A Savage Comedy

Words' Worth

There is a clap of thunder outside, shaking the heavens open long enough for a flash of divine light to bathe the street in its glow.  Then there is another clap.  Staring at it for too long is starting to make my eyes hurt.  Blobs of black are beginning to cloud my vision.  I'd look away, but that would mean looking at the empty piece of lined paper before me on my desk.  Leave it to me to leave everything to the last minute.  I could be outside among the bolts of lightning, hopping through puddles on the street, but I am confined to the peeling walls and dull hardwood floors that enclose my room.

I see that Kambree is calling me.  Again.  I ignore her and hope it'll be the last time she tries to get a hold of me.  I wonder if I even told her that I was busy all day.

Thunder once more.  The house shakes in its presence.  It can make my home quake, and I cannot write to save my own life.

I groan.  "I'd sell my soul for a good story."  I have a habit of mumbling nonsense to myself when I'm behind in my work.  I laugh at myself.

The wind suddenly picks up outside.  Almost too suddenly.  I see a few branches snapping, but nothing too large.  I know better.  The worst is yet to come.  Last summer downdrafts destroyed the park.  I make sure the windows in my room are shut tight and get back to distracting myself from the one thing I need to do.

There is a knock at the front door.  I shrug it off.  I don't know who it could be, but I'm not going to waste more time.  I pick up my pen for the umpteenth time and doodle another stick figure in the margin as I search my mind for a title.  For anything.  There's another knock and I crumple my paper into a ball and hurl it across the room at its predecessors; and reach for a successor in my drawer.

The knocking goes on for five minutes, as does my doodling.  Eventually, I have enough of it and rise from my desk.

The wind is still strong outside.  I sometimes wished that this house hadn't fallen into my possession, but it is in better hands with me than anyone else my grandmother could have left it to.  Unfortunately, my cousins were preparing to take me to court over my pending decision to remove our great-great grandfather's grave from the backyard.  He had been a writer.  Like me.

I throw the door open, but am only greeted by a sheet of rainwater being thrown into my face.  I cannot see anyone through the storm.  There are no cars on the street.  I squint to see through my wet glasses and can spot a few neighbour kids across the street with their noses pressed against the window; fascinated by the display.

I drag myself back to my room and vow that I will not be distracted again.

I find someone else in my room and take that vow back.

There is a man sitting at my desk, as I was before; looking out the window with his back to the door, my ruined paper in front of him.  He is wearing a dusty black suit that is one size too big.  From behind him, I see that he is pale and old.  He has no hair on his head, but I spot something on his neck that looks like a tattoo in black ink.  Writing, perhaps, but I can't make out what it says.

"Who the fuck are you?" I ask from the doorway.

The old man sighs, but doesn't turn around the face me.  "Didn't your mother teach you that it was a sin to swear, Tynan?"  He has a voice that sounds like it was dug out of a gravel pit years ago, then aged by years of smoking and a few bouts of strep throat.

"How do you know my name?"  I step into my room and shift towards the closet, for the gun I'd told Kambree I buried years ago.  "How did you get in my house?"

"There's no need to reach for weapons.  That gun won't do you much good."

"Who are you?"

He stands up and turned around to reveal his identity.  I don't know him.  He's well-aged, at least sixty-five, and has bulging gray eyes that seem to pierce my chest like a rusty kitchen knife.  I instinctively take a step back.  He takes a step towards me.