Friday, February 6, 2009

Someone's knocking at the door, somebody's ringing the bell

Friday, February 6, 2009
See me sitting here, typing. Drink to the left, phone to the right. A mindful sink of dishes at my back. Double doors too. This house is heavy with a not silence. It is by no means quiet. Endlessly creaking or weeping. Even when the children are sleeping, even when the missus is out, the sounds still surround. The waning of the heating, the melting of the snow.

My feet are so wet, so cold. The snow, melting, drips down my neck.

These glass double doors behind me lead to what we meaninglessly call the sun room. It has fallen out of favour as an evening haunt, freezing as it always is in winter. Slowly but indefatigably too it fills up with toys and magazines that are not mine, that I never asked for, and that I cannot be bothered to throw out, either in the dead of night or above the inevitable howls of daytime protest. I have been driven out by the cold of the night and the warmth of my children.

Fucking state of the place.

It is dark through these glass doors now and if I glance up and turn in their direction I can see my own reflection but little of the room itself. I glance up. I turn in their direction. I think I see movement.

Slowly, slowly, move more slowly. Slower than that. He's glancing up. He's turning in my direction. Stop. Freeze. Don't even fucking breathe.

Nothing. Just my pallid face and my ridiculous, tied back hair. I go back to my chatting, my tweeting, my excuse for this writing.

It's okay. He's gone back to his writing, his spewing of shit. All those nasty words, all those stinking turds. He pretends that he loves those girls but he don't. He cares about only himself, and his drink and his drugs. Lies are all that he writes. He must surely be writing lies right now, the cunt. And he'll pay. He'll pay. Right now, he'll pay.

I should go to bed. Bodypump in the morning and no way out of it.

He's stretching. He's moving. It has to be now. I have to go fast. Go fast now, go fast. Burst through the door, raise up the knife, drive it down quick. Down through his arm, raise it again. Grab the ridiculous tied back hair, plunge into the pallid face. Ha. Right in the eye.



13 Johns and Janes for the comment whore:

problemchildbride said...

I tweet as well sometimes when I post. It confuses the buggery out of the cat. The kids are never confused though. They know I'm not just a series of clicks and grunts. I wake them and make them tell me so every night, shaking them by their tiny shoulders in the pale moonlight.

francis mahon said...

Fuck! Wow! Reading that is like looking in a mirror!

Conan Drumm said...


But he's not in charge, right?

no change on the diswasher situation?

B said...


gimme a minute said...

We have to get you on Twitter, Sam. You're 'brevity of wit' to steal a phrase, is wasted in my comment box.

Francis Mahon:
You might want to adjust your VDU settings.

No one's in charge is the problem.

Dishwasher is working, though only temporarily I feel.

You put my in my mind of the Pratchett character in 'Pyramids' who begins every sentence with the last word of phrase used by the person with whom he's talking.

Twenty Major said...

At the end of every day I drive through the city of Charleston and I cross the bridge that will take me home. I feel the words building inside me, I can't stop them, or tell you why I say them, but as I reach the top of the bridge these words come to me in a whisper. I say these words as a prayer, as regret, as praise, I say: Nonny, Nonny.

RedLeeroy said... me a favor, open the door and let 'em in.

fatmammycat said...

Dear Lord, please tell me it wasn't a scrunchie. Anything but that.

grimsaburger said...

Dear Lord, please tell me it WAS a banana comb, all the better to douchebag-fauxhawk it out.

fatmammycat said...

HAW! I had one of those one, I could do Mr T impression with it. Not very good one obviously.

Sarah Gostrangely said...


I had a similar experience looking in the mirror. Freakin' freaked me out.

Back to the hospital for me so.

gimme a minute said...

Twenty Major:
You know what? I fucking love Pat Conroy and his big dramatic sentences.

I knew I should have snuck a chicken or two in there.

Red Leeroy:
Yes, indeed.

I didn't see you completing 'fingering his pale blue Japanese guitar.'

As I suspect you are aware, the horror is often in what is not revealed.

I'm going to want to see this impression at some point.

I love when it becomes all about my hair.

Sarah Gostrangely:
It's going to be odd to have you commenting at a godly hour.

Yes, off back you go.

B said...

I was just feeling left out of all the laughing

AAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH! why does everyone keep mentioning Terry Pratchett to me? Do I have to read him to find out some secret or something?

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