Room

4. The Yellow Parlor

(updated to Feb. 16, 2015 on the decanter/at the end)

There was something about nudity that drew the eye, even if it concerned one's own gender. The not-quite-middle-aged, black-haired, scruffy-faced man was sprawled on a white divan heavily embroidered in yellow flower, butterfly, and bird designs. One leg was crooked over the armrest nearest Eryx—apparently, Eryx had just missed bumping into the man's foot instead of the furniture—and the man's back and shoulders were scrunched against the other end. On his belly rested a sewing kit with threads in a variety of colors. In his chest, right over the heart several dark yellow stitches had been started. The other end of the mustard-colored thread lead to a needle pinched between the man's dirty fingers.

Perhaps it was due to all that come before, or all that was still happening, but it took Eryx a moment to realize what it meant.

The naked man was sewing up his own chest.

With needle and thread.

When there was nothing to sew up.

The only blood came from the stitches and needle.

After that, a lot of realizations hit Eryx at once, and he was no longer certain which room was worse. The Yellow Parlor with its naked—muscular—stitcher or hallway with creeping creature scratching at the door.

The thing he'd fled was acting unrelentingly at the door.

The thing he'd found . . . was moving, swinging his leg down, dropping the needle to point his hand like a gun. "That's my clothes." The surprised expression was long gone, having settled into lines of hard anger.

So with that, Eryx suspected the rooms, and their occupants, were equally bad, and he backed up.

The man gained his feet as Eryx's back hit the door. His hat fell off, hit the wood floor, and rolled between the angry advancer and cringing him.

"You hear me? That's my clothes." The forgotten thread and needle dangled from the man's chest, swaying as his long legs strode across the small swathe of yellow carpet under the furniture. "That's my clothes."

Once the man's foot struck the patch of uncovered wood floor, Erxy's hand grasped the door handle, but he didn't turn it. Instinct wouldn't make that choice, and he had no way to overpower it right now.

The man was one stride away. The needle bounced as he lunged—

"That's my clothes!"

—and slammed his hands on either side of Eryx's head, taking the decision from him. The scrambling at the door was nearly as loud as the man' fury. Eryx turned his head, closed his eyes, as the man leant in close. "That's my clothes! Gimme back my clothes!" the man shouted into his ear. Both noises rattled any thoughts, especially those of movement, from his head. "That's my—"

Then the shouting cut off, and there was just breathing warm and copper-smelling breath puffing against his cheek. That give instinct time to think shattered thoughts: open your eyes—he did—ball up your hand—he did, both of them, because the inner voice wasn't being specific—no, stupid, you're too close—new plan—

"You hear that, Boy?"

The furious scratching had never stopped. If anything, it was more excited than ever. Eryx didn't care. Instinct had come through at last, whispering dirty fighting techniques into his inner ear, and that Eryx liked. So he raised his knee to stomp down on the man's bare toes.

Too late.

The man backed up, hands lifting from the door, no longer trapping Eryx. "You hear that? You hear—what you done? What you done?!" The man was a couple feet distant now.

Punch now? Eryx lowered his knee, and his fists tightened.

Naked Stitcher's gaze dropped toward them. Then his eyes widened in—that's not surprise, that's fear. Over what? Over something, for Stitcher crushed the hat as he stepped back, tripped over it, but he only kicked it aside, as he turned and ran across the room, dodging his reclining spot, heading for the door opposite the one Eryx was pressed against still, that was vibrating against him with the fury of unrelenting claws. Within in seconds, Stitcher had slung the door open and ran.

The thudding of Erxy's heart, having in the last moment almost drowned out that noise behind him, now began to slow. His fists twitched as fear's flow began to recede. The man had fled. In fear. Over what?

The answer was obvious, over the door.

No—Eryx remembered the man's eyes and where they had gazed—he fled because of you.

Something about himself had scared the other man.

The man who had left bloody holes in Eryx's borrowed clothing.

The man who had been eager to have them back.

The man who had been stitching up nonexistent wounds in his chest with yellow thread.

The man who had . . .

Eryx looked down at his hands. The right was stained and slick with black ink.

Ink from the creature scrambling at the door, wanting in.

But even that reminder didn't cause much more than a few skipped beats of his heart. The time for paralysis had passed; now was the time for action.

So Eryx stalked across the floor, pausing to swipe the hat from the floor and punch out the flattened parts (with his clean hand) and don it. Then, finding an antimacassar (white with traces of gold) on the floor beneath the man's makeshift leg rest, he snatched it up the decorative cloth and its matching kin from the back of the sofa cushion and other armrest. Further looking around turned up a liquor cabinet and a small stoppered decanter of bright yellow liquid. He opened it, sniffed, and nodded over tell-tale scent of spirits, even if he didn't recognize the type. So, he took that as well, poured some on the crocheted material, and began cleaning up the mess on his hand. As he did so, he stalked across the room, thinking, Nice to be the frightening one for once.

A grin broke out on his face. Eryx, the Scary Man, not Eryx, the Scared-Stiff.

And on that heartening thought, Eryx headed out the door, pausing only to shut it and tuck away the decanter in his duster pocket, as he pursued his quarry.