Brigit's Flame -- "Flat"
Prompt: "flat"
Word Count: 922
Warnings: a bit of language
Author's Note: eltea is behind all the brilliance, as usual. XD Did I once write things without her? How did I do that? XD
"FLAT"
The radio’s at it again.
One time, he muttered “This is crap.” One time. He should at least get three strikes.
Not a chance.
Phil inhabits the flat from hell. The radio has a mind of its own. So do most of the other appliances, electronics, and all other items and objects capable of making his life as downright miserable as inanimately possible.
One “This is crap” about some new-age piano sin the radio was playing yesterday afternoon, and the thing went sulky and shut down immediately. He’d hastily apologized, the radio had given him the cold shoulder-such as it was…-and he’d dared to hope that was the end of it.
Ha. Oh, ha. That was rich.
No, starting at 1:15 AM, it started blasting a new and random station every hour. It was opera, first, and then some sort of grunge-metal, and then the Spanish pop station.
Initially, he’d scrambled out of bed and reached to slam a hand down on some button, any button, but it always shut off just before he got there, leaving him shivering in the middle of the room, having gained nothing but a few more scars to the old dignity.
He is being beaten by a radio.
This time, he grits his teeth and holds the pillow over his head, in response to which it cheerfully jacks up the volume just a little higher.
It’s country music.
Bad country music.
And I MOUUURN mah heart, ’cause you SCOOORNED mah heart-
Phil would rip the thing to pieces with his bare hands, but it would probably find a really good vein to lacerate while he was shredding it, such that he would bleed to death before he could get to the hospital.
“I’m sorry!” he howls. “I get it already, and I’m sorry, okay? I have to get up in three hours, and I need to broaden my musical horizons, and I shouldn’t judge, and I damn well get it, all right?”
The radio obediently shuts off, and Phil buries his face in his pillow and tries to take deep breaths.
It doesn’t work particularly well.
-
Three hours and five minutes later, Phil is in the shower, which is almost as sadistic as the radio. He has almost become accustomed to the utterly unpredictable fluctuations of the water temperature, however, much as he shudders and rubs at his goosebumps when the stream gets really cold.
He has to admit it’s pretty effective for waking him up.
Six and a half minutes after that, Phil’s doing his damnedest to shovel cereal into his mouth and twist a half-Windsor at the same time.
He wisely decides to limit himself to one activity at a time before he gets milk on his tie. He flings it over his right shoulder to be sure it stays out of the splash zone.
When he opens the refrigerator door to put the orange juice back, the vacant space it should have left has been filled by the milk carton, and the milk carton’s place is occupied by a small pyramid of apples.
He hates the fridge, too.
But if he says that, things will disappear, rather than merely moving around.
He learned that the hard way.
Slowly, careful not to convey any disapproval of the existing arrangement, he negotiates some space between a block of cheese and a jar of jam that he really doesn’t think he bought.
-
“Could you not?” Phil seethes, clenching and unclenching his fists, which seems to be the only way to resist the urge to slam them both against the closet door that is currently defying him.
Apparently, it can’t not.
…it’s early, and thinking in proper grammar is low on Phil’s list of priorities.
He scowls, tapping a foot clad only in a gray sock.
“I don’t have all day,” he reminds the door.
Predictably, there is no response.
“Piece of shit!” Phil mutters, diving for the handle when the door least expects it, throwing all of his weight into the motion.
He steps back, an angry red flush creeping up his neck, after a full forty-five seconds of struggling to no avail.
He swallows and runs his tongue over his teeth.
“Can I please get my shoes now?” he inquires. “I’m going to be late otherwise, and I’d very much appreciate your cooperation.”
He gives it a moment to sink in, and then he moves forward.
The closet door opens smoothly, without so much as a squeak from the hinge.
Phil manages not to roll his eyes as he bends to get his shoes; it would probably get offended and trap him inside.
-
He eases the front door gently shut, patting it right in the center with his free hand as he slides his key into the keyhole.
“Please stay locked for me,” he whispers, glancing both ways to check for anyone who might hear him talking to his doorknob. “I wouldn’t want anyone to steal my stuff.”
That should do it. He steps back and starts for the stairs.
The stairs, thankfully, are not possessed-though he worries about the elevator sometimes.
Thinking about it… he doesn’t imagine that anyone would have the opportunity to rob him even if the doorknob mutinied. His flat probably knows that nobody else would put up with all its bullshit.
He grins a little wondering what his neighbors must make of all this.
He decides that they probably think he has a passive-aggressive girlfriend with a questionable taste in music.
The truth is more fun sometimes.
Word Count: 922
Warnings: a bit of language
Author's Note: eltea is behind all the brilliance, as usual. XD Did I once write things without her? How did I do that? XD
"FLAT"
The radio’s at it again.
One time, he muttered “This is crap.” One time. He should at least get three strikes.
Not a chance.
Phil inhabits the flat from hell. The radio has a mind of its own. So do most of the other appliances, electronics, and all other items and objects capable of making his life as downright miserable as inanimately possible.
One “This is crap” about some new-age piano sin the radio was playing yesterday afternoon, and the thing went sulky and shut down immediately. He’d hastily apologized, the radio had given him the cold shoulder-such as it was…-and he’d dared to hope that was the end of it.
Ha. Oh, ha. That was rich.
No, starting at 1:15 AM, it started blasting a new and random station every hour. It was opera, first, and then some sort of grunge-metal, and then the Spanish pop station.
Initially, he’d scrambled out of bed and reached to slam a hand down on some button, any button, but it always shut off just before he got there, leaving him shivering in the middle of the room, having gained nothing but a few more scars to the old dignity.
He is being beaten by a radio.
This time, he grits his teeth and holds the pillow over his head, in response to which it cheerfully jacks up the volume just a little higher.
It’s country music.
Bad country music.
And I MOUUURN mah heart, ’cause you SCOOORNED mah heart-
Phil would rip the thing to pieces with his bare hands, but it would probably find a really good vein to lacerate while he was shredding it, such that he would bleed to death before he could get to the hospital.
“I’m sorry!” he howls. “I get it already, and I’m sorry, okay? I have to get up in three hours, and I need to broaden my musical horizons, and I shouldn’t judge, and I damn well get it, all right?”
The radio obediently shuts off, and Phil buries his face in his pillow and tries to take deep breaths.
It doesn’t work particularly well.
-
Three hours and five minutes later, Phil is in the shower, which is almost as sadistic as the radio. He has almost become accustomed to the utterly unpredictable fluctuations of the water temperature, however, much as he shudders and rubs at his goosebumps when the stream gets really cold.
He has to admit it’s pretty effective for waking him up.
Six and a half minutes after that, Phil’s doing his damnedest to shovel cereal into his mouth and twist a half-Windsor at the same time.
He wisely decides to limit himself to one activity at a time before he gets milk on his tie. He flings it over his right shoulder to be sure it stays out of the splash zone.
When he opens the refrigerator door to put the orange juice back, the vacant space it should have left has been filled by the milk carton, and the milk carton’s place is occupied by a small pyramid of apples.
He hates the fridge, too.
But if he says that, things will disappear, rather than merely moving around.
He learned that the hard way.
Slowly, careful not to convey any disapproval of the existing arrangement, he negotiates some space between a block of cheese and a jar of jam that he really doesn’t think he bought.
-
“Could you not?” Phil seethes, clenching and unclenching his fists, which seems to be the only way to resist the urge to slam them both against the closet door that is currently defying him.
Apparently, it can’t not.
…it’s early, and thinking in proper grammar is low on Phil’s list of priorities.
He scowls, tapping a foot clad only in a gray sock.
“I don’t have all day,” he reminds the door.
Predictably, there is no response.
“Piece of shit!” Phil mutters, diving for the handle when the door least expects it, throwing all of his weight into the motion.
He steps back, an angry red flush creeping up his neck, after a full forty-five seconds of struggling to no avail.
He swallows and runs his tongue over his teeth.
“Can I please get my shoes now?” he inquires. “I’m going to be late otherwise, and I’d very much appreciate your cooperation.”
He gives it a moment to sink in, and then he moves forward.
The closet door opens smoothly, without so much as a squeak from the hinge.
Phil manages not to roll his eyes as he bends to get his shoes; it would probably get offended and trap him inside.
-
He eases the front door gently shut, patting it right in the center with his free hand as he slides his key into the keyhole.
“Please stay locked for me,” he whispers, glancing both ways to check for anyone who might hear him talking to his doorknob. “I wouldn’t want anyone to steal my stuff.”
That should do it. He steps back and starts for the stairs.
The stairs, thankfully, are not possessed-though he worries about the elevator sometimes.
Thinking about it… he doesn’t imagine that anyone would have the opportunity to rob him even if the doorknob mutinied. His flat probably knows that nobody else would put up with all its bullshit.
He grins a little wondering what his neighbors must make of all this.
He decides that they probably think he has a passive-aggressive girlfriend with a questionable taste in music.
The truth is more fun sometimes.