by Dan Mooney
He sat there while she moved about the house. At one point he could hear her sobbing into the phone. Then there was quiet. Then more sobbing into the phone. He presumed she was talking to Frank, Ollie and his mother. The thought didn’t faze him. They wouldn’t be able to tolerate this treatment long. They’d been through it before. So he sat there. He was still sitting there when Frank and Ollie turned up.
Frank walked into the room and took his time looking around before staring at Denis. Denis stared back. There was no way to explain what he’d done or why he’d done it. They’d never accept that it was for her own good, and since there was no point, Denis opted for silence. Explanations here were quite pointless. Frank’s facial expression turned from one of mild disgust to anger to pure and unrelenting judgment. Denis could read that expression. He knew it too well. Everywhere he went people judged him for his behavior. Those who couldn’t understand and didn’t attempt to engage with him or excuse him, ran straight for the cover of judgment or pity. He turned his face away from that just as he turned his face away from Frank. His friend shook his head sadly and walked out without saying a word.
More sounds of moving around echoed about the house; suitcases and bags being dragged, snippets of muttered conversations. He couldn’t make out the words, just muted tones that seemed to sneak into his ears. Still he sat there.
Eventually, Ollie walked into the room and sat down next to Denis with a sigh.
“You’ve gone too far this time, Denis,” he said. “I know you’re not going to talk, and that suits me fine. I just want you to listen. Me and Frank, we’re used to your shit. You hide in the bathroom to escape your mother, so she never has to see this nonsense, but Rebecca...”
Denis tried not to hear. This was not going to be fun for him, he knew that.
“She cares more about you than anyone I know. We tried to warn her that you’re not the same, but she insisted that you are. ‘Same old Denny underneath it all. He’s just been hurting for too long.’ That’s what she was thinking of when she moved home, how much you hurt and how much she could help. You think she couldn’t have gotten a job somewhere else? You think there wasn’t work for her on any continent anywhere on the planet? Girl like her? You kidding? You’re why she came home. After six years of no contact, she came home on faith alone. Faith that you and her are right for each other. She crossed half a planet for that idea. That woman loves you so much she’ll travel across half a planet and then willingly volunteer to put up with all your bullshit. You love her so much you’ll slice up her photos of the two of you and start clearing out her room?”
Ollie paused; he was waiting for some kind of response. Denis blinked.
“You’re on your own, Denis. From now until you start coming back to the real world, you’re on your own. Anything to say for yourself?”
Voices in his head began screaming answers again: I’m a hostage in my own home. A murderous clown wants to kill everyone who’s not me, and maybe me too. I love her, please don’t take her away... He didn’t say anything. Somewhere in the middle of that jumble of voices, Plasterer’s cut through it all. You shut your mouth, moron. Denis kept his mouth shut.
“I assume we won’t see you at the funeral?” Ollie asked.
Silence.
“Thought so,” he said.
With a shake of his head that was almost exactly like both Frank’s and Rebecca’s, he stood and made for the door. He stopped briefly and faced Denis for the last time.
“Sometime you’re going to want people back in your life. You’ll need them. I hope for your sake that it’s not too late by then.”
With that he left, the others in tow.
The front door closed behind them. The house was quiet.
Denis sat there.
“None of them would understand really,” he told no one.
Silence. No one tends to answer like that.
“I’m not broken. I don’t need help. Everyone else has a problem with me being the way I am, but you don’t see me having a problem with them, do you? No. I don’t go judging everyone else for being germ ridden and disgusting. I don’t judge everyone else for their constant need to hug and kiss each other. You’d think they’d extend me the same courtesy, wouldn’t you?”
No one answered with no one’s usual answer.
“You know, talking to yourself is one of the first signs of insanity,” Plasterer told him from the doorway.
“Are you happy now?” Denis asked, ignoring the quip.
“Not quite, but I will be. It’s better this way, Denis. We have control of the situation when it’s just us. I can control you, and you can be controlled, and trust me, that’s just how you like it.”
“I don’t want you controlling me,” Denis told him.
“Sure you do,” Plasterer replied. “You want it because it helps you not to feel. Not to grieve. You let me control you, and you’re free not to deal with things like funerals and sex and pushy girlfriends who want to spoon at half-past two in the morning.”
“Can things go back to the way they were now?” Denis asked, seeking some form of silver lining.
“No, Denis,” Plasterer told him coldly. “They cannot. You see, you breached the trust. You and that last little sliver of the old life that you represent are bad for us, so you’re no longer allowed to call any of the shots. I’m moving into your room.”
The words seemed to slap Denis in the face.
“You’re what?” Denis asked.
“Moving into your room. It’s the master bedroom and I’m the master. You’re not. You get the couch. You’ll prefer it that way. You can let the TV play you to sleep, all those cop shows carefully turning off your ability to think. Perfect for you.”
Denis felt the urge to cry again, but held it back. Plasterer seemed disappointed.
“Good night, Denis,” he said by way of farewell. “Tomorrow’s a new day. Try to look at it that way.”
Denis sat on the couch. He was back in this universe again, but it was different now. He walked to the closet by the end of the stairs and pulled out a spare duvet. He walked back to the living room. He lay down on the couch and covered himself. He stared at the paint, now dry, which spattered the far wall. He did not cry.
The alarm on his phone woke him the next morning, but it wasn’t the usual tone. It had been changed to some kind of pop-music monstrosity. The kind of noise that should have upset him, but it just made him think of Rebecca. Maybe she had changed it? Maybe he changed it himself; he couldn’t remember. He was still fully dressed. He had slept in his clothes. They were now wrinkled beyond what anyone would consider acceptable, which itself was so far beyond what Denis Murphy considered acceptable that it was too extraordinary to be believed. Oddly, it didn’t provoke a reaction from him. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stretched. There was chatter in the kitchen. The Professor, Penny O’Neill and Plasterer sat eating breakfast. It was cereal, actual cereal of the kind he himself would eat every morning rather than their usual fare of shredded newspaper and dish soap. Deano huddled in the corner, head down; he barely seemed to be alive. As Denis walked into the room, he saw a place had been set for him. His bowl was filled to the brim with the contents of the vacuum cleaner with water dripping down the side. All eyes were on him as he strode past the table and up the stairs. His “breakfast” was still waiting for him when he arrived after showering and dressing.
“Eat up,” Plasterer ordered.
“No,” Denis replied.
“A healthy breakfast is the cornerstone of a productive day, Denis. I would have assumed that you were aware of the dietary importance of early-morning sustenance,” the Professor chimed in.
“I want coffee. And a cigarette,” Denis replied. That was surprising. He hadn’t realized he wanted a cigarette.
“Stop behaving like a child and eat your dust,” Penny O’Neill insist
ed.
Denis ignored her and made toast instead. He didn’t bother buttering it, but choked it down without embellishment. For just a moment he worried they’d take it from him, but Plasterer merely looked amused as he watched Denis wolf down his dry breakfast.
“And what will you do for the day, then?” Plasterer asked.
“I’m going to work,” Denis replied.
“Where?” Plasterer asked.
“Where do you think? In my office.”
“No, I don’t think so, Denis. Not today. We’re having a party in your office for most of the morning, and you’re not welcome to attend. On top of that, it’s not going to be an environment for getting any kind of work done. Best go somewhere else to work.”
“I’m going to work in my office,” Denis replied stubbornly and realized, to his horror, he sounded whiny.
“Tut-tut,” Penny O’Neill chided.
“Stop treating me like a child,” Denis said, asserting himself, and stomped out of the kitchen. He wondered how long this could last. He had done as they asked and driven Rebecca out of the house. Why would they not leave him be now? Why were they being so vindictive?
He turned on his computer and opened the various files that required his attention. He click-clicked on the icons as needed and set about doing a day’s work. Something he had been neglecting recently. For a precious half hour it seemed as though he was going to be left in peace, but soon his mind began to wander and thoughts of Rebecca and Frank and Ollie crept in. He got distracted for a moment and sat, staring into space.
“We were going to let you work,” Plasterer announced from the door. “But since you’re not doing anything anyway...”
The clown strolled into the room and started humming as he scanned the CDs on the wall rack. Penny O’Neill followed after, swaying, as was her manner. The Professor came in too, pushing Deano before him. The fur ball shambled in like a broken dog; he made his way to another corner and curled up yet again. Denis wondered how they had finally managed to break him, and regretted that he hadn’t noticed his only ally sooner. They could have worked together.
“I just got distracted, that’s all. I’ll work, I promise, just please leave me alone.”
“No,” Plasterer told him cheerfully as he selected a Dean Martin CD and put it into the retro-looking sound system.
“Why are you doing this? Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“Why are you doing this? Why won’t you leave me alone?” Plasterer echoed, his tone mocking.
Denis spun in his chair and fixed his eyes on his computer screen, determined that he would get some work done, but it was pointless. The party kicked off around him as the three danced to Rat Pack music. Denis tried to focus as they jeered and mocked him. Every now and then, Plasterer would deliberately bump himself into the back of Denis’s chair, or let a stray elbow glance off Denis’s head. Each time it was a not-so-subtle reminder of the power that the clown held over him. He could beat Denis senseless if he wanted to; he had proven that already. For all that he despised this new version of his housemates, he was still very much afraid of what they could do to hurt him if they wanted to.
After three hours of struggling to work, Denis felt his resolve dwindling, before vanishing entirely. He had emailed none of his assigned tasks to his head office. His phone rang. The number that flashed up on the screen was his mother’s. He ignored it. It rang again. This time it was his office. He ignored that too. Around him his housemates sang and danced. He tried hard to ignore them as well, and he had all but given up when the last straw arrived in the form of an email. It was his boss. A boss who barely knew him.
Denis, I’d like to have a chat with you tomorrow. Please be in my office at ten. Regards, Ger.
And that was all he could take. Denis was going to be fired. They had now officially cost him everything. Everything he owned, everything he cared about, everything he wanted was now out of reach to him, because his housemates owned it, didn’t care about it or didn’t want it. He sat on the couch in the living room and rested his chin on his hands. The party continued as they danced all around him singing “You’re Nobody till Somebody Loves You.” Tears stung at his eyes, and he tried to hold them back. He missed Rebecca so very much. A cheer went up from his housemates as the first teardrop fell.
The rest of the day was a blur for Denis, a nonstop series of torment and torture. He got no peace from them, not for a minute. They followed him everywhere. When he tried to go to bed, Plasterer shouted at him that it was his room now. Denis ended up on the couch again. Fully dressed again. When they finally retired for the night, pushing Deano up the stairs before them, Penny O’Neill held back for a minute and watched him. For a long time she had been his only connection to femininity, and he could sense her feeling of betrayal that she’d been replaced by Rebecca. He thought of all the nights that he woke, terrified from some dream or other, to see her sprawled languidly across his bed, or the Sunday evenings after his mother had left when she rested her head in his lap while they watched television. He didn’t miss it. He missed Rebecca. Penny O’Neill’s long look at him was an invitation of sorts. She was asking him to be her pet, a new dynamic to be sure, but at least some connection with his life before Rebecca. He looked away, and that was all the answer she needed.
“You’re pathetic,” she told him, shaking her head.
“I know,” he replied, turning on the couch and curling up.
He didn’t hear her leave the room; he just knew that she was gone. He also knew that what was going on was not sustainable. There was no way he could live like this for long. Something would have to be done, something drastic, but there was no way of knowing what it was. His existence was quickly becoming a source of pain to him. He could try to sell his house, but he knew they’d never let him. He could move out, find a place to rent, but then he’d have to share with others, or face paying a huge rent alone, on top of a mortgage, an idea that was equally unsustainable. He thought about it for a few hours, seeking a way out. There had to be an answer. Eventually his thoughts drifted back to Rebecca. How sad she had looked when she had decided to leave was like a knife cutting at him. He had checked his phone several times during the course of the day to see if she would text him, or call. She didn’t.
He tried to think of happier thoughts, and settled on the memory of her on the first night they had slept together in his house. The curves of her body, and the way she fitted against him perfectly, her soft smooth skin against his as he drifted to sleep. The memory was sweet and painful in equal measures. He held on to it tightly, even as it cut at him.
He felt that there was a solution to this somewhere, but it remained elusive. Some way to make them fall into line, some way to get around them, or through them. Nothing came to him. He spent the entire night struggling to think of how to fix everything. When his alarm went off the following morning, he was wide-awake.
The Professor shambled into the room, looking more dead than usual.
“If I were in your shoes, metaphorically speaking, I’d find this situation unbearable and intolerable. Not many other real people live in a manner such as this. Now, if I were in your shoes literally, I would be proud of how shiny my shoes are. For the former, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes, and in the case of the latter, I’m certainly regretful that I haven’t given shoe care more consideration.”
“It’s as much your fault as it is his,” Denis replied bitterly, refusing to stir from his prone position.
“It’s as much your fault as it is ours,” the Professor countered. “You’d realize that if you gave it some thought. You are responsible for all of this.”
“Why can’t we go back to the way it was?” Denis asked.
“I think if you examine yourself very carefully, you’ll know why, but then, you’ve never been overly fond of introspection, have you? It hurts, so you don’t do it. Eventually you’re going
to have to. It shows you what you’re worth to yourself.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Denis replied.
“Not at the moment you don’t, but since you’re more like the walking dead than I am, you’ll eventually have to look at what your life is worth. In that moment, you’ll turn inward and you’ll see what you’ve failed to see for six, maybe even seven years now. Will it be everything you secretly fear it will be? Or will it be hope? Will you see something that gives you reason to fight? If I were the kind to lay a wager, and I am, I’d guess that you’ll look at what’s left of your rotting mind and find nothing of value. Maybe that’s just because I am who I am.”
Denis looked at him for a moment or two. Noting the ruined face and exceptionally well-tailored suit, which was just a little bit too wrinkly. He had been wrong about his shoes too. They were shining.
“Why do you hate me?” Denis asked him after a long pause.
“What’s not to hate?” the Professor shot back.
From the kitchen the sound of loud guffawing could be heard. Plasterer’s loud guffawing to be precise.
“What’s not to hate indeed?” he chimed in.
Denis found the spark of anger inside himself. He stood up suddenly.
“Going somewhere?” the Professor asked.
“I’m going for a walk,” Denis replied.
“You do that,” Plasterer interjected, now standing in the doorway. “Go out among your people. They just love you. You can hug them all and pick flowers out of the dirt and pretend that you’re one of them. They’ll know you’re not, but you can pretend all the same.”
It was the tone that hurt, not the thought of the people. Plasterer had chosen his words carefully for maximum impact; he wanted to remind Denis that he disliked being among people. He wanted his words to stir a fear in Denis that he may have to come in contact with other people. What the clown had not realized was that Denis hated being in his own home so much now, that the thought of being among people was oddly enticing, in a way that it hadn’t been for some time now. He shrugged off the words and went upstairs to change.
