Psychoses

It was my last day in the house, and I was alone. My friends had gone home the day before. We had said goodbye, and I had wished them a Merry Christmas, and all the best for New Years. I would have gone with them; just packed everything up and made my way back home. But I had to stay, I had to make my peace with the house, and come to terms with what had happened there.

You see, when I say “what had happened”, I’m not talking about an event. When I say “what had happened”, I am talking about a moment where I began to question myself. I can’t for the life of me remember when it was but at a certain point I became rather muddled, and I started to flake away into the house, into the fibres of the carpet. So I thought I should stay an extra day to collect myself, so as not to leave any important pieces behind.

I thought that the best way to go about it was to turn up the heating, watch television and drink. Soon I was lying on the leather sofa, slowly fusing to it in the heat. The alcohol, the dehydration and the Friday night panel shows had guided me to the beginning of my very own Yellow Brick Road, for lo and behold: I was experiencing minor psychoses.

The first thing that happened is that I had to go and throw up into the sink in the kitchen. I leaned my head on a cool kitchen surface, never wanting to move again. Soon, however, I rallied myself and stood up, at which point I came eye to eye with a ticket inspector.

“Tickets please” he said, getting out a stamp from his blazer pocket. He was wearing a red tie, and his teeth all pointed to the centre of his mouth, as if there were a special magnet there pulling them in. I told him that I didn’t know that I had to have a ticket.

“Well, all that I’m hearing” he said, returning his stamp to his blazer pocket and pulling out a small notepad, “is that you do not have a ticket”.

I looked around the kitchen and then imploringly in to his eyes. What could I do? What would happen now? “Well you would normally have to pay the full price of a ticket, and a £30 fine sir”. He looked me up and down, and raised one eyebrow at me “but there are exceptions” he said. He grabbed my hand and held it, and I looked at him and he looked at me, and we both looked at each other. He looked deep into my eyes, and raised his other hand, which tremblingly wiped the sweat off my brow. Suddenly he turned around, and pulled me down the hallway, leading me back in to the front room.

The living room was still hot; damn hot. I looked around. Seated on my leather sofa was a large, bulging burlap sack, which was filthy and full of small holes. On an arm chair alongside the sofa sat a young man, around my age. He was dressed plainly, with a white t-shirt, and he had long hair and a thick beard. In his arms he was caressing an angel, carved out of ice. Every now and again he would turn his head with a start, checking to see if the sculpture was melting, which it rapidly was.

The ticket inspector led me over to the sofa, and sat me next to the burlap sack. He pulled a chair in front of the sofa, and sat himself down in front of the sack and I. We were all sweating, the three men and the ice sculpture; I even imagined the burlap sack was sweating, as there was a strange smell of meat emanating from it.

All of a sudden, the ticket inspector broke out in to a broad grin. “I would like you to meet my friend Duncan”, he said, motioning to the burlap sack. He stood up and began to pace around, “I’m working all of the time now, especially over Christmas, so it would really be a great help to me if the two of you could socialise a bit, just so that I know he’s not lonely”, he said, fondly winking at Duncan. “I’d be willing to overlook your ticket” he said, threateningly I felt.

I looked at the sack, and then at the madman before me. My vomit caked lips said something to the effect that it would be my pleasure to associate myself with Duncan the sack. “Marvellous!” the inspector said, clapping his hands together. Then he paused, and looked thoughtfully at the sack, and then at me. Slowly he walked towards where I was sitting, and then he leaned down, putting his hand on the wall behind my head, his arm right next to my ear as he leaned in inches from my face. “You see sir, Duncan doesn’t make friends very easily” he said, softly, as he stared into my eyes.

I could smell raw meat on his breath, and I felt a drop of his sweat fall on to my cheek. Then, without another word, he stood up and was gone. I sat trembling, lathered in my own sweat. I looked around at the others in the room, as if to say “what the f**k was that about?” Unfortunately Duncan hadn’t seemed to notice, and the young man was now sobbing quietly in his chair because his angel had melted into his lap. I thought about sparing him some kind words, but then what could I say: she was gone after all.

I turned my attention to the task at hand. I felt that if I didn’t put up a good show of trying to get along with Duncan then the ticket inspector would know; he would sense it somehow. I had now grown to fear him so much that the fact that I didn’t need a ticket was irrelevant. This maniac had somehow broken into my house and it was his territory now, I had to play by his rules. I said hello to Duncan, not expecting anything or receiving anything by way of reply. We sat there, the two of us, breathing heavily in the heat.

That was when I realised that Duncan was breathing, that I could hear horse inhales coming from inside his sack. Who was Duncan: the sack or its contents? I had to know. Tentatively I reached out my hand to feel the sack. I lightly fingered the outer material, and then slowly pressed down on it. I heard a squelch, and felt something tough and springy, like a steak. Duncan started up a low gurgling sound, and his breathing grew louder and heavier. I withdrew my hand as though bitten, and looked in horror at the sack as it began to bulge and writhe. Then, suddenly, everything stopped. Duncan was still, the breathing stopped, even the young man in the chair was silent, paralyzed by his grief. All I could hear was my own breathing and the beating of my heart and the sweat dripping off my face on to the sofa. Then the sack fell over, in my direction. This was too much for me.

I picked up Duncan and threw him on to the floor. Then I picked up a chair and began to beat the dirty bag into nothing. Time and again I rose up my chair and brought it shuddering down. Finally I positioned a chair leg on top of Duncan and then jumped on the chair.

Collapsing in to a heap on the floor, crawling along the carpet, and finally clambering back on to the sofa, I came to rest at last. There was a sudden crash, and a rustling sound; I turned around just in time to see Duncan shuffling off up the stairs, the chair I had tried to impale him with thrown to the ground. Good riddance to him, I thought. I closed the door behind him, looked about me at the general detritus in the living room, and then sat back down.

I turned the television back on. The Boat That Rocked was on Itv3, but the young man objected. “There’s too many love scenes in that film. I don’t even wanna think about romance tonight”. I looked at him, considered him, sitting there with his trousers soaked.

“Get over it mate”