My Ceiling. Chapt. 1 Fr/UK, America, Canada
Spawned by my fan scaring the shit out of me and a "Countries on Drugs" request in the kink-meme.
I think my ceiling fan is out to get me. It sounds ludacrist, even to my own ears, but that doesn't stop me from feeling so.
It's only every now and again.
Sometimes when I'm making the bed in the morning I can hear it clicking, clicking so loudly that I think it may just snap from where it is nailed and com crashing down on my head. Sometimes when I'm laying down to read it swings back and forth so quickly that it looks as if it isn't moving at all. Sometimes when I'm just passing by those blades seem like they inch closer.
I'm being paranoid of course. A fan does not aim for blood in it's dull boring life attached to a ceiling. Unless it was a particularly bored fan hoping for some sport.
"I do fancy a little bloodshed this morning." It would say. "Yes, that sounds like it's just what I need."
Don't tell anyone I've said this, but I think my fan may just be British. Maybe Arthur can sense their brotherhood and that's why he insists on setting it on "High" every night we go to bed- unaware that I find it simply impossible to sleep with such a murderous character only a few feet above my head.
I can't sleep /now/ anyway. At first it was just unnerving. I missed maybe a night here and there. Then as my schedual allowed me less time to lounge. As stress seemed to settle itself on my shoulders, (Nothing big, mind you, just everyday trivia grinding at my nerves.) sleep didn't come easily any longer.
I'd missed three days of complete sleep and it was then my fan came to mind.
The stress passed, the work load dwindled, but still I could not sleep because if I were to take my eyes off of that fan surely it would see fit to strike.
More days passed, I can't say how many, and I found that I snapped more often. Once Matty refused to speak to me a rebuke in his own way against my behavior. I found that every muscle on my person ached, and ached, and cried like babies left unattended. I'd been making tea for Arthur once and shattered the dainty cup when I found my trembling hands could not hold the very same cup when it held liquid.
He just looked at me. I'd never seen him with that look on his face. Such a strange look, really. I found myself tilting my head like a dog that had bitten into a plastic porkchop and couldn't for the life of me understand why I tasted no meat on my tongue.
Such a strange and yet wonderful look it was. It sent butterflies through my gut.
"Francis," he'd said, "what in blazes is wrong with you?"
He wasn't angry, oh no, which should have alerted me at once, but it didn't. In fact I felt like someone was in control of my body and I was just the third party come to watch the show. I wanted to smile and say "Nothing, mon crotte!"
Instead I only continued to stare back. He spoke again. I heard the words, but it felt like I wasn't listening. It was as if his voice was like the low mumble in a dark bar on a Saturday even though it was the only voice there. Even though I was actively trying to hear and comprehend what it was he was saying to me.
"-bags under your eyes. It looks like you- Goddamn it, Francis. Have- been to a doctor?"
"Hm?"
"Don't- me you- I'm saying- doctor. /Doctor!/"
What was he saying, what was he saying, I couldn't hear it. I could hear a ring in my ears from how hard I was straining just to hear him, but it was no better. The words slipped into my mind, but it knew not what to do with them and instead vomited those words back out and onto the shoulder of my clean button down shirt.
"Of course!" Who knew what it was I agreed to.
"If you have then why- Did they perscribe- cine?"
"Of course!"
"Well, the bloody hell- it!?"
"Of course, ma bichette."
He'd grumbled something. I couldn't listen.
-
Antibacterial.
That's what it smelt like, but my eyes burned from too much white for me to really tell where I had ended up. I heard Arthur's voice and turned to see him. There he was, mon couer, a savory little green spec on an otherwise plain canvas. I had an urge to paint it further. To add something more than that insufferable /white/, that had me increasingly frustrated. I felt the aching muscle of my arm twitch like it had wanted to punch at the color like it were a man I could simply tussle and be rid of.
"Has he suffered from...impaired moral judgement?"
"I would have to say that's quite normal when his behavior is concerned."
"Outside of normal."
"Well, he's done some...odd....things of late."
I could here them now, but it seemed once my ears started working my eyes had to give up the slack. Just white. White. White. White and then my lovely green. My lovely green that, when I looked further left, was joined with the playful sliver of blue tie and a dot of black thread sewn into /more/ white.
I must have said something because they both turned to look at me and I could feel the buzz of language on my tongue like the tingle of white wine.
"What?" My green speck inquired.
"I don't remember." I replied.
"He'll need- " Oh, boo. My hearing slipped away from me again and as expected my eyes returned just in time to get one last look at the blue slivered doctor before Arthur pulled me by the arm out of the room. It was a shame. From what I could tell the Doctor was rather handsome- but my arm.
I said something. I knew I did because now my throat burned like I had screamed and there was a waiting room full of people starring at us like we'd been in possession of eight extra heads.
"I'm trying to help you git! Clearly you are a child considering you've gone and gotten yourself sick! Now, shut your trap the snail on your breath is making want to spew!"
-
I didn't remember the car ride home being so long.
-
I couldn't sleep despite Arthur's nagging, Alfred's fretting, and even Matthew's foot massage. I'd told him it wasn't nessecary, but he often did those sort of things. My feet, Arthur's hands after a particularly long document, and Alfred's back after every practice or game. Sometimes when there was no special occasion, but Alfred complained. Matthew was a good kid. Strange in all respects, but the boy was something to boast about. He had a big heart, didn't find it canny to eat up cash like a teenage consumer typhoon like his brother, stayed above a C in school, and no alcohol, or sex to date.
I find myself at ease when my thoughts drift to him. I have no worries with him. I know he'll do right by himself and by his family.
Unlike Alfred, who has the heart to do right, but found himself on a more reckless path. Before he got his liscense I worried he'd kill someone within the first week. He gets great grades in school- despite the fact he never attends. He wanted a surfboard and a new skateboard on his birthday and sulked when we said that was not going to happen. (In my and Arthur's defense the surfboard was very expensive.) He's been caught experimenting with something neither I nor his father could discern, as well as taking his 'girlfriend for a whole week' home.
-
Alfred, Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. I felt my mind forming the words. Rolling his name off of the pursed lips formed along my squirming brain tissue, but it never translated to the ones just under my nose and above my chin. He'd passed by the couch three times now, in a way that every parent knew he was trying to impose without actually providing enough proof to call him on it. First, he needed a paper towel. Second, he happened to be thirsty. Third, just stopping in to see Matt in his room on the other end of the hallway a few feet behind my head, their shared bathroom in the middle. I was laying on the couch, my feet slung over one arm and my head resting on the other. Alfred was a curious boy with a strange sense of duty, even when it didn't involve him.
"Sleep." Arthur had commanded. Well, now, wasn't that easier said than done. "I'll bring you your script when it's ready."
"I would, but there is a very distracting boy fluttering about the house, Cheri." I'd said the last bit louder and could here the tap of Alfred's feet halt on his way to the laundry room- he could have cut through the kitchen, or the dinning room to get there, but he's chosen to slip right through the living room so he could keep an eye on me himself.
"Just getting things done, Old Man."
"Since when do you do laundry, ma bichette."
"Since now~" He teased, smiling now that he'd recognized he's been caught. That was one thing I did find very endearing about Alfred. He medeled more than he should, but when he'd been caught in the act he'd always own up with one of those smiles. "Oops!" His eyes seemed to tell me. "Seriously though, get some beauty rest. You're staring to look like you crawled out of a crypt."
I snorted and closed my eyes, but sleep never came.
I think my ceiling fan is out to get me. It sounds ludacrist, even to my own ears, but that doesn't stop me from feeling so.
It's only every now and again.
Sometimes when I'm making the bed in the morning I can hear it clicking, clicking so loudly that I think it may just snap from where it is nailed and com crashing down on my head. Sometimes when I'm laying down to read it swings back and forth so quickly that it looks as if it isn't moving at all. Sometimes when I'm just passing by those blades seem like they inch closer.
I'm being paranoid of course. A fan does not aim for blood in it's dull boring life attached to a ceiling. Unless it was a particularly bored fan hoping for some sport.
"I do fancy a little bloodshed this morning." It would say. "Yes, that sounds like it's just what I need."
Don't tell anyone I've said this, but I think my fan may just be British. Maybe Arthur can sense their brotherhood and that's why he insists on setting it on "High" every night we go to bed- unaware that I find it simply impossible to sleep with such a murderous character only a few feet above my head.
I can't sleep /now/ anyway. At first it was just unnerving. I missed maybe a night here and there. Then as my schedual allowed me less time to lounge. As stress seemed to settle itself on my shoulders, (Nothing big, mind you, just everyday trivia grinding at my nerves.) sleep didn't come easily any longer.
I'd missed three days of complete sleep and it was then my fan came to mind.
The stress passed, the work load dwindled, but still I could not sleep because if I were to take my eyes off of that fan surely it would see fit to strike.
More days passed, I can't say how many, and I found that I snapped more often. Once Matty refused to speak to me a rebuke in his own way against my behavior. I found that every muscle on my person ached, and ached, and cried like babies left unattended. I'd been making tea for Arthur once and shattered the dainty cup when I found my trembling hands could not hold the very same cup when it held liquid.
He just looked at me. I'd never seen him with that look on his face. Such a strange look, really. I found myself tilting my head like a dog that had bitten into a plastic porkchop and couldn't for the life of me understand why I tasted no meat on my tongue.
Such a strange and yet wonderful look it was. It sent butterflies through my gut.
"Francis," he'd said, "what in blazes is wrong with you?"
He wasn't angry, oh no, which should have alerted me at once, but it didn't. In fact I felt like someone was in control of my body and I was just the third party come to watch the show. I wanted to smile and say "Nothing, mon crotte!"
Instead I only continued to stare back. He spoke again. I heard the words, but it felt like I wasn't listening. It was as if his voice was like the low mumble in a dark bar on a Saturday even though it was the only voice there. Even though I was actively trying to hear and comprehend what it was he was saying to me.
"-bags under your eyes. It looks like you- Goddamn it, Francis. Have- been to a doctor?"
"Hm?"
"Don't- me you- I'm saying- doctor. /Doctor!/"
What was he saying, what was he saying, I couldn't hear it. I could hear a ring in my ears from how hard I was straining just to hear him, but it was no better. The words slipped into my mind, but it knew not what to do with them and instead vomited those words back out and onto the shoulder of my clean button down shirt.
"Of course!" Who knew what it was I agreed to.
"If you have then why- Did they perscribe- cine?"
"Of course!"
"Well, the bloody hell- it!?"
"Of course, ma bichette."
He'd grumbled something. I couldn't listen.
-
Antibacterial.
That's what it smelt like, but my eyes burned from too much white for me to really tell where I had ended up. I heard Arthur's voice and turned to see him. There he was, mon couer, a savory little green spec on an otherwise plain canvas. I had an urge to paint it further. To add something more than that insufferable /white/, that had me increasingly frustrated. I felt the aching muscle of my arm twitch like it had wanted to punch at the color like it were a man I could simply tussle and be rid of.
"Has he suffered from...impaired moral judgement?"
"I would have to say that's quite normal when his behavior is concerned."
"Outside of normal."
"Well, he's done some...odd....things of late."
I could here them now, but it seemed once my ears started working my eyes had to give up the slack. Just white. White. White. White and then my lovely green. My lovely green that, when I looked further left, was joined with the playful sliver of blue tie and a dot of black thread sewn into /more/ white.
I must have said something because they both turned to look at me and I could feel the buzz of language on my tongue like the tingle of white wine.
"What?" My green speck inquired.
"I don't remember." I replied.
"He'll need- " Oh, boo. My hearing slipped away from me again and as expected my eyes returned just in time to get one last look at the blue slivered doctor before Arthur pulled me by the arm out of the room. It was a shame. From what I could tell the Doctor was rather handsome- but my arm.
I said something. I knew I did because now my throat burned like I had screamed and there was a waiting room full of people starring at us like we'd been in possession of eight extra heads.
"I'm trying to help you git! Clearly you are a child considering you've gone and gotten yourself sick! Now, shut your trap the snail on your breath is making want to spew!"
-
I didn't remember the car ride home being so long.
-
I couldn't sleep despite Arthur's nagging, Alfred's fretting, and even Matthew's foot massage. I'd told him it wasn't nessecary, but he often did those sort of things. My feet, Arthur's hands after a particularly long document, and Alfred's back after every practice or game. Sometimes when there was no special occasion, but Alfred complained. Matthew was a good kid. Strange in all respects, but the boy was something to boast about. He had a big heart, didn't find it canny to eat up cash like a teenage consumer typhoon like his brother, stayed above a C in school, and no alcohol, or sex to date.
I find myself at ease when my thoughts drift to him. I have no worries with him. I know he'll do right by himself and by his family.
Unlike Alfred, who has the heart to do right, but found himself on a more reckless path. Before he got his liscense I worried he'd kill someone within the first week. He gets great grades in school- despite the fact he never attends. He wanted a surfboard and a new skateboard on his birthday and sulked when we said that was not going to happen. (In my and Arthur's defense the surfboard was very expensive.) He's been caught experimenting with something neither I nor his father could discern, as well as taking his 'girlfriend for a whole week' home.
-
Alfred, Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. I felt my mind forming the words. Rolling his name off of the pursed lips formed along my squirming brain tissue, but it never translated to the ones just under my nose and above my chin. He'd passed by the couch three times now, in a way that every parent knew he was trying to impose without actually providing enough proof to call him on it. First, he needed a paper towel. Second, he happened to be thirsty. Third, just stopping in to see Matt in his room on the other end of the hallway a few feet behind my head, their shared bathroom in the middle. I was laying on the couch, my feet slung over one arm and my head resting on the other. Alfred was a curious boy with a strange sense of duty, even when it didn't involve him.
"Sleep." Arthur had commanded. Well, now, wasn't that easier said than done. "I'll bring you your script when it's ready."
"I would, but there is a very distracting boy fluttering about the house, Cheri." I'd said the last bit louder and could here the tap of Alfred's feet halt on his way to the laundry room- he could have cut through the kitchen, or the dinning room to get there, but he's chosen to slip right through the living room so he could keep an eye on me himself.
"Just getting things done, Old Man."
"Since when do you do laundry, ma bichette."
"Since now~" He teased, smiling now that he'd recognized he's been caught. That was one thing I did find very endearing about Alfred. He medeled more than he should, but when he'd been caught in the act he'd always own up with one of those smiles. "Oops!" His eyes seemed to tell me. "Seriously though, get some beauty rest. You're staring to look like you crawled out of a crypt."
I snorted and closed my eyes, but sleep never came.