to peek under the edge of the shirt but his eyes kept drifting to the gap left between her legs.
God, I was sick. Why couldn't I stop looking?
Finally, in desperation, he closed his eyes. He shouldn't want her like this, shouldn't still be craving her.
The
darkness in his head, instead of giving him a respite, just fed the
craven images of slick warmth and soft skin. He shuddered as hunger
bubbled up inside of him, he couldn't stop the moan of need that
escaped from his lips. Then, he felt a gentle hand on his face and
his eyes shot open, shocked to find Teri sitting next to him on the
floor, touching him.
"You shouldn't do that," he
shuddered, "I'm no good, Teri. Do you know how my parents died?"
He wanted to pull her into his arms but he didn't deserve any sort of
comfort. He didn't deserve to breathe her air.
"You said
they died in a car accident." She frowned in obvious
confusion.
"They didn't. I tell people that because it's
easier than the truth. My father killed my mother. I think I was
there." Revulsion and shame welled up and drowned out his sexual
hunger; he began to rock back and forth. Teri tried to hold him
closer but he resisted her soft touch.
"You think you
were there?" Her voice was soft and her hand had slipped up into
his hair, pulling his head into her lap. He wrapped his arms around
her waist and fought the urge to cry. It felt so good to have someone
touch him with softness, with comfort.
Then, the words just
came, pouring out of him, like a scab being pulled off, "Blood.
There was blood everywhere. I had it all over me. Everywhere.
Afterwards, I washed and washed and I couldn't get it off."
Memories
flooded him and he heard whimpering coming from somewhere far away
but he had to finish it, "I had bits of her...flesh in my hair.
I couldn't get it off. "
Small hands clenched in his
hair, then slowly released and slid down to rub his neck, "It's
okay. You didn't do anything wrong. Where was your father
after...afterwards?"
"I don't know. Sometimes, I
think it was a bad dream. That thing killing my mother didn't seem
like my Dad, you know? He seemed bigger, darker. My mother kept
screaming and hitting him but he wouldn't stop tearing into her.
Then, he was gone and I was alone and I couldn't get the blood off."
It
felt so good to have someone put their arms around him, "Aunt
Lilly said he hung himself in the garage."
Her fingers
tightened on his flesh for a moment then relaxed and she tried to
lighten his mood, "Your Aunt Lilly, I remember her. Marcus, I
know she's your family but that woman is a stone cold bitch."
Marcus felt comforted for the first time since his childhood.
He leaned into her softness, he whispered, "She says my whole
family's cursed. That my grandfather killed both of his wives before
someone shot him in his sleep. She says I‘m dangerous."
Anger edged Teri's voice, "How could she say that to you? You were just a little boy. It wasn't your fault. There's nothing wrong with you."
Her hands remained on his muscled flesh, rubbing away the tension.
"She doesn't want me to hurt anyone. My father killed her sister. She just doesn't want me to be like him. The men in our family just get obsessed, psychotically jealous. She says my mother wanted to leave my father and he killed her for it."
"Oh, Marcus, you're nothing like them. Except for being an asshole, you're a great guy."
He knew she was trying to make him laugh. He had never let himself get as close to anyone as he had Teri. She was so beautiful inside and out. He even loved the kitten tattoo on her belly.
"I'm damaged, Teri, damaged just like them. I want you all the time."
The heady scent of her made his skin burn from the inside. He loved the smell of her. His scent, her scent and the fading smell of sweaty sex. His muscles tightened, clenching. A sweet tingle seared through him, punching through his groin, grinding through his spine and hitting with bursting pain in the back of the head.
He needed. He wanted. He turned his head further into her lap and inhaled her moist richness. The darkness soothed the pain in his head and the feel of her silky skin ramped his lust up a notch. She gasped as his tongue slid up her bare inner thigh, her nails dug deeply into his skin.
"What are you...you do...ing?"
Marcus
burrowed deeper into her lap, nipping against her flesh. Wonderful.
She was bliss. The hunger kept growing, a rolling destructive force,
swelling his soul. She kept trying to wiggle away, his arms held her
down. Mine. He couldn't stop a warning snarl as she pulled
away harder.
Power was building inside him, growing. Just like
last night but this time he couldn't stop. Pain and pleasure blended
together and he wanted her so badly that he thought he'd die from it.
She was his.
"Stop it!" She tried to pull away from him but he held her down easily, barely noticing her struggle. Someone was crying, the sound a nasty buzz in his ears.
"Let me go, Marcus!"
She was screaming at him and beating him with her fists. Biting at him, trying to get him to let go of her. He shook his aching head and pried his hands from her body. Why was she fighting him?
He
could still smell her, taste her dampness on his lips. Marcus
couldn't stop the shudder of need rolling up from him. He crawled
back in the corner, away from temptation. She scurried away from him,
gripping her plastic seashell lamp in her hands. Growls erupted from
his lips and he watched his prize huddle in fear of him. Mine.
He shook his head. Not mine.
"Go...go, Teri. Go
now before, it's too late."
He
barely recognized the roughness of his own voice. Then, his bones
cracked. Every muscle felt pulled tight and on the verge of snapping.
He couldn't think. His female. His for pleasure or pain. She moved
toward the door, he snarled his warning. He moved toward her
again...pain scorching through him like lava. Teri stared at him in
horror, crying, gripping that silly lamp like it would save her.
Saliva pooled on his mouth, need roared through him.
How dare she refuse him? She was his.
Then,
a monster appeared in front of him; he lashed out and felt the glass
shatter under his hairy, muscled arm. Shock pulled him into
semi-reality. He looked down at himself but the man he had been was
gone. Instead, there stood a huge, hulking creature full of sharp
teeth and burning eyes. A new truth shuddered through him and he
slammed his fists though the side table, tearing it into broken
pieces.
Aunt Lilly was right. He was a monster. He was going
to hurt Teri. Terrified, he threw himself at the narrow window,
hoping to destroy himself before he killed her. Glass tore into his
face and chest but someone grabbed his arm from behind. Acting on
instinct, he blindly knocked the attacker to the ground with a single
backhanded blow.
Spinning around in a rage to finish his
opponent off, he instead found Teri crumpled on the floor, bleeding.
What had he done? He howled his anger to the plastered ceiling.
Yet, mingled with that regret was a tingling bloodlust. It pulsed
through his veins, flowing across his skin like electricity. He
trembled with the need to tear into the flesh of his enemy.
"Marcus...," tiny fingers touched his leg, curled
partway around the calf muscle, "don't hurt me....please
don‘t..."
He
trembled from head to toe, shaking. Breathing hard, he swallowed air
in great gulps, trying to calm himself. Trying to find Marcus again
in the middle of this storm of need and testosterone. Pain speared
through him, pulling at his flesh, humming through his bones. Then he
found himself, still standing, with the bruised body of Teri at his
feet. He sank down beside her on his haunches, watching her breathe
raggedly.
He was damaged. Marcus bent down, kissed her
forehead, leaned against her for a second then staggered back to his
feet. He dug through her drawers, pulled on an old t-shirt, slipped
on his running shoes. She was moaning on the cluttered floor,
half-unconscious. Guilt welled up in him.
Shaking, he pulled
open his cell phone, "Yeah, I need an ambulance at 415 Derring.
A woman's been attacked."
A calm, neutral voice, "Is
the attacker still there?"
"Yes,
but he's leaving."
OFF THE BEATEN PATH
"Hey Ronnie, wait up. Ronnie! I said wait."
"Move it, Karen. You said you wanted to go hiking with me."
"Yeah-hike, not a freakin' marathon race."
My lungs beat angrily against my sore ribs. After only three miles, I was wheezing like an asthmatic cow and the muscles in my legs burned. If Ronnie ever wanted to see me naked again, he better slow his ass down.
I dropped my pack on the ground and collapsed beside it. A rock was digging into my back but I didn't care, I wasn't ever going to move again. Closing my eyes, I found a temporary respite from the overheated sun. A dark shadow moved over my body, hiding me from the light. I opened my eyes reluctantly and looked up.
Ronnie's face hid in the shade of his Red's baseball cap but I could feel his impatience rolling over me. I sighed.
"Get up Karen and quit playing the martyr."
I was disgusted to see that his white t-shirt was barely touched with sweat. I knew I looked like I rolled in grease from this miserable heat. My blue shirt was sticking to me, my new jeans were rubbing me raw at the waist and I was still huffing for air.
"Who's playing? You might have told me that we were going to jog the whole trip. I'm dying down here."
I reached a hand up for his dented canteen, "Hand me the water."
He stepped away from my hand. Asshole. My mouth was dry as a bone.
"There's a good campsite about a half a mile from here. If you have to rest, let's do it there. I don't like camping off the main trail."
I pulled up the neck of my shirt and used it to wipe the dripping perspiration from my cheeks. I wish Ronnie would step closer again and give me a little shade. I was so miserably hot.
"I'm not going another step, not even if you promised me my weight in chocolate. Can't we just stay here for awhile? Please?"
"Come on Karen, just a half a mile more and I promise to give you a full body massage."
"I think that's more for you than me, isn't it?"
Ronnie laughed, "Well a man can dream, can't he? Ok, how about I tweak your homepage when we get back. I'll even let you download some of my video programs."
Ronnie's didn't share his original programs with anyone and I'd love to have his new Zombie Head Hunters. It was awesome. When he sold it, it was going to make him as rich as Bill Gates. And I'd get a copy first. Hah!
I grumbled but gave in, "All right, you'll never shut up until I get up anyway. But I still get my massage and your software. Deal?"
"Deal."
I raised my hand and he helped me up. My legs screamed in protest but at least I had my breath back. I leaned down to pick up my pack and stopped, momentarily numb.
"Ronnie, Oh God, Ronnie-Oh my God", I couldn't stop saying it, over and over again. Before I knew it, the numbness was gone and I was backing up as quickly as I could. Little whimpers of terror were coming from somewhere but I couldn't concentrate, I could only stare at it. I couldn't stop looking at it.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Karen?"
Ronnie was staring at me with anxiety but my mouth wouldn't work. The whimpers were getting more desperate. I opened my mouth to tell him but the bile rose in my throat and I turned and gagged into the bushes.
"What is it, Karen? Are you hurt? What is it?" I just pointed mutely back to where my backpack still lay. The rock I had been lying on was a fist; a fist with chipped pink nail polish.
Ronnie grew quiet. I retched into the bushes again, closing my eyes. Ronnie's leg brushed against mine.
A hushed voice hissed in my ear, "Why don't you ever do what you’re told?"
A pinch of pain in my back stole my breath. I slid to my knees and felt a shiver of cold quiver down my spine.
"Ronnie....?"
There was no answer.
WEREWOLVES
IN THE GARDEN
A large gray werewolf was taking a dump in my garden next to the oversized holly bush that I hated and couldn't afford to remove. I can only assume it is a werewolf. It was large, bigger than my ten-speed, with ragged gray hair and eyes that stared at me with offended intelligence. I started to look away to give it the privacy it demanded but, hey, it was depositing a mammoth amount of poo into my backyard.
I rested both trembling hands against the sliding glass doors, reassuring myself that the cool wall of glass still stood between me and the beast. The hairy animal had now finished its delicate business and was loping in my direction. Its stride was long and easy, it's lean neck outstretched, mouth open, teeth flashing. My trembling turned into violent shaking. Every instinct I had told me to run and to run fast.
I backed away from the approaching creature, back into my white and ivory living room, and wondered wildly where I'd left the cordless phone. I needed help. I could see the beast’s sharp fangs flashing at me in a silent threat. Shaking, I froze in the middle of the perfectly lighted room. For once, the loveliness didn't sooth me. What to do? What to do?
My
terror was interrupted by the impatient ringing of the doorbell.
Shaggy paws were leaving dirty streaks against the glass of the
doors; it was standing on its back legs, pressing inward with its
front paws, wanting into my house, wanting to get me. My breath came
in hard, heavy pants. Oh God, I was going to die.
The doorbell rang again. Startled out of fear, I ran to the entry way, my strappy Jimmy Choo's clicking on the terra cotta tile, away from the werewolf. I flung open the door and crashed into the muscled chest of an irritated male. I tried to push past him, all human concern for my fellow man thrown aside in the hopes of saving my own life. He looked like a tough guy, strong, with well-defined layers of muscle and a hard, intense face. I'm sure he'd be fine.
The
man grabbed my arm and pulled me unwillingly back into my
stylish monochromatic living room. If my body hadn't been throbbing
with fear, it might have been throbbing for a different reason when I
notice how attractive my dark-haired captor was. But no time to get
his digits, I had to get out of here.
"Let-" I
gulped air, "Let me go."
I
tried to yank my arm loose from his grip but he didn't seem to
notice. I heard a muted snarl followed by the thud of a large body
being thrown against the glass. A strangled scream escaped my lips.
We both wiped around toward the sliding glass doors.
The fanged animal was now throwing itself against
the clear doors. The man growled low in his throat and kicked
the front door closed.
"It found me," his voice was
like double dark chocolate, attractive and bitter, sprinkled with
danger, "Damn wolfhounds."
Still
slightly confused, I asked, "It isn't a werewolf?"
He
looked at me like I was a raging idiot. I'd never seen a werewolf
before so how was I supposed to know what they looked like. So
like a man. The 140 pound monster in my backyard looked like
he'd qualify for the job as a creature of the night. Especially since
ropes of drool were now dripping from dog's fangs as he threw himself
against the glass, over and over. The thump of his body made my skin
tighten. Fear clawed at me, I needed go and go now.
"No,
that's not a werewolf. That's a wolfhound. It belongs to a
hunter."
"Hunters?" What would they be doing in my
subdivision? The Homeowners Association would have a fit. I
stared dumbly at the man gripping my arm. I tried to tug free of him
again but he didn't seem to notice.
"There isn't much
time," he shoved me against wall, crowding me with his large,
hot body. His fingers came up, stroked down my throat, and then
ripped my shirt and bra strap with one hard pull. I inhaled hard. I
realized that a strange, large man was in my living room, looming
over me. I opened my mouth to call for help but it ended in a
squeak when he ran his rough tongue across my jaw, then he dropped
his head and nipped my shoulder. Confused, frightened, I began to try
to squirm away but he trapped me with his weight and I could tell he
liked it when I moved against him.
What was I doing? I went still against the solid warmth of his body then pushed hard against his chest but instead of letting me go, he licked a slow warm path up my neck. I trembled as he paused, nibbled at the curve of my jaw. I opened my mouth to tell him to stop, to stop right now but the protest came out in a moan. He groaned in response, wedging his himself between my thighs. Oh my, this was really wrong. I'd stop in a minute. Probably. His mouth grazed mine and I parted my lips for him.
The
most erotic moment of my life was shattered by breaking glass, my
would-be lover turned just as the wolfhound leapt for us.
He twisted, shoving me behind him. The animal sunk its
canine teeth into his up thrust arm, their combined weight
slammed back into me. Pain bloomed through my body as legs and
claws kicked at me. Luckily, the man quickly rolled both of them
off of me and back into the dining room.
I began to crawl,
trying to reach the front door without being noticed. I paused,
feeling guilty about leaving the fellow to be mauled to death on
my Berber carpet. I hesitated. Just as the guilt started
to make me do something stupid, the man began to change. He seemed to
expand, bursting through his clothes, his teeth elongating, hair
rippling across every exposed surface, his features contorting. The
large dog now seemed small and weak as it confronted the larger
monster. Oh crap.
I was whimpering, beyond any level of
terror I had ever experienced. I scurried away on hands and knees,
quickly moving away from the bloody nightmare that had taken over my
house. Then I heard a thrumming noise, turning back to the action I
saw an arrow sticking out of the chest of the wolf-man. He ripped
the arrow with one hand, his snarls deep and furious. I opened
my mouth to wail but I couldn't get any air.
The
thrumming noise came again and again. Arrows piercing the wolf-man,
walls, my Masterson's print of *The Windmills*. I was never going to
be able to get another. The man-wolf fell to his knees, bleeding from
eight or nine arrow wounds when a smaller guy with a large bow
stepped in from the garden and whistled for the wolfhound. The dog, a
dirty, bleeding mess, limped past hunter and settled down on my new
white armchair.
The archer pulled a small ax from his
belt and threw it, end over end; it embedded deeply into the
wolfman's throat, cutting cruelly through the flesh. Shuddering, I
curled in a ball by the front door, wanting badly to run but afraid
to attract the hunter's attention. He planted a booted foot onto my
would-be lover's now hairless chest and pulled loose the ax with a
wet sucking sound. Then, the killer came toward me but
there was no compassion in his eyes. My muscles tensed, wanting to
run, wanting to be saved.
He readied the ax for his swing. I
covered my head with my arms and he hesitated, "You're not
changed yet."
His
hard, green eyes burned into me, "No matter, nits make lice."
I peeked at him from beneath my arms as he readied the ax for a
killing blow. Just as I was sure of my painful death by ax, I heard
the wolfhound snarl a warning. The wolf-man, drenched with blood,
slammed into the hunter, burying his pointed canines in the hunter's
throat. I finally screamed, long and hard, and woke up, sweating on
the couch in the living room.
I stared, confused, at the
half-eaten slice of goat cheese pizza still sitting on the coffee
table. I looked around the room, still uneasy. Then, relief poured
through me like a river; a dream, a terrible dream. I stood up
unsteadily, walked over to the sliding glass doors, their unbroken
beauty shining, and looked out to see a large wolfhound sniffing
around my holly bush. I felt a tingle of awareness zing painfully
down my spine, as I pressed a hand against the cold glass and watched
in horror as rough claws sprang from my fingertips.
BLACK CATS AND INSOMNIA
Tonight, while I'm not sleeping, the rest of the world is tucked away in gentle slumber. I am so tired, so heavy limbed; I ache. My eyelids are filled with salt. I want, I need to sleep but rest escapes me.
In the before, I use to drink mountains of caffeine to stay up so I could cram for my law classes. Now I swallow sleeping pills like vitamins but nothing helps. This waking stretch, I've been up seven days, six nights, four hours, and several odd minutes. Sometimes after a week of being constantly aware, I see things that aren't there.
I use to be a normal guy. I wore nice suits I couldn't afford to a job I hated just like everyone else. Until a Tuesday in September, I overslept and had to run for the bus. My first mistake. I had just crossed 8th when a lady ran into me, spilling her coffee down my gray suit. I cussed her before I saw her kid behind her. A little girl around six in pink hair bows and a 'Hello Kitty' t-shirt. Her frightened eyes started back at me, her hand borrowing into the folds of her mother's t-shirt.
I mumbled a sorry for all the good it did. The woman flipped me off, grabbed her kid by the arm, and started hurrying across the street. The cab didn't see them or couldn't stop. Horns blared, somebody screamed. Pink bows turned red, sirens squalled, and I didn't go to work that day.
Now, I can't sleep.
And Oprah on the television gives me personal advice about my non-existent girlfriend. I hear her in my head, her smooth honey voice telling me I need to communicate more. Yeah, I probably do. I'll do it as soon my landlord quits sneaking into my house and stealing my pens. I hid them under the refrigerator this time. Let's see the bastard find them there.
I'm afraid to go outside anymore; afraid I'll see pink elephants or argue with my grandmother's ghost. I get paranoid when I'm tired. I start to see bugs in the coffee maker. People follow me, reading my thoughts, and those cretins at work always touch my things when I'm tired, like I can't smell the wax of their fingerprints.
You can't get that smell off with regular cleaners. You have to use bleach and steel wool. If that doesn't work, you have to burn it off. Really, it's the only way, and I was careful; I unhooked the fire alarm and everything. I don't know why the drones at work freaked out. They were the ones who kept touching my things.
But it doesn't matter now; I don't go out much since work put me on indefinite leave. I spend my time watching reruns of talk shows in my crappy little third floor apartment, with its wonderful view of the new interstate on-ramp. Opening the kitchen window, I let the evening smell of car exhaust sooth my agitation. The thick Cleveland traffic chokes the air with emissions and screeching horns.
Reaching out one hand onto the metal slats of the fire escape, the metal bends under my fingers: soft, spongy, porous. I yank back my hand and wipe it on my cotton pants. Closing my eyes tight, I will the image away. After a few moments, I take a peek and reach my hand out again. Warm, solid metal greets my fingertips. Shaken, my appetite for adventure gone, I decide to pass another endless day by trying to nap.
The bare white bedroom is illuminated only by the distant light of the kitchen. I lay back on the bed, my thoughts slightly disjointed. Shadows crawl across the ceiling, down the walls, making obscene gestures. I close my eyes but instead of soothing me, the relentless darkness presses down on my chest with heavy hands. I can't breathe, the air seems thick. Gasping heavily, I roll up into a sitting position, feet on the floor, hang my head between my knees and I try to regulate my air intake.
Damn, damn, damn...I just want to go to sleep! The yellow spots in front of my eyes recede slowly and finally I can feel the cool smoothness of the Pergo flooring under my bare feet.
Crash.
Thieves in the apartment? I slip on my brown leather house shoes and grab a golf club from the bag in the corner. I always intended to learn how to play, someday. I ease out the open bedroom door, down the short hallway in what I hope was absolute silence and follow the sound, and they say a chubby guys can't be graceful. The first sign of a disturbance are the white ceramic shards scattered across the yellow linoleum.
Then, I notice something stranger than broken plates; a large black cat perched on my kitchen table. At the crunch of broken glass under my foot, the cat tenses, crouching over my bowl of leftover spaghetti-o's. It hisses and shows me its red stained teeth. A large cat, probably three feet high at the head with really big canines.
Flop sweat pours over me, down my back, pooling in the crack of my ass and behind my knees. A fucking panther in my kitchen; on my table; eating my spaghetti-os. My mind refused to process the information. Fear twitches along my skin, scurrying up my spine to tingle in my brain. The warm dampness spreading from my crotch down my inner thighs brings me back to reality.
What would a black panther be doing in an apartment in downtown Cleveland? The residual fear drains out of me. If you ignored these types of visions, they usually dissipate-eventually. I felt myself blushing as the smell of urine and sweat co-mingle and waft up from my own body. I actually pissed my pants. Damn insomnia is ruining my life. A snarling hiss from my imaginary cat almost gave me a start for a second but I caught myself in time.
I push my soiled pajama bottoms down my legs, ball them up and carry them into the bathroom with me. Dropping the pants into the wicker hamper, I turn on the shower, hold my hand under the warming water, and rest my forehead against the cold tile. My head aches, my eyes burn. If I don't get to sleep soon, I am going to lose what was left of my mind. I yank off my sweaty t-shirt, toss it across the sink, step under the water, and stand there, letting the humiliation wash away.
Once the water turns cool, I drag myself out of the shower and walk naked back to my bedroom. I can't detect any sound from the front of the apartment. I don't look, I don't want to know. I pull a fresh t-shirt over my damp chest, another set of cotton bottoms. I sit on the bed to pull on white athletic socks and wonder where I've left my slippers. Exhaustion makes my fingers thick and hard to use. I struggle with the left sock. It won't fit right, and ended up twisted with an inch of unused material flapping uselessly at the end of my foot. Fuck, forget it.
I fall back on the bed. The mattress seems to rise up to meet my trembling muscles and offer relief. My swollen, sore eyes start counting the ceiling tiles, my own personal sheep. Relaxation finally begins to seep through me; my eyes begin to drift down.
Crash.
My eyes spring back open and the tension once again tightens the muscles down my spine. I roll to my side and struggle back to my feet. Loud, destructive crashes echo from the front of the apartment. Determined, I move down the hallway once again and stepped into the kitchen.
The table rested on its side, one of the chairs was still upright but the other was being used as a makeshift scratching post. Up close, I could see the cat wasn't truly black. It had a spotted pattern that appeared and disappeared as its dark fur shifted. Broken pieces of dinnerware crunch under my socks.
I probably knocked the table over in my earlier panic attack and somehow my head blamed it on my mythical cat. Yellow eyes looked up from destroying my chair, lips pulled back to expose a fearsome feline smile. My nose twitched. The animal crouched on the ground before me, ready to pounce. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened my eyes to find the kitchen empty.
Relief floods me. Gone. I pick up the broken plate pieces and toss them in the garbage can. I set the damaged chair back up on its four chewed legs. How did I do that? I must have tripped over it earlier and broken the frame. Turning back to grab the overturned table, I hear a low, mean snarl on my left. Unwillingly, I glance over and see my nuisance cat was back. Instead of fear, unexpected anger began to burn inside me.
Fucking cat. "Why don't you stay gone?"
"I want to sleep!"
The panther answers with a slow snarl and starts to stalk forward, low and dangerous. My anger turns to righteous rage.
"You don't fucking exist, so get the hell out of my head."
I turned my back on the apparition, flipped up the handle to turn the faucet on. Grabbing the spray gun, I spun around fast, and hit the nasty kitty hard in the face with a stream of water. A low animal scream ripped through the air as it shook its huge feline head violently. The big cat turned and took a leap out the open kitchen window. I followed the beast's path to the window, peeking out hesitantly to find the street empty except for a black and white house cat playing in an overturned garbage can.
Imagination.
Exhaustion weighed on me. Part of me wanted to clean up the wreck of a kitchen but the need to sleep took too much of my energy. I left the mess and stumbled into the living room to collapse on the couch. Using the remote, I flip on the news, thinking I'd have another restless night. Instead, I start to drift blissfully to sleep, only vaguely hearing the breaking story of a man illegally breeding exotic cats in downtown Cleveland.
Cats...mmm... so tired.
I think I slept some, maybe. Then, something patted against my foot, I twitched away. Something sharp pricked my skin through my cotton pants. Ouch. Blinking, I open my blurry eyes and see a cat sitting on my couch arm. A tiny tuxedo house-cat whose black and white paws were slapping at the floppy end of my sock. The outside cat from the garbage can.
Ah.
Somebody's kitty must have come through the open window. Well at least it explained the dreams. Panther indeed! Determined to take advantage of my sleepy mood, I ignore my annoying house-guest and started to settle into a rest when the little cat opened its pink little mouth gave a little meow. Cute but I was tired.
The answering yowl behind my head sent flurries of terror down my body. Goosebumps sprang up on my arms, my neck hair stood on end.
I carefully turn my head to find large amber eyes watching me as foul feline breath fans my cheek. A very large panther stood less than three inches away from me and it didn't seem happy to see me.
Ahh...crap.
'Hello...kitty?"