Category Archives: Nightmare

ants

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according to Google: the common ant you find in british gardens weighs one milligram.

it is a warm summer’s day in june. about 23 degrees. and i lie on the grass in my garden. the sun beats down on my back and legs. i have a black t-shirt on and black jeans. not really summer wear but being a folk who has many a mole this is how i tackle summer and avoid skin cancer. it is hot. even the birds have given up.

i soak up the sun like a lizard. feeling it pour into me. warming every part. i am being slowly baked by heat. delicious heat. as i drift between consciousness and a semi-dream state.

i open my eyes and study the grass before me. it’s several shades of green. lime. jade. olive. pickle. brown in patches. recently cut. it sports a neat trim that is not quite maintained when it reaches the flower borders. there are a few tufts springing up there. the places i didn’t quite cut with the mower. it is not the neatest of jobs but i decide to not let it guilt me. better to be lying in the sun.

my eye is caught by a movement in the grass. it is small but i still catch it. the movement of a cut sliver of green. an ant crossing the jungle of the lawn. crawling between each blade as it makes its way somewhere. i wonder how many ants there are there at that precise moment crawling through the grass. all on an errand to somewhere. perhaps they carry an urgent message. the sighting of a delicious sugary treat in someone’s house. just waiting to be exploited by the right colony of ants. the thought of so many ants crawling around me gives me the creeps. i bring my thumb down and squash the ant in front of me.

i always hated ants. the days before i knew better. when i would unwisely sit near a nest playing. then i would find them crawling on me. tickling my skin. making their way over my legs. i would scream. jump up. frantically bat at my body. try to get them off me. i would run. into the house. screaming. throwing my clothes off. my parents would come running. wondering what the matter was. they would find me. in the shower. hot water flowing over me. cleansing me of my hidden enemy.

i would enact my revenge on the ants. not by pouring hot water over the nest. no. that was too quick. too kind. i would get my lego. build upon a green base piece. a maze of walls with chambers. an entrance in. an exit out. add obstacles to overcome. twigs. leaves. sand. lego dots. then i would catch an ant. place it in the centre of the maze. add one or two more.

i would watch fascinated as they tried to make their way round. over the twigs. through the sand. under the lego dots. one would try to climb the walls. i would knock it back down. it soon learnt that way was futile.

the unfortunate ones would enter the torture rooms. the chambers where a splash of water would fall down. or a cascade of dirt or stones. the really unfortunate would enter the chamber where the brick came. crushing. squashing them. complete.

those that made it out of the maze got special treatment. they would be lifted high between my fingers. and placed upon alone lego brick. hot sun burning down through a magnifying glass. cooking and curling their form. a worthy sacrifice to an unseen god on a plastic alter.

the sun beats down. i lie watching the grass before me. there is another movement. two movements. near each other. two ants this time. making their way across the jungle lawn. are they friends? buddies on a little adventure. did they spend time in their colony of an evening discussing how their day had been? stories of the number of sweet foods found? i bring my thumb down. squash them. fucking ants.

the sun beats down. my lips are parched. but i’m too drowsy to move. i’m enjoying my spot on the grass too much. better to lie here. laying in the heat. i don’t want to move. just to enjoy the warmth on my back. the moment. more movement in the grass. four ants this time.

there was a time when i visited a forest with my parents. a sunday country walk. meant to get us kids away from the tv and invigorate the soul. or some shit like that. ahead of the others. i was clambering down a mud bank. dried earth baked in the sun. brown pine needles littering the earth. down on my back i went. slipping and sliding to the bottom. falling on my arse. i sat there a moment. not realising. not realising i was sat on a group of ants. big fuckers. bigger than the ones we got in our back garden. red and black bodies. shiny like berries. and they bit. oh, how they bit. i screamed and panicked. leapt up away from the ground. brushing frantically at my legs. my feet, they bit more. i don’t know how long i was there screaming and scraping away at my legs with my nails. red raw skin. before my parents came running. consoling. they brushed away the pain. i hated forests after that.

the four ants move across the grass. they are heading my way. i bring my thumb down. the executioner. squashing each one by one.

‘fuck you ants!’ i yell as i kill the last of them. ‘fuck you and all the ants!’

the grass turns to stillness. quiet. tired by the exertion in the sun my eyes droop. close. darkness.

it was the moving sensation that woke me. the sense of bobbing along. like moving on a gentle wave. floating.

i try to open my eyes. but i can’t.

i try to move my hands. but i can’t.

my legs. can’t.

i am bobbing somewhere. moving. being carried by something. i try not to panic. in the blackness. i can feel movement over me. small. tickling. out of reach. it makes me want to scream. but i can’t. my lips are held tight shut.

i try to focus my strength. focus my strength all into my right arm. centre it there. then a sudden movement. a pull. i pull my arm free. claw at my eyes. i can see. i wish i couldn’t.

they don’t fight back. they don’t cover my eyes again. maybe it was a sort of punishment. a way of letting me see the full horror of my situation. my arm is pulled back firmly. i can’t resist.

there are hundreds of them. thousands. thousand upon thousand of small black ants. small black bodies. crawling. moving. on top of me. under me. a thick living blanket of black bodies. constantly on the move. they are all over my mouth. in my ears. around my eyes. i piss myself.

we are in the sun. but are heading somewhere. purposeful. determined. i can’t turn my head to see. all i can see is the sky. crisp white clouds. ocean blue sky of a summer’s day. the ants. then darkness. we have entered somewhere. a tunnel of sorts. it feels as if i’m heading downwards. there is the feint smell of vinegar. we are dipping. along the tunnel. deep. deeper. it seems to be getting warmer the further we go.

i sense movement around me. in the heat. the darkness. and a feint hum. low. on the edges of sound. all around. it is increasing. as we go deeper. like the hum of an old television set when you turn it on. warm. hum. darkness.

then we stop moving. bobbing. downwards. and i feel them turning me. there is light here. i sense a presence. something powerful. i don’t want them to turn me. to see. the hum fills my head. my skull. pressing. my black captors release me. disappear in the dim light. my eyes get accustomed. then i see. and i scream.

the chamber is hot. stuffy. stifling. it stinks of vinegar. strong. overpowering. it stings my eyes. i blink to see. above me. towering over me. in this large chamber. is a huge figure. six limbed. thick as trunks. hairs like thorns. head the size of a small black car. mandibles opening and closing. giant shears that could snap an arm in two. a beast as tall as a house. a giant ant. the god ant. the humming intensifies. painful. and i know it comes from the god ant. it fills my head. i understand it. what it is saying. and it terrifies me.

the common ant you find in british gardens weighs one milligram.

tap

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(content warning: body horror)

the car drove off through the trees. i was alone. truly alone. it was why i chose the place. a small stone hut in the woods by a lake. private land so no neighbours. just perfect. now i could focus. focus on the important things. and no phones. perfect. no one could bother me. i could finally have the peace i craved.

i unlocked the door. the door was stiff so i had to give it a good shove. the place was basic. one lounge room with open fire and a sofa. worn rug on the floor. a pile of logs by the fire. a side room off to the right was the kitchen. a simple gas cooker that had seen better days. an off brown. a bygone from the seventies. it would do. a small wooden table and two chairs. 1950’s. a sink of sorts. one tap. cold water. i would have to boil a kettle if i wanted hot.

opposite the kitchen was the bathroom if you could call it that. old lime green bath. medicine cabinet with mirror above the lime green sink. both had hot and cold water. the mod-cons the owner had described. all the mod cons.

the final room was the bedroom. a double bed covered in sheets and a quilted blanket. some scene of the countryside complete with a stag. it was like someone had vomited cotton on it. there was no wardrobe just a set of drawers. pine. stained. old. the drawers stuck a bit. they were lined with floral wallpaper. i took out my clothes from my bag and dropped them all in one drawer. 

i took the two carrier bags of shopping to the kitchen. unloaded the food into the single cupboard fixed to the wall. brown sticky wood. the shelves also lined with paper. i had brought simple things. tinned food. soups. dried pasta. ready-made sauces. i filled the fridge freeze box with stir fry veg and veggie mince. cheese to the fridge. and a treat. one rainbow trout. ready to go. i put the two wine boxes on the table and poured myself a glass from one box.

the night was beginning to draw in as i sat down on the sofa with my copy of Baudelaire. wine to hand. i was hoping that by reading his words i would be inspired. i needed a new book. my agent demanded it. and time was running out. three months. that was all. the deadline was fast approaching. so i was in this basic shell focusing on writing a first draft. edit. redraft. and i could return home. home to the city. i just needed peace and a space to imagine. that was all.

i washed up the plate from my meal. the fish had been good. sat back down on the sofa. time for something easier going. Sayaka Murata. her humour to celebrate the day. living. it was pitch black outside and i could hear the sounds of the night in the woods. something stirring in the bushes. the screech of an owl. something else. what? i did not know. i was not a country boy. but it was still quieter than the street i lived on in the city. hooting cars. drunken arguments in the streets. the sound of sirens. music blaring until four in the morning. city life made you feel alive. but sometimes you needed to be away. alone. in the quiet. hear yourself think. there was no space to hear yourself think in a city. something was always demanding attention. saying: look at me. but here. there was me. the woods. the sound of the leaves rustling in a breeze. the scurry of footsteps through the earth. the strong smell of pine that seemed to penetrate everything. but nothing else. no people. no cars. quiet. i yawned. put the book down. went to bed.

i spent the day down by the small lake. bottle of wine. sandwiches. notebook. pen. i watched the swallows skim over the water scooping up the liquid with their open beaks. i saw bright green and blue dragonflies dance at the water’s edge. darting one way and another. a fawn with its mother stopped to watch me before moving off. i could write of such things in my notebook. describe them in great detail. the serenity of the place. the stillness. but there was no story there. not my story. not the stories i wrote. my readers would scream and protest. where was the city? the blood? the gang life and illicit affairs? what was with all this nature stuff? no. i had to give them what they wanted. my agent demanded it. i had to give them another Jack Vallance novel.

i finished the bottle of wine. closed the notebook on the white pages. a glaring sign of my failure. the day had been a wash out. had i lost it? was this the moment? was this the time when words would not come anymore? i imagined myself back in the city at a desk in the office. watched over by a domineering boss. a life of nine-to-five misery. no. this couldn’t be it. i needed to relax. take the pressure off. i needed a bath. that always helped. i had had some of my best ideas in the bath. i gathered my things and headed back to the stone hut.

in the bathroom i stripped off and looked down at my feet. as usual my toenails needed trimming. i took a pair of nail scissors out of my wash bag and sat down on the toilet lid. i began to trim fascinated how much thicker my toenails were to my fingernails. why was that? a link to a long-gone age when we roamed the earth with fur? they were more talons than nails. thick. hard. were we bird people? i smiled. just being in the bathroom had set my imagination going. this is what i needed.

i dropped the nail clippings down the sink plughole and put the scissors on the sink eager to get in the bath. the water was hot but not scorching. i made a show of washing myself. imagining myself an ancient roman emperor lying in milk. no cream. massaging it in the skin.  laughing. could i use that in a Jack Vallance novel? more historical drama but it could be useful for a scene. i made a note in my nearby notebook. something for later. 

i lay back in the water. moving down until the water covered my neck. only my head poking above. my right foot went exploring as i shut my eyes. feeling the edge of the bath. the cool of the enamel. cooler still the tap. there was one handle. cold. smooth. the other. warmer. must be the hot. i followed the tap down. along the body. to the nozzle. i found the hole. my toe went in. exploring.

fuck! my toe wouldn’t come out. it was stuck. how could it be stuck? it was not like i rammed it in there. there must be solution. there was always a solution for something like this. otherwise there would be loads of people with stuck toes. i needed to think. i looked around the bathroom. my eyes came down on the shower gel. that was it. i needed a lubricant. something to help ease it out. 

i pulled the cap off and poured the gel over my toe. trying to force it between flesh and steel. the gel ran down the rest of my foot. down to my ankle then into the water. a green tail of soapy slime. i pulled at my foot. my toe. but nothing. it didn’t move. i poured the rest of the gel over my stuck toe. emptying the bottle. i pulled. nothing. stuck. i tried to squeeze gel up my toe into the tap. but the seal was too tight. there was no gap. i pulled and pulled. nothing. it was still stuck fast. it was purple and numb.

i reached over the edge of the bath for my jeans. i could just grab them. just. i put my hand in my front left pocket and pulled out my mobile. there was a chance. maybe the owner had been wrong. i dialled the owner’s number. nothing. dead. the bars on the phone were at zero. no network. i was alone. it had been what i wanted. i dropped the phone on the floor. i pulled at my foot. pulled real hard. the edge of the tap nozzle cut into my toe. blood trickle into the water. it was still stuck.

i suppose i could wait it out. wait for the owner to call round. but we had said three months. he had no reason to call. and there was no one else. this hut stood alone. just it. the woods. the lake. it was why i had chosen it. why i had got it so cheap. no one came here. no one wanted to be here. except me. foolish me.

could i survive three months stuck in the bath? how long could a person survive without anything to eat? one month? two? three? i didn’t know. i would be found. a starved body in stagnant bath water. toe stuck in the tap. i would become known as the tap man. i would win a Darwin Award. an idiot who had died an idiot’s death and saved the world’s bloodline from his stupid genes. no. i needed to do something. i couldn’t be found like this. i didn’t want to die here. 

i looked around the bathroom again. for something. anything that could free me. my eyes fell on the nail scissors on the sink. i leaned forward and grabbed them. maybe i could prise my toe out. but it was no good. a single scissor blade could not slide between toe and steel tap nozzle. i looked at my toe. the scissors. a resolution came over me. there was only one thing i could do.

i bit hard down on the material of one of my jean legs. really hard. took the scissors. blade either side of my toe. and cut. the blades cut through the outer flesh of my toe. i wanted to scream. i bit harder down. blood down my foot. into the water. a cloud of red. floating. mixing. i cut again. and again. through each layer of flesh. deeper into the red. deeper into me. through the layers. through the skin. in. the blades hit something hard. white. resisting. the bone. how did i get through the bone?

i stopped. looked down at the cold water. the water was red. warm blood flowed from my toe. into the water. i was in a bath of blood. i was bathing in blood. i had to finish the job or i would bleed to death. i took the scissors. cutting was no good now. it was bone. i would have to saw. saw with the blade. push down and saw. i shoved my jean into my mouth. set to work. sawing at the white of the bone with a blade. pressing down. digging into the whiteness. pressing inwards. i was beginning to feel faint. i worked faster. more desperately. 

i snapped the last few millimetres of bone. i tried to stand on my one good foot. in the water. in the blood. but it was slippery so i skidded. fell. a wave of blood water washed over the edge of the bath. onto the floor. i gripped the side of the bath, dragging my body from it. falling to the floor. i propped myself against the wall. wrapped a towel around my foot. i needed to cauterise the toe. i pulled myself up. using the wall for support. leaning against it all the way. i made it across the lounge. stumbling into the sofa. falling onto the rug. i pulled myself to the kitchen. pushing up on a chair. turned the hob on. knife into the flame. i removed the towel from my foot. my toe a blood mess. i wrapped a tea towel around my hand. lifted the knife by the handle. spat on the blade. it sizzled. i sat on a chair. dizziness rising. i lifted my foot. eyes starting to go. pressed the hot blade against the toe. a smell of cooking meat. searing pain. i screamed. blacked out.

i don’t know how long it took me to hobble to Lockneed. the nearest village. an hour? two? to a bar. to help. but i got there. something inside me wanted to survive. to carry on. to live for another day. for this not to be the end. but for me to tell my tale.

bite

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he lay in the bath. letting the water marinate his skin. bath salts to soak and cleanse. to refresh. revitalise. tomorrow work. but no this. his time. unmeasured time. he sunk under the water. allowing it to cover his head. the whole of him. immersed. the water forming an echo chamber. of nothing. he rose. his head and neck out of the water. water trickling down his face. his shoulders. it was then he felt it. the stab of pain. their irritant on his neck. sharp. hot. he put his fingers to the area of the pain. it felt raised. a bump.

he finished his bath. dried himself off. peered in the mirror at his neck. there was the telltale redness. the raised skin. he had been bitten. by something. an insect probably. the price for walking in the woods. in the heat of the day. a memento. he took some antiseptic cream from the bathroom cabinet. squeezed a bit on the end of his index finger. rubbed it into the affected area. it stung a bit but nothing he couldn’t live with. he left the bathroom and entered the bedroom. time for bed.

that night he dreamt of the woods. he was walking. enjoying the sun. but then the sky turned dark. the air still. something was coming. coming for him.

he woke sharply. a nightmare. at his age. he rolled over and looked at the clock. an hour before he had to rise. damn. there was no chance of him getting back to sleep now. it would be a wasted effort. an hour of frustration. better to just get up. get dressed.

he looked in the bathroom mirror. ready to shave. his neck ached. the bite red. chili red. more raised. hot to touch. it would calm down. they always did. he shaved avoiding the inflamed area. threw cold water over his face. three times. to wake him to the day. dried himself off. returned to the bedroom.

white shirt. tie. suit trousers. no jacket. the weather was too warm. he had to be smart. presentable. even if not seen by the public. it was company policy. one of its ways. the company was stuck in another time when it cam,e to employees. another reason to leave. to find another job. move on. to better things. 

the commute was its usual intolerance. too many people crammed into a too hot carriage. armpit to face. he was glad when he stepped off. along the streets of london. to the bright white office in the centre of town. soaring high into the sky. a monument to business. he walked through the lobby. nodding to the security on reception. in the lift to the third floor. into the room of row after row of desks and computer terminals. a few had beat him there. heads already down. focused on their screens. tapping at keyboards. screens glowing.

he found his spot. sat down. typed in his password and set to work. a pile of sheets to his left in a tray. a spreadsheet on the screen waiting for figures. for data. it forever thirsted data. a pop up box appeared in the top right of his screen. a view of his manager. already scrutinizing. monitoring. he took the first paper. began to type the relevant data.

it was no good. his neck hurt. the collar of his shirt was rubbing the bite. pressing on it. grinding it. with each movement. each turn. a rub. he winced. that damn bite was going to make his day hell. it was no good. he would have to take an early break. make the time up later. something had to be done. he left the terminal. a frown from the manager.

he passed the desks to the back of the office. to the lunch bar. opened the small fridge and peered in the icebox. he wanted ice. cool ice. to put on the bite. to cool the heat. to bring relief. but there was nothing. just space. he took a cloth. ran it under cold water. squeezed it until damp. placed it on his neck. that was something. not ideal. something. he returned to his desk.

every hour. on the hour. he returned to the lunch bar and put cold water on the cloth. pressed it to his neck. trying to bring the heat down. to ease the constant itch. to fight the desire to scratch. to attack. to rip his flesh from him. he could not wait to be home. free from the shirt. free to deal with the bite. to cool it. to tame it.

back at his screen the manager was not happy. 

‘what the hell are you playing at? your productivity is down thirty percent. you keep leaving your station.’

‘i have a bite on my neck. it’s hurting.’

‘a bite? that’s causing all the fuss? get over it. and there’s something else. there have been complaints.’

‘complaints?’

‘yes. apparently you smell. smell bad. or something. sort yourself out. go home. take a shower. you’ll have to work two extra hours tomorrow to make up time. deal with your little bite. tomorrow back to work as normal. presentable. or you’re gone.’

the manager scowled in the video box. the bite itched. throbbed under his collar.

when he got home he rushed upstairs to the bedroom. tie off. shirt off. to the bathroom. the bite on his neck was noticeably bigger. much bigger. the size of a 5p coin. red and sore. he ran cold water over a flannel and put it on his neck. monetary relief. then the pain bit back. harsher. hotter. stabbing. he took the flannel off. peering at his neck. the bite had a yellow head. the colour of yoke. it seemed to pulse. move. he took the thumb and index finger of his right hand and squeezed. it was excruciating pain but he continued. the head popped. puss shot out. liquid yellow. some hitting the mirror. it smelt. it smelt of pine sap and trees. of damp wooden places. a thick heavy smell. suffocating.

the yellow puss was gone. a clear fluid leaked out. down his neck. down his chest. then something else. something white. it wasn’t puss. it was white. pointed. poking out the skin. pale flesh coloured. it seemed to be moving. wriggling from side to side. a tail. poking out. out of his flesh. out of his neck.

horrified. he ran to the bathroom cupboard. frantically searching for tweezers. he wanted it out. he wanted it out now. he found them. under the bandages. silver. small. peering in the mirror. he took the tweezers and pinched tightly at the end. it wasn’t soft. it was tough like gristle. there was a searing pain down his neck like hot metal. he pulled. pulled hard. the pain in his neck intensified. he gritted his teeth. the white was coming from his neck. pale worm like. twitching. strong smell of sap. forests. he pulled more. it twisted and turned. trying to break free. it was about the size of his little finger. but it would not come. it was fighting to stay. something was clinging on. clinging on inside. refusing to let go. he gritted his teeth tighter. psyching himself up. it had to come out. it couldn’t stay. he had come so far. just the end to come. just the end. one last big, sharp pull. that would sort it. he gritted his teeth more. the gristly worm twisting in the tweezers. he pulled. there was a scream. a white twisting form. a lump of flesh.

moment 9

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every time it happens it amazes me. i can be sitting happily at home or lying in bed, nodding off after a tiring day, or even watching tv, or reading a book, then it creeps up. the little nag at first, a small tapping of the needle in a corner of my brain. Tap. Tap. i try to ignore it. refocus on going to sleep, focusing on the programme or the page. TAp. TAp. my stomach begins to clench as it know what is coming. TAP. TAP. then the voices, the cry of what ifs reexamining the day and where i went wrong or think i went wrong. did that person really mean that or were they hiding their true feelings. maybe they secretly despise. you may think that would be enough but not for my mind. it is just getting warmed up. now we top it off with predictive what ifs. what if i do something wrong at work tomorrow? what if my boss sees it? what if they find out i’m not any good? what if – what if – what if. it yells in my ear. my heart beats fast. i begin to sweat. everything around me is reduced to nothing. i just hear the voices. you’re a charlatan! you deserve to fail! you’re no good to anyone. i try to focus on my breathing like i’ve been taught. centre my mind on a single part of my body. focus. come on, focus! the voices laugh and yell at volume. out of control. they jump from cell to cell in my brain. kicking at the positive, knocking it down, crushing it under foot. count to ten, count to ten, count to ten. focus on your breathing. then the disasters tear up as punishment. the abject fears of harm to my family. did i lock the doors? is everyone safe? the voices come back: but if you did lock them, can you be sure? can you be trusted? surely, something so important can’t be trusted to you? count to ten. count to ten. count to ten. breathe in slowly. hold it. breathe out. focus on the toe. the right toe. now follow the toe along the leg. take a journey. one part at a time. the voices quieten to a whisper, not completely gone, just murmuring enough for me to know they are there. i get up, walk to the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of wine.

decavity

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image of x-ray of teeth. black and white.

(content warning – implied child harming)

She entered the nursing home room. It was impersonal, clean and smelt of decay. The passing of the flesh to decay. It had that disinfectant smell mixed with urine and sweat. She sat on the chair that was just on the wrong side of comfortable. Looked down at the man in the bed. Wrinkles within pale blue pyjamas. Frail. More skeletal than flesh. She took his hand and squeezed it.

Eyes flickered open. Delayed recognition. Then a weak smile. Eyes closed.

“I came as soon as I could. You know. I’m so busy with the kids. And work.”

“Busy. I know,” came the whisper of a voice. Like a birdsong caught in the wind.

“And we’ve been clearing the house. Going through things. Getting things ready.”

“I know.”

“It’s just we found something. We found something when clearing the garage.”

“Something?”

He opened his eyes. Looked intently at her.

“Yes. It was in an old brown box. Pushed to the back. On the top shelf.”

“Yes.”

“It was full of envelopes. Brown envelopes.”

“Yes.”

“We opened them.”

“Oh.”

“When were you going to tell us dad? When were you going to tell us about it?”

“I wasn’t. It was my thing.”

“My thing?! Those envelopes were full of teeth! Teeth!”

“I know.”

“Children’s teeth.”

“I know.”

“Why dad? Why?”

“It was just my hobby. My thing.”

“But children’s teeth. What happened to them?”

“I just collected them. They didn’t need them no more.”

How could he not understand what he did was wrong? How could he be her father?

“You took the children’s teeth?”

“It was relatively painless.”

“Painless?”

“Yes. When I first started I wasn’t so skilled. I was nervous. Impatient. It hurt a lot.”

“I bet it did.”

“But as I practised more. I go better. It was over quick.”

“But it is still children. It was still their teeth.”

“They didn’t want them. I knew I was doing the right thing.”

“What about mum? Did she know about you hobby.”

“She knew. She understood.”

“She understood.”

“She knew it was something I just had to do.”

“But why keep the teeth?”

“I don’t know. To remember. To remember them all.”

“Hell.”

He squeezed her hand.

“Don’t swear. You know I don’t like swearing.”

She looked down. Wanting to get away. From this beast. This man. Her father.

“Don’t worry. I kept yours too. In a box.”

She pulled her hand away.

“And your sister’s.”

soup

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Soup with meat and vegetable in white ceramic bowl

This all came about because I was ill. Some may say: What do you expect? You’re vegetarian. You lot are always ill. You need protein. Meat!

But that is just guff. I’m rarely ill. It was just the usual coming to the end of the term so winding down and immune system taking a break. So hence, I’m ill. I got a cold. A humdinger of a cold. On the scale of colds: a ten. 

So I was lying in bed feeling shit. What’s worse, I hadn’t even been offered a warm drink. Or food. Nothing. My wife had just left me. There. In bed. Suffering. In my misery of endless sniffles, sneezes, throbbing skull, hot sweats, aching bones, shivers.

It doesn’t surprise me I got left. Sometimes I swear she doesn’t even know I exist. Things are such that when I get home from work she always tells me: I’ve eaten. Fix something for yourself.

So I do. I make myself something to eat. And sit alone at the dining table. Just me. The food. A glass of wine. No company. No conversation. She sits in the living room watching Strictly. Catching up on the highlights and the gossip. So when no food came when I was in bed. Gravely ill. It didn’t surprise me.

I guessed it was a “fix it yourself” situation. I wasn’t hungry for a big meal. Just something to tide me over. Keep me going. So I looked in the fridge bucket and came across a few spuds and a leek. Soup. That was the answer. 

I chopped the leek into pieces. Peeled and chopped the spuds.  Threw it all into some water with salt. Let it come to the boil and simmer. The water rolling over the veg in a gentle wave motion in the pan. Over and over. A rolling ocean of veg pieces. When the veg was soft, I turned off the heat. Got the hand blender and set to the mixture. The pieces breaking down. From large to small to a blend of lime green. 

A dash more water. A touch of milk. I don’t like my soup too thick. I don’t like it to hang on the spoon like tinted slime. Ghostbusters’ Goo. I like it to pour off. Fluid. And quick. A bit more heat to the mixture. When it was just right. Just bubbling. I ladled it into a bowl. Two-thirds high. Retired to the table. Consumed. Just me and the soup and the empty house. My wife long gone on an errand. Or work. Which, I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me.

As I sat there. Sipping my soup. I wondered how many days would it be before my wife would check if I was OK and had eaten. One day? Two? At all? Would she even think to? Or were we now so distant it was a foolish question to ask. I know we are both busy. Me with my work. Her with her office job. But surely we weren’t broken? 

I finished the soup. Washed up the bowl. Pan. And things. Returned to bed.

Shivers. Cold. Sneeze. Watering eyes. The coldness of the bed would not improve even when she came to sleep. We stay on our own sides. Each distant from the other. When this started I don’t know. Just one day. Like other things. We just stopped. No longer together. We stayed in our spaces. 

I decided something had to be done. I had to make a stand. Raise the issue. Start a discussion. A dialogue. Put us back on track. But how? 

Then it came to me. A neat solution. I would just eat soup. A bowl of soup each day. Just one bowl. Nothing more. Surely, she would notice my weight loss? Worry if I am eating? Ask about my welfare? Then we would talk. Become one again. It seemed the perfect plan.

So day two. She’s at work. I make soup. Leek and potato soup. One bowl. Consume it. Wash up. Bed. Cold. Shivers. Sneezes. Watering eyes. Sleep.

Day three. She’s at work. I make soup. Leek and potato. One bowl. Consume it. Wash up. Bed. Cold. Shivers. Sneezes. Watering eyes. Sleep.

Day four. I get up. I feel much better. Shower. Dress. She goes to work. I shop. I make soup. Vegetable soup. One bowl. Consume. Clean. 

She comes home. Makes herself something to eat. Watches Strictly Highlights. Says nothing. My trousers keep falling past my waist. I think I need a new notch on my belt. But she says nothing.

Two weeks have past. I’m still on soup. The Xmas holidays have ended. Goodwill to all men. Hah! I only had a bowl of soup on Christmas Day. I fixed it myself. She didn’t notice.

I’m back at work. In the classroom with kids. My ribs are beginning to stick out. I’m sure of it. New notches on my belt. I’ve had to buy new shirts and trousers. Still nothing. I could be starving and she wouldn’t notice. What do I do? Do I carry on? Will she ever notice? But I’ve come so far. It’s so important. But I’m hungry. I need something else to eat. All she ever says is: I’ve eaten. Fix yourself something. I’m wasting away. I’m not sure I can go on. When will she notice?

It’s been a month. She hasn’t noticed. Each day I have soup. A single bowl of soup. I need more nourishment. I need something with bite. Something to sustain me. I feel light-headed and dizzy. My thoughts lose themselves. I’ve just got in from work and she is watching more Strictly Highlights. She’s just said: I’ve eaten. Fix yourself something.

I go to the kitchen. Reach for a bowl. Not once has she checked I’ve eaten. She doesn’t care. I’m invisible to her. She only loves celebrity dance. 

I return to the living room. See the back of her head. It’s focused on the TV screen. Not focused on me. It doesn’t see me. I look at the bowl in my hand. Empty. Rage fills me. Courses through my body. Hot. Red. She didn’t even ask. She didn’t even notice. After all this time. I cry: Fix it yourself! She turns towards me. Eyes wide. The bowl is in the air. I’m bringing it down.

I put the pieces in the new blender. Add some seasoning. A touch of chilli for some punch. Some hot water. And blend. I watch the pieces become smaller. Then nothing. Mix. Swirl. Liquify. I add a touch more hot water. I like my soup to pour off my spoon. Not stick there like tinted slime. Ghostbusters Goo. I pour it into a bowl up to the two-third mark. And cut some fresh French Stick to go with it. I sit at the table in the house. I sip the soup. It’s meatier than I’m used to.