[ one ]
The empty landscape began to churn--and from its gaping maw, came a town. A spawn made of oxidised copper spires and asphalt arteries. Oil and horsehair painted drab, and uninteresting foliage to fill the space that the concrete and metal did not. The ground began to swell and bloat like a freshly nursing tick. On that hill, a house was born. A house with eavesdropping windows. A house that the street lamps could not touch. A house that with its overgrown yards and peeling paint, seemed empty.
Rising from the mud came the inhabitants of the town. Mute but not silent, they heaved their lethargic bodies from place to place -- tracking their filth into any and every building they desired. Faceless but not emotionless, the inhabitants indulged in each other's company. Pressing their masses against one another until there was no resistance and they became a larger chunk of earth.
“I hate them.”
In the house, down the stairs, beyond a door, was a basement -- a panopticon with no windows and no light. “I hate them,” whispered a single figure as he examined his hapless subjects. Surrounded by bloodstains and concrete sat the lacerated patriarch, his legs were bound tightly by angry hands. It was his house -- and he wanted a family.
The house had many rooms. Bedrooms, kitchens, bathrooms, miles of hallways and empty storage space. Lonely, but not empty. Bed bugs and gnats are not suitable companions.
“They track mud everywhere. And they don’t talk. They couldn’t entertain us.” spoke the man towards a crude drawing. The face with spiked hair and a hat seemed joyful to bant about the townsfolk. The utter silence was cut by another tangent of dialogue, “You make a marvellous point. It would be easier to build a family by hand than try to talk to those people.” He paused. His ears were ringing. Through long greasy hair his single eye pulsated and stared deeply at the drawing. “They’re just unreasonable. That’s all.”
He stood up. And dug his fingers deeply into his abdomen, whimpering softly. Blood trailed down his fingers and gathered in his palms. He pressed his hands against his face, tugging at the skin, playing with the sensation of touch. He twirled locks of hair within its fingertips, letting the buildup of dirt, soot and congealed crimson marinate in his scalp. His arms fell to his sides, limp and now without purpose. He slammed his head into the concrete, paint splattering chaotically across the canvas. As lines coalesced in the dark, a figure would soon begin to emerge on the wall. Wide, soulless eyes, a toothy smile and bulky, metallic garments.
Ding-dong. The doorbell rang and echoed through all the halls of the house. He dragged his body up the miles of stairs necessary to greet his new family member. His hand pressed a single gnarled fingernail against the withered and harsh stone, whittling it into a sharp, triangular shape. The patriarch’s vision blacked out.
Outside stood a woman with a toothy smile, armorclad and bookclad. Bags made from animal leather and burlap hung from her shoulders, holding tomes and various works of fiction. Her hair is a golden sorbet colour and is pulled back into a neat bun. The yard of the house has wilted in her presence, stomped and pushed aside in exchange for a clean and organised path to the front door. Her eyes cannot sit still, every rotted, splintered plank of wood and stone consumed by moss cannot escape her wide, soulless eyes. She taps her sabatons together in rhythm with the wind as she fidgets with her bookbag’s leather straps. As she reaches to ring the doorbell once more, the door opens.
“Hello. Welcome to my home.” said the patriarch, standing from the centre of the incoming room. “Come inside. Please.”
The guest obliged. The walls of the atrium were plastered by a sickening yellow wallpaper with graphics of flowers that always had one too many petals. Colourful furniture was sprinkled around the room without rhyme or reason. A bright red rotating recliner was laid parallel against a wall. A circular glass coffee table was shoved into a rectangular corner -- only a muddied handprint stood atop the table. Portraits of friendly enough faces were hung at ankle level. “This is quite a lovely home you have. It’s very eccentric.” she spoke.
“Thank you, I’m so glad you like it.”
“The furniture really matches with the carpet.” she crouched down, pressing two fingers through the carpet’s bright magenta hair. The imprint of repeated, identical footsteps was burned into the floor.
“Where did you come from? You must’ve had a long and arduous journey.” the patriarch asked, his body completely still.
“I…don’t quite know.” the guest responded. “I’ve been walking in a straight line for days, hoping to find someone to tell me where I’ve been.”
He stared. The door creaked and slowly began to close as the wind pushed delicately against its back. “And have you found that person?”
“Not exactly. I tried speaking with some of the townsfolk, but I don’t think we share a common language.”
“They’re horrible, aren’t they?”
“But they showed me around town. The shops, the parks and even the roads-”
“Miserable and degenerate little people. Repeating the same patterns.”
“-and towards the end of the tour, they led me here. Seemed like the only place without mud tracked somewhere. It really is a-”
Who is this woman? He thought to himself. Could she be a sister? She certainly had a knack to speak without acknowledging…But the armour, the books, the shield and sword…the burlap cover on her back. A small arm protruded from a tear in the bag -- it made him think otherwise. Ahh. A mother. A woman who stays up late, fearing that her child may choke in its sleep. A woman who is overly concerned with preaching literature she finds self-gratifying. A woman who cooks for the pleasure of chewing but not swallowing.
It didn’t matter who she was.
“What is your name?” he interrupted. Her head slowed down. Every strand of peeled wallpaper and spec of idle dust no longer held the attention of their observer. She turned her body to face him.
“Shirt.”
The front door closed. The atrium became eclipsed in a wash of dark orange as its windows closed their eyes. Two blank faces. Four idle legs. One house. “It’s getting dark outside. You should stay the night. It isn’t safe in the town.” he paused for a moment. “There are lots of bedrooms here. You can be all by yourself.” She only nodded in response.
The bedroom she chose was cold, desolate and unaccommodating. Freshly pruned ivy and photography of livestock grafted themselves to the walls. The bed was left to rot and sweat profusely like a patient in the sick ward. Shirt gently laid her bookbags on the ground. Beside it were the ripped burlap cover with a hand coming out of it. She stood still, staring at the bag in utter darkness. “That mustn’t be very comfortable.” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” She picked up the cover and placed its head on a pillow, covering its lower body with a duvet. “Is that better?” she paused. “Okay. Goodnight.”
But she could not sleep. Perhaps it was because of the armour. Maybe it was because of the long-haired figure that stood at the end of their bed. But it was the gnawing of bed bugs that made her realise: she was hungry. It was a type of hunger that chews at your insides, swallowing itself like the ouroboros. It was the type of hunger that makes you believe it’ll be satisfied with food. She looked around the room, quickly picking up the only thing that mattered to her -- after all, her buckler and sword never left her hands. Throwing the bag over her shoulder, she approached the bedroom door with muddied boots.
The creaking of the door, her footsteps and every little exhale echoed through the hallway. Carpets were hastily stitched to one another, refusing to be so immoral and dare show a floorboard. Furniture masked as being human, but after the fifth mile of empty cabinets and coat racks, the facade grew tired. Time continued forward, as it often wants to do. Shirt occasionally changed pace, walking in triplets to stifle the monotony. She swatted her long, greasy hair out of the way and pressed her fingers delicately against her wrinkles. Bartering with her body, one eye was allowed to sleep.
She slammed into a cabinet while mid-blink. Its corpse lay sideways on the floor, its wooden organs spread out on the carpet. She sighed. It wasn’t her fault, no sensible person would leave a cabinet in the middle of the hallway. Dazed, she kneeled and pulled the body of the cabinet back where it was. She ignored the furniture’s transgression, turning back towards the hallway, or what was left of it. A door frame was revealed by a flickering orange light coming from inside.
The veins of the house pulsated and throbbed, it refused to front any longer. There was no wallpaper, only stairs and miles of unsanded concrete. The stairs yearned for legs, legs and feet to descend upon them and make them feel used. Perverts.Yet she indulged in their fantasies, stepping on each and every one of them. A door saw her and demanded the same treatment. It wanted to be pushed aside and handled. But not by its old partner, it had grown tired of his touch. It wanted her.
Shirt did as it wished. She turned its knob and pushed it aside. The door winged and closely quickly thereafter, easily satisfied. As it closed, darkness consumed her once more. But the basement provided no sustenance like the hallways. The walls began to close and shrink, slowly shaping her into the form it desired. And she could do nothing but stir in her own madness and let her hair grow longer and greasy. She took up drawing. Spreading the material not in a way that pleased the eye, but what felt correct. Her waking eye twitched as the other had gotten used to sleeping. She knew that she could not fully fall asleep. For if she did, the house would consume her too.
