Two
o’ clock worked for his roommate back home, so he believed it would work here.
He surfaced from the given blanket. Somewhere in this house, he would have a
drink, seven o’ clock departure time or not, so he could go back between the
couch cushions and finally sleep. There was no worse time for him for the pains
to salivate and dig in his stomach.
For
all he knew, the constantly scattered, soft slams of his door could be the
keeper-upper tonight instead. The all-knowing summer wind planned not to leave
until someone thanked It for serving them this hot day. It also turned tonight
restless. It made the two doors of this soft room with that long couch click
sporadically all night. This house had many windows, but only the one here
seemed to have a frame that was about to fall inside the house.
He
stepped as if one step, past the shelves with many books and movies, the TV
with many channels. With the knob turned, the door flew into his awaiting hand
so he could slide by and close it back, with only a few creaks complaining. His
night vision did not fail him tonight, but it was aided by an orange moon
rolling in still clouds.
The
kitchen had many cabinets. His shaking hands of sweat opened them all to find
only many plates, many silverware, many unopened, unobtainable manufactures
that could temper him if he could only open one without leaving a trace. There
was no alcohol in the refrigerator either, but there was a pitcher of heavy
filtered water he gladly helped himself too.
As
he sipped, he was reminded of other vacations and remembered wincing whenever
his host’s family described themselves as ‘country.’ Central New York had countryside, surely, but any
‘country’ home with as much stuff as they
had had no claim. It didn’t matter how much they bragged that no one needed to
lock doors around here.
Door
click pressure on a creak upstairs. His toes inched up and his heart hid in his
throat. Soon after, he remembered that,
all night, this had followed a pattern: wind gust, fool’s terror. Once more, he
hoped he could just drink until his rancid blood seeped from his eyes, or at
least until another blackout.
He
knew of two TVs residing in this house, one in his room that he couldn’t use
without waking up someone… the last thing he wanted was to talk to someone. But
his hosts mentioned an old one this evening in the basement. With cell-phone
clutched, he dragged tingling feet to the door leading to a stairwell.
The
phone light was terrible, and each step of the stair wailed in agony in contact
with pale skin. It moved in an old wooden square down, naked in each plank of
wood, each metal pipe. He rushed the last few steps to the light switch and
threw it open. Light poured on the cold grey floor. The walls were covered in
first grade paintings, but that wasn’t important now; in front of him was
another refrigerator.
His
instincts commanded he jump in celebration right into its handle, but the winds
kept reminding him people could be watching. So the only jubilant chorus joining
him as he crept past dusty Ping-Pong tables and the bare bulbs was the beating
heart, bouncing, refusing to sleep even at its master’s expense. His feet
glided too fast for the rock-frozen floor to catch up.
His
hand overcame the suction of the fridge, and there it was! Orange cases filled
the inside and in the door. Yet nothing was opened, no cardboard carrier
molested. Shaking fists slammed the door… as desperate as he was, he could not
leave such obvious traces. The drink had taken all but his countenances these
past lonely years.
The
moon shone bigger this night than the last. This house had many window-doors,
such as the one his iron eyes gazed up at. Grass swayed back and forth, back
and forth towards him.
Another
creak accelerated the headache. After navigating many old toys to discover the
TV here was broken, he sat to think. But nothing could come to him, and he only
had eyes for the window-door that took the slaps of the wind. He creaked back
up the stairs, shivering and more awake than ever, fighting the wind so the two
doors behind him wouldn’t slam on his way to the couch he flopped on. Pulling
the blanket over him, he closed his eyes.
It
did not last long. The wind returned with a new ferocity, whistling like a
hitchhiker through the house’s many cracks, rattling each door, turning each
creak into the noise of a night prowler. And when he could not sleep, his mind
would churn. Every seam in him churned in rhythm, asking for more of what they
craved… not for the taste of suds, but for an end.
He
sat up suddenly, idea in mind. His host family had relatives a hill away that
he was introduced to. No one here was frightened enough to lock doors, no
matter how much they owned. Any drinks would get lost in the shuffle of another
party, probably one the next day.
He
had never done anything like this before and would’ve cursed himself had he
thought of this another time. The light of his cell phone was dying. Another
turn of a knob and wail of a doorway would surely wake up a host, if not one of
the kids. It was bad enough to meet a
whole family today, yesterday, in the house by the lake. Any upcoming meeting
would be far worse. He could fall asleep on his own, if he wanted to. He had
done so unknowingly before.
But
tonight was not a night to take chances. He could have a hangover tomorrow, he
could be pragmatically and fearfully mute tomorrow, but tonight he would sleep
well again. With renewed legs he found his shoes and outfoxed the creaks of the
door back into the hallway, and was soon sliding a scratching screen door out
of the house.
The
air was no less dark than when he began staring at it on the couch so long ago.
Down into the quivering night he flew, momentum trembling with each step
downhill. There was a path in the thin tall plants cut for walks, which he took
hand in hand with moonlight and the buggy stench.
The
path led right up to the relative’s summer home. He smiled for remembering
that; he couldn’t tell otherwise with the house’s shimmering strong light left
on and pointed at him. It glared, unflinching. Careful steps were taken on the
bumpy mush ground across the yard of many grassblades.
In
what he assumed was the first time ever, the door was locked. Still undeterred,
he cut to the side of the grey wall, hand on its side to help with the sudden
darkness surrounding. Its ridges led him to the lakeside door of the screened
porch, which was also locked. This didn’t stop a few more pulls in frustration.
Each crashing wave into the lake rocks below
echoed and grew. It was now the wind’s chance to toss and turn, only it now
rolled, rolled its path down from the heavens and slamming its own echoing
waves into the lakehouse. At a tired walking pace he fled.
The
journey uphill was spent hating all the wasted days his life had already
churned out. What was the point of it all if his life just led up to this old
misery, times quick and painful, days pleasant and awful? He knew reading never
put him to sleep, yet he could see nothing else to do. Even at this low state,
he knew he couldn’t bare going up to a stranger’s house. Especially now that he
was back to the sprawling white home of hosts that grassblades clung to.
There
was a light on downstairs. Panic breezed past and shoved him into the side of
the house. If someone was awake, surely a quick glance had been given to the
couch his guest should have been
sleeping on. He waited for more noise, thinking about how he took a walk
because he couldn’t sleep, that’s the truth in a way, didn’t visit anyone…
Even
the wind seemed to know to quiet during these hour-long minutes. No sounds
traveled through the house. Looking at that high, lit window, he deduced that
it was the light of the bathroom, the bathroom he had visited several times
tonight out of boredom. He only tentatively grew more frustrated at himself as
he took a step, then a walk, up to the screen door. He was still cautious when
sliding the door and sliding himself back to what he called Living Room Part Trois.
Once
again the pillow resisted the back of his scratchy head, remaining soft yet
stubborn. As useless as his large blanket was, he figured that the half-bent
open window by him was keeping someone
happy, and disturbing that would be the worst thing he’d imagine happening. His
eyes were schizophrenic. Elbows stretched and relaxed, demanding switches
between the two nearly every half-minute. The worst part was the shaking, the
steam hovering over his thoughts, the feverish sweat that denounced his cowardice
over what he guessed were only five hours apart from his soma.
Creak.
Thump and the drum of an old door. His upper half sprung up. Now he knew there must be someone in the house
that didn’t belong! With the creaking winds, this would be the best night for a
break-in. He already could see its foggy face hauling one of the smaller TVs. A
few creaks more, and he would be ready to get up and prove once and for all
that a burglar arrived in this house at…
He
turned to the TV beside him and involuntarily pushed back with a silent gasp.
The clock read eleven o nine. He had been up for nine hours, and it was still
the same dark outside his window.
The
wind bull-rushed its way through his room and punched open the door next to his
couch, leading his eyes into another bedroom with the door’s gunshot slam.
Amongst low-angle posters and shelves surrounding its bed, a child lay, asleep
and without clothes, on top of scattered sheets.
First
instinct was to jump up and shut the door quick. Yet when his hand reached the handle
and caused the first squeal of sound, his eyes glanced over to the bottle. The
bottle preached to an invisible crowd below the dresser it stood upon, poised
to join it in enough time. The wind rattled its glass. Its contents were
blackened, and he could see no label.
Glancing
back, it was still eleven o ten. His head was still throbbing, yet could reject
the foolish idea the substance placed. If he disturbed it, accepted its still
unlikely nectar, he would become the only possible culprit in the morning, if
there ever was to be once. And if time had somehow turned against him, then
what could have happened to the people.
Yet
here he stood, transfixed and fascinated. It might be alcohol, it might not…
but there would be one way to settle that. He could reach it without even
relaxing his grip on the handle. The chances of that waking someone were essentially nil. For all he knew, he could
drink, sleep, and wake up to the family laughing about him discovering, ‘the
funny clock.’ It was preferred at this point, this last time. He centered,
exhaled, and reached on his tiptoe over the mess of the floor, the fingertip
reaching the top of the bottle and only shaking it a little.
The
child’s torso bolted up, causing a noise of cracking fluid, staring at the
reacher with closed eyelids. The head followed his hand as he brought it down
to his side. The child’s eyelids opened to reveal no eyes at all.
He
slammed the door in a flash and turned, only to find his belongings, the many
books, the many movies gone and all windows with a torn slash in the screen.
Faces
swam in the floor: the face of the lean friend and his stunning wife and their
dark-haired children, all now with three corners of their mouth stretched half
a foot away from each black tooth inside. A knock came from the door his hand
had practically merged with: one two, one two, one two.
The
wind blasted in in loudest force, its breath cold and salivating on his clammy
skin. Something had absorbed the smell of the room. The faces moved in closer
with open mouths. One two. The backside of the room approached with the
wide-eyed faces. One two.
“I’m
sorry!” he tried to shout through a cotton throat. “I know what I did! I really
meant to talk!”
As
he reached for his cell phone in pocket, the small hand behind him encompassed
his neck and pulled him in. There was not even the moonlight left.
