LJ Idol Week 37: Bedlamite
The Bedlamite sits in the dark.
They barely move, barely speak; it is their compromise for existing in a world of noise. The door is locked against noise. There’s no tolerating the stutter and fuzz, no enduring the swell of beating drums.
The dark was not by choice, but it serves their purpose of non-stimulation well.
But still, still, still there is friction, and friction builds heat. There seems to be no way to fight this. It burns the backs of their eyes and buzzes in their ears; they smell burning rubber. A wheel spinning, going nowhere.
The body hunches, spine curved by thoughts that spit like boiling oil.
And
And
And eventually hands bent by pain reach up and tear the face, pull it open and down and off.
The thing that emerges looks human but isn’t.
It only takes a moment to get its bearings, rolling its head from side to side. It clutches a machete in its left hand.
Then it strikes out. It does not know how to use the weapon, bludgeoning it against a drinking glass resting on the desk.
The blade drips absinthe and
The creature slams against the walls and
It moves abject, erratic and
And it can’t get out. Its thoughts are a needle skipping on the surface of old vinyl.
It thinks
It thinks it would kill anyone it found because it loved them, because it wanted to see the core of them and learn if it pulsed like its own. It would bury the machete in the center of the chest, twist and pull, bare teeth at the crack of ribs. It would dig fingers in the wound, and throw them open. It would do this now, here, were anyone else ever here to be found.
(none ever are)
And it can’t get out.
The room is kept bare for this, this eventuality, and soon there is nothing left to break. It howls until it goes hoarse --but this does not shatter the air. Falling to the ground produces a satisfying thud, but nothing else. It twists and claws at the carpet and the air. It arches its back.
And when it falls asleep, it struggles the whole way down.
(but it stays down, by god. It hits the very bottom, where there lies the sense of passing time without the context of dream. Seconds groan by, and the person -the person who sits in the dark-- is gradually rebuilt with each passing vibration)
They do wake, if hours later, and they lie there. Eyes closed. The heat has receded, mostly. The noise is bearable, for now. They exhale one, long, stream, of air.
Eyes open.
They stand up, brushing off errant bits of glass. Their socks are soaked through with green liquid, but they walk in them regardless, tip-toeing across the room. They right the wrecked chair, and they sit.
The men and women behind the walls take their notes. They watch. They listen. They’ve never bothered to replace the lights.
They barely move, barely speak; it is their compromise for existing in a world of noise. The door is locked against noise. There’s no tolerating the stutter and fuzz, no enduring the swell of beating drums.
The dark was not by choice, but it serves their purpose of non-stimulation well.
But still, still, still there is friction, and friction builds heat. There seems to be no way to fight this. It burns the backs of their eyes and buzzes in their ears; they smell burning rubber. A wheel spinning, going nowhere.
The body hunches, spine curved by thoughts that spit like boiling oil.
And
And
And eventually hands bent by pain reach up and tear the face, pull it open and down and off.
The thing that emerges looks human but isn’t.
It only takes a moment to get its bearings, rolling its head from side to side. It clutches a machete in its left hand.
Then it strikes out. It does not know how to use the weapon, bludgeoning it against a drinking glass resting on the desk.
The blade drips absinthe and
The creature slams against the walls and
It moves abject, erratic and
And it can’t get out. Its thoughts are a needle skipping on the surface of old vinyl.
It thinks
It thinks it would kill anyone it found because it loved them, because it wanted to see the core of them and learn if it pulsed like its own. It would bury the machete in the center of the chest, twist and pull, bare teeth at the crack of ribs. It would dig fingers in the wound, and throw them open. It would do this now, here, were anyone else ever here to be found.
(none ever are)
And it can’t get out.
The room is kept bare for this, this eventuality, and soon there is nothing left to break. It howls until it goes hoarse --but this does not shatter the air. Falling to the ground produces a satisfying thud, but nothing else. It twists and claws at the carpet and the air. It arches its back.
And when it falls asleep, it struggles the whole way down.
(but it stays down, by god. It hits the very bottom, where there lies the sense of passing time without the context of dream. Seconds groan by, and the person -the person who sits in the dark-- is gradually rebuilt with each passing vibration)
They do wake, if hours later, and they lie there. Eyes closed. The heat has receded, mostly. The noise is bearable, for now. They exhale one, long, stream, of air.
Eyes open.
They stand up, brushing off errant bits of glass. Their socks are soaked through with green liquid, but they walk in them regardless, tip-toeing across the room. They right the wrecked chair, and they sit.
The men and women behind the walls take their notes. They watch. They listen. They’ve never bothered to replace the lights.