Short Story: Inside (1999)
Inside has a strange history. It was originally written as ‘Wednesday’ for a horror anthology called ‘Tales From Teeth Park’ that was originally intended to be edited by Tim Lebbon and Gavin Williams, way back in the late 90s. These days, it can be found in Dances With Drumsticks, a collection I’m about to dramatically update (watch this space)
It’s a Saturday night of the old-fashioned sort, mum staring out of the kitchen window and dad drinking as heavily as he always does before the church clears him of any wrongdoing in the morning. He’d dropped his lottery ticket during happy hour at The Den, comes home to find it’s worth a sure tenner. It’s not my fault, what difference that makes. A sharp slap across the face and it’s up to bed, drum some responsibility into me. No punches tonight, no kicks – I’m off easy.
Don’t look back.
Tears running down my cheeks, I climb the stairs, pausing only to lick the steady flow of blood from my aching nose. A loud bang interrupts my thoughts, but it’s probably mum’s head hitting the wall. He’ll kill her, one day: I swear he will.
Knock, knock.
I stop halfway up the stairs and peer around. The hallway is silent, no sound now in the house apart from the soft patter of another rainy night and dadís incessant, sobbing whine. Funny that, he always cries when heís hurt us: perhaps he doesnít mean it.
My bedroom door is open; shadows cast by the living room lights play over the carpet. No sound. Scary. If you imagine horrible things, do those fears drown out the real ones?
Let me in.
It was clearer this time, the voice: almost childlike.
‘Who’s there?’ I say, wondering why I sound so grown up.
Dad staggers out into the hall. He’s angry that I’m not in bed. He belches and throws a bottle at my feet. It hits the staircase, splinters into a rain of glass shards. I donít feel anything, so he might have missed: he usually misses.
No blood, thank the gods. No cuts. But I have escaped pain, and that’s bad news.
I run inside my bedroom and slam the door. Even from the furthest corner of the house, I can feel his disappointment. So much rage, and no release.
I should have lingered on the stairs; I should have stayed for the beating.
You’re only making it worse.
I clamber atop my bunk and climb under the duvet. Lying in bed has always been a traumatic experience for me, the gurgling stomach of the night when it’s swallowed you whole: that dead-zone darkness between fear and sleep. I long for the oblivion of not being here.
I’m not alone.
Atop my ottoman, in the stygian gloom amid a regiment of cuddly creatures, something shifts uncomfortably; a funky little fidget with razor-sharp teeth holding aloft a needle dripping with dark lotus and a waxy reel of cotton. I don’t remember it the way I remember the other toys; it looks new.
Let me come in.
I sit upright, illuminated by a sliver of light infiltrating from the hall outside.
My little visitor smiles on.
‘You are in,’ I say, wondering why I don’t sound more grown-up.
A child’s voice in a large empty room is, perhaps, the saddest sound in the universe. No hollow eaves to bounce my voice back to me.
Not....yet.
There’s a definition in his movement as he rises, almost mechanically, and skips across the carpet like a clockwork Punch, an inspired display for such a pitiful audience.
How does it feel to be in there, constricted by that skin?
I yearn for sleep then, need it more than I need to live. If he means me harm, he’ll get no fight.
Relax...
My little friend skips away again, nestles down snugly among the teddies. He looks out of place there, like a needle in a crocheted hat. I know he’ll drive my other imaginary friends away, make me bury them in the shadows of my mind. Already, I can feel them all drifting away: the sock twins, Bobbin and Threadbare, the little round cube I only ever think of as Tears.
I would go after them, but not tonight, as I lie in my room with the rain at my window. He’s got into my head, this new friend of mine: he’s causing me no end of worry. It’s the voice, somehow: it has edges.
Kill him. You know who I mean. I will help.
I can’t do that: I could never do that. He’s my father.
You know what he does...he’s broken.
You can’t kill someone just because they’re broken. That would mean killing everyone, eventually.
You don’t have to do it yourself. Thatís what friends are for. All you have to do is go offline for a while. You know, like your mum does when he hits her so hard she can’t see straight, when she wobbles on her legs and still makes the dinner like everything’s fine? That’s offline; it’s easy...you just stop thinking.
It’s not his fault, though: it’s the drink. The nights when he doesn’t drink...
They’re worse. Those are the nights when he comes after you to be...friendly. You think he likes doing those things? Do you? Sometimes, dead is best. It’s practically a kindness. Would you let a wounded dog linger on in the shadows, constantly tortured by its own pain? It’s NOT the dog you used to love: it just wears the same old skin. Would you deny it a fitting end? It’s the same.
He’s still my father.
And I’m your friend. If you let me open you up, I can get inside your skin and help out.
But I’d be all innards: how can I go around like that?
What do you think these are for?
He holds up his sewing needles, his grin gleaming like the chrome on Satan’s Mercedes. The shiny point has a slight bend at the top, like the church spire in that dreary town my teachers took me to, last winter.
I’ll put you back together again afterwards, Fix you up; that’s what true friends do, Oscar...they put each other back together.
Nothing to lose; the words echo through my head, and I know every one is true. I can’t go through it again; it’s not fair to my friends. After all, they’re a part of me, too. Don’t they suffer when I do?
The night bleeds on, an open wound that refuses to stop growing.
While I wait patiently for the small hours to fade, the little fidget unzips my skin like a leather jacket and climbs inside. It takes him hours to settle. Eventually, he begins to sew me back together. The thread snaps a few times, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs: mum always says so, mostly through cracked lips.
It’s nearly time now. Nearly time.
Dad is coming up the stairs; I can hear him swearing under his breath and kicking the bannisters as he drags himself closer and closer to my door. He always wants to make up for the hurt in his special way, and that’s worse than all the pain in the world.
The door-handle turns.
There’s no such thing as broken, Dad...
...there’s only me.
