Naked, I forget about getting dressed and creep down the hall to the second bedroom. My ear directs me right to the source of the racket.
I push the door open and it swings the rest of the way by itself, creaking but unheard below the noise inside.
The gym. And he, my wonderful specimen, is racing over an accelerating treadmill. I can only see his back; the sweat dripping down his neck and over his shoulder blades, his butt muscles contracting on alternating cheeks as each leg powers forward; the soft sole of his feet exposed as his back leg swings up behind him.
If I was using a rulebook of normality before, then I can no longer tick the I have read and accepted the terms and conditions box. My mind is playing outside of the boundaries now.
I circle the machinery, moving into his line of sight.
‘Hi there,’ I say.
Instantly I know I have made a mistake.
His focus is thrown off and he slips on the rotating treadmill, falling forward and hitting his head on the control panel. His limp body collapses on the rubber belt beneath his feet, which continues to churn despite the race being called off.
He is carried to the back end of the treadmill where he is dumped with disregard and forgotten about.
I smack my hand down on the emergency button in the middle of the panel and the treadmill grinds to a halt.
I drop to my knees, to stroke his face and call him to.
‘Hey, can you hear me? Are you ok?’
He is knocked unconscious, but breathing. I scamper to the bathroom and grab a flannel that hangs from a hook by the shower entrance. I run cold water over it from the sink, and then run back to my injured soldier. I have no idea if a dripping wet, cold, flannel slapped across the forehead of someone unconscious will help at all, but I am sure I have seen it done in a movie or two.
5.3
Streaks of sweat leave a trail as I haul his limp body by his arms across the apartment. The smooth varnished floorboards and his nylon shorts help ease the friction, but it is the lift onto the armchair that really takes it out of me.
I heave him up, pausing at various points to muster all my strength again.
And then there he is, after my hard work, slumped in the comfy armchair looking asleep and content.
I check his breathing is still clear and then I wait.
While I wait I step out onto the balcony, able to check on him through the French windows.
The air is cool tonight. As I breathe it chills my warm lungs and I like the feeling. It feels fresh, alive. I tilt my neck back so my face is fully exposed to the breeze tickling my cheeks. I smile.
My nipples stiffen under my thin vest and my skin pricks up. But I don’t mind the temperature, I am not shivering and nor am I rushing back into the warmth.
I accept the sensation and experience it in full.
Looking up into the dark blue sky, I spot little shapes circling above. They are too big to be birds and too graceful to be airplanes.
I squint and my focus locks in. I can see the figures clearly. They are angels, humans with wings, soaring and swooping and climbing again.
One of them looks down and smiles. I smile back. He waves. I turn my hand into a gun; forefinger pointing at him. I curl my finger in and snap it out again, motioning a trigger being pressed.
The angel clutches his chest right by his heart and makes a comical expression of sudden death; tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, eyes wide open.
The angel then drops, his wings collapsing together. The wind billows against his body, shifting him from side to side during his descent. He nosedives, and I feel sure that he will swoop up at the very last moment, with a grin on his face and another wave for me.
That is what my imagination expects to happen and so, my imagination being in control, I have no doubt that is precisely what will happen.
I peer over the balcony, enjoying his daredevil stunt all the way down.
Smash.
His body crunches the roof of a car. He spits out a gallon of blood that splatters down over his broken body, the wreck beneath him and traumatised passers-by.
Women scream. Men stand still, shocked and useless. A teenager pulls out his mobile phone and films a video that he will upload to YouTube within a minute. I look back up into the sky and the rest of the angels are flying away, far from me.
‘Hey! Wait. I didn’t mean to!’
They are either too far away now to hear my words, lost in the wind, or are ignoring me.
I no longer have control.
5.4
He stirs in the armchair and then opens his eyes. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, I am frozen to the spot. Standing in my blue vest and panties, I am as still as a statue. The goose pimples wave a gradual goodbye, subsiding as the warmth of the apartment and the heat of my nerves thaw my skin.
‘Does your head hurt?’ I ask.
‘Just a little sweetheart, yes.’
He has just called me sweetheart. I’m too old for butterflies in my stomach, but I feel them nonetheless. I can’t allow myself to fall head over heels for an imaginary creation, but I fear I am already in mid-flight.
I twirl strands of my hair, balancing on the balls of my feet and feeling like a giggle will burst from my stomach at the most inappropriate time. I press down on my stomach. Breathe in deep Melissa, I tell myself.
I breathe in deep, but as I exhale the nerves rattle my throat and the air splutters out. I swallow hard.
He looks to me and I don’t believe it but I see it. He is looking over my figure with lust. His eyes trace the contours of my body, following the curves down and then back up, pausing at my breasts, and then reaching my eyes.
And I don’t feel awkward at all. Actually, I feel sexy. I feel in control and powerful. All the little girl nerves in one blast have been shot into the sky. My lungs take in a greedy amount of air and the rise of my diaphragm pushes my breasts up and out. His eyes glimmer.
I bite my lip. He makes eye contact with me again and I notice his breathing is deepening. He wets his lips with his tongue.
I lick mine in a blatant attempt to tease him.
‘Is this making you feel better?’ I ask.
My nipples have hardened beneath my vest top. I smile for him with a mischievous grin and a twinkle in my eyes.
He nods back.
‘I can tell,’ I say, pointing to the growing bulge in his gym shorts.
Pretending to be coy, I place my other finger against my pouting lips. I have seen this pose somewhere before; all sexuality is copied. I wink for him and he responds by raising the stakes; he pulls his shorts down just enough to release his growing loin.
‘I want you,’ he whispers.
His lust perfumes the air and the scent arouses my hunger. I wriggle out of my panties but leave my vest top on, lifting it above my breasts to expose my stomach and erect nipples and the little trickles of sweat down the middle of my chest and under my cups.
He leans his head back over the armchair and shuts his eyes. He has given himself over to me and without hesitation, listening to the needs of my desires. I grip his shoulders and lift myself on top of him.
I straddle my creation. There is no material between us and my soft flesh slides against his sweaty chest.
I lower myself down onto him and we both gasp; one voice. All the way down, I exhale with unbridled thirst. I don’t waste any time before rotating my hips and riding him, grinding down to engulf all of his length, feeling him inside; a delicious fullness.
His hands find their way over my pert breasts and then down to my hipbones, where his fingers grip so tight they turn white at the knuckles. The flesh on my hips turns white too.
He fights to take control of my movements, lifting and then pulling me down, pushing me back and forth.
I fight back, pushing down on his strong wrists with my hands, squeezing my thighs against his pelvis and rocking at a rhythm that brings me right to the point of climax.
We both release, a
t the same time, primal, guttural cries of pleasure and relief.
With my adrenaline spent, my energy sapped and my lust satisfied I relax my body.
I drape myself against his chest; a sweaty embrace deep in the armchair. I rest my head on his shoulder and my hair shrouds my face. I give him a gentle kiss on the neck. I enjoy the post-sex affection just as much as the animal aggression during the act itself.
‘That was wonderful,’ he says.
I climb off, wiping my face with my forearm and standing back up, stretching.
‘It must have been all that sweat on you! Nature’s aphrodisiac, drives us girls wild,’ I joke.
He pulls his gym shorts back up without wiping or cleaning below, and kisses my forehead before walking away.
‘That’s true, but it wasn’t the sweat that made you want me. It was my imagination silly, you are just my imagination,’ he says, as a matter of fact.
Like an atom bomb landing in my gut, I feel winded. My lungs refuse to take in air and I am lost for words as well as oxygen.
I am in his imagination? I really have lost complete control and for the first time in all my years creating imaginary companionship, I am made to feel powerless. As the air rushes in again and I concentrate on breathing, a tear runs down my cheek.
I turn my eyes away, hoping he doesn’t see.
6.1
I awake to the tap tap tapping sound of fingers prodding something solid. My tired eyes peel from their first real sleep in days and I turn to my right where he is propped up and patting the bedside cabinet.
I instantly realize that his hand is pressed where the photo frame was. I stowed it away in the drawer before tucking myself in for a good cry and a heavy sleep.
I place my hand on his shoulders to stir his attention, but his reaction is one of a beast being awoken. He jars and jumps, spinning and falling back off the bed and against the wall. My eyes are well adjusted to the darkness and I see him clearly, but his eyes snap left and right as if he is struggling to pinpoint my outline. He scales back up against the wall, rubbing his eyes.
‘I’m here, it’s okay. I’m just here.’ I say.
‘Go away!’ he shouts. ‘Get away from me!’
He races around the bed, pressed up against the wall, until he reached the escape of the bedroom door and backtracks into the hall.
I step off the bed and move closer to him, like a zookeeper taming an animal.
‘Did I scare you?’ I ask.
He begins to calm. His eyes rest on me and his brow eases.
‘Er, no it’s okay darling. I thought you were ... What happened to my photo of Sarah? Where have you put it?’ he stumbles over his words.
He has just called me darling, which makes me go all tingly, despite the tension.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted it out. I was just settling in.’ I say.
‘No, it’s okay, I’m sorry I reacted so weirdly in there. But, can you please put the photo back. I want it back in its place,’ he asks so sweetly.
‘Sure, I’ll do it right now.’
I don’t understand why, but at first it feels like a perfectly reasonable request. He wants his photo back out.
As I step back into the bedroom it dawns on me. He wants a picture of another girl in our bedroom. I slide the drawer open, pull out the frame and place it on the cabinet letting the metal scratch against the wood and then close the drawer again with a thud.
6.2
I pour the amber liquid into the tumbler. I then pour some ice in and the clinking of the ice cubes against the inside of the glass is comforting.
I place the whiskey on the glass table and sit on my harp stool a little further away from him laid along the sofa.
He downs the whiskey. I watch, impressed. Downing raw whiskey like that would strip my throat bare.
‘She took her own life when I was twelve years old,’ he says softly.
Oh, is this when I finally deal with my father’s suicide? Rehashing the memory through an alternative story told by one of my creations? Okay, I’m prepared to listen.
‘We didn’t have a father, and we used to go on trips to the beach during the off-season when it was cold and rainy because it was cheaper. My little sister was only a baby, not older than a year.’
I am fixated, like a vulture circling fresh road kill, only this looks even less appetizing. I’m scanning the ground and hoping the driver throws this road kill in the trunk so I don’t have to swoop for it. No such luck and I listen further to my creation’s monologue.
‘I remember one evening, dusk, maybe later. I was sitting by the window overlooking the sea. My mother, with my baby sister in her arms told me to keep staring up at the sky so that I wouldn’t miss the shooting stars. Then I heard the door close.’
I feel my eyes well up.
‘A few minutes later I saw a woman walking barefoot on the beach. I don’t know what made me look down from the sky at that moment, but as soon as I did I knew it was my mother and sister. She walked into the waves. I just watched. She went further in, until the waves were up to her waist, and then her shoulders and then she was gone, my sister with her.’
My breathing is heavy and suffocating, my lungs churning out oxygen like a truck expelling filthy black exhaust fumes. I can’t breathe, I am panicking. He is about to describe exactly how I felt and I am not ready to face up to it. I never have been. He opens his mouth and speaks anyway, no sympathy for me.
‘If only I had been a better kid maybe she would have taken me too. Or maybe she wouldn’t have left at all.’
Everything pauses. He pauses.
There, it is done. I remember everything, I remember all the guilt I felt. I remember feeling how I wasn’t important enough for my father to stick around for. I remember feeling how unloved I was for him not to take me with him. The man I adored left me behind. I was abandoned.
But now, with these emotions rushing through my bones, a new understanding overtakes me.
And I speak to him, as I speak to myself.
‘It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known you would never see him ... her ... again.’
6.3
He sits up and turns to face me. He looks past me, over to the eccentric freestanding mirror. His eyes snap on me again, widening. Then he looks lost.
‘What?’ I ask, looking over my shoulder to check the mirror.
‘Nothing,’ he says.
He has just spilled out an Oscar length monologue, drip-fed straight from my repressed consciousness.
I am telling myself this to try and reassert my control over my creation. The moment I start believing he is acting with autonomy, I am screwed.
I might as well draw a door with my finger, scribble the word insanity on it, open it and step through.
Once again he freezes on me. I don’t understand and the frustration of not understanding him is playing table football with my brain cells.
‘Why are you behaving like this? It doesn’t make sense,’ I ask, running my hand over his stubble ravaged cheek.
‘I don’t know,’ he responds. ‘I don’t know what is happening to me. I’m seeing things. I think I’m going crazy!’
‘You’re not going crazy.’ I say.
Then my cheeks puff out and burst with a nervous short-lived laugh. I clear my throat and try to sound serious, feeling another nervous laugh strangle my gullet.
‘I’m the one seeing things, I’m the crazy one. You? You are absolutely fine.’ I say.
My hand slides down from his stubble to his shoulders. His eyes follow down and then he catches my chest.
I look down to see my breasts hanging free in my vest top. I stand tall again and pull my hand away from him. I blush, looking away.
When I look back he is gone. My rosy cheeks feel warm to the touch.
6.4
I hear a screw top fall and bounce on the kitchen counter. I turn to face the kitchen and there he is, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.
His
shoulders are tense.
‘Please, just leave me alone. I can’t handle this,’ he says.
‘No,’ is my simple answer.
‘Why are you doing this? Why are you taking over her body?’ he screams. His voice cracks and for the first time I feel his vulnerability.
‘I’m not taking over anyone’s body. This is mine. This is me,’ I say, confused and irritated.
Then it hits me. Hard.
Like a hammer through my body, striking down on my head and tearing through me to the floor.
All the air is sucked out of the room, leaving a vicious vacuum.
He drops the glass tumbler and it shatters on the tiled kitchen floor. Glass pieces fragment and whiskey splashes like a Jackson Pollock painting. He holds himself up by the kitchen counter in a mirror image of me holding myself up using the back of the sofa.
Having gone so long keeping the crazy me locked up with those pills, she has gotten her revenge. My head spins.
Yes imaginary friends aren’t normal and yes it is a form of escape, but it had always been an escape I was fully in control of, an escape with which I had left crumbs to find my way back with, if I ever got lost. There is no return trail here.
He yanks open a drawer and grabs a huge knife.
It glistens. The blade laughs at me, bouncing light into my eyes and making me squint.
The blade wants me. He wants me.
As his back crunches in, shaking with adrenaline and alcohol, I do what I do best.
I escape.
I run for the bedroom, and hide.
7.1
I want an after-world populated with Kurt Cobain singing Beatles songs, with Kubrick as my eternal film buddy and where I can sleep twenty-three hours a day. I wish for this because I have a foreboding sense of dread.
I think I will die tonight. So I might as well make my post-death requests now while I can. The lights go out. My heartbeat races and my brain becomes fuzzy, thrown sideways by my imaginary creation being able to kill the lights.
The Haunted Hikikomori Page 9
