Chapter 1

Chapter 1

‘Tick, tick, tick’.

A ceramic plate wall clock adorned with a gaudy painting of a flamboyant French noble hangs disconcertingly on a shoddily hammered plywood nail; it is obviously the work of an apathetic amateur. The French nobleperson rhythmically contorts its arms clockwise; bones popping loudly with every segment of the endless rotations. In the next room over, a brass bed (obviously discontented with the wall it has been placed against) rams itself repeatedly against the plaster fiend.

Not to be outdone by the melodramatic bed and its invidious antics, the flaming aristocrat now snaps its arms with purpose; emphasising every crack and pop of every joint and bone in its arms. The bed notices the disgruntled ticking of the French clock and becomes agitated; it pounds the wall harder, its legs screeching across the distressed tile floor.  It begins to moan as a mezzo-soprano and grunt as a tenor.  The bed hurls itself into the wall, determined to burst a hole in the plaster motherfucker

The wall begins to shake, and as the nail begins to shimmy in its frayed hole, the aristocratic clock becomes concerned. The clock snaps its arms sporadically, contorting itself in the hopes of alerting the brass bed of the impending consequences of its actions.

But the bed cannot be bothered by the trivial worries of a frog; a vendetta must be resolved. The moans of the bed are becoming increasingly intense, as is the force with which the bed is colliding with the wall. Its rails are glowing red with rage; the sight of the abhorred slab of repugnant plaster stirs up feelings of pure, concentrated hate unseen since the late Germanic 1930s.  Every collision against the wall shakes the building with the force of a magnitude seven earthquake.

Panic strikes the Aristocrat, who is now dangling on the end of the nail. In one last desperate attempt of self-preservation, the Aristocrat ceases to contort its arms; but after a few moments it is clear that all hope is lost. As the bed’s moaning climaxes, the nail frees itself from its plaster confines, and the French aristocratic clock hurtles towards its tiled demise. With the sound of shattered ceramics filling the air, the brass bed feels a sense of accomplishment and overwhelming relief, and decides to make amends with the wall and call a truce.

‘What the fuck was that?’

‘What?’

‘You didn’t hear that? I think there’s someone in the kitchen...’

Leslie struggles to sit up; strained back joints crack and pop in relief.

‘I heard a sound, like something was smashed in the kitchen.’

Leslie reluctantly swings hir feet off the smug brass bed and lazily shuffles out of the bedroom. As s/he begrudgingly makes hir way towards the kitchen in question, s/he examines the irony of the situation; the stranger s/he invited into hir house is worried about the possibility of a stranger being in the house. Leslie crosses the threshold of the kitchen and places hir hand on the wall to hir right. As hir hand searches for the light switch, s/he thinks about how cool to the touch the wall is at night; s/he decides s/he enjoys this sensation. Hir fingers locate the light-switch and they flip it on; light quickly chases away the darkness and claims the kitchen for itself. Leslie walks through the light’s newly claimed territory, hir eyes searching for any potential source of a smashing noise; it doesn’t take hir long to notice the ceramic clock that now lays on the floor, defeated and in a thousand pieces. S/he releases a sigh of exasperation, not of disappointment; s/he never liked that clock. Hir eyes now search for the dustbin; s/he spots it leaning beside the table and quickly sweeps up the French shards, dumping them in the wastebasket.

With a quick flip of the light switch, darkness reclaims the kitchen with a vengeance. Leslie walks back through the kitchen and digs hir hand into the left pocket of hir jacket which hangs on the back of a chair, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. With a sudden slight tingle of happiness and excitement, s/he sits on the kitchen table; hir fingers swiftly open the pack and pull out a cigarette. With a subtle grind and a flicker of light, s/he burns the tip of hir cigarette; its contents now glow ember red. S/he inhales slowly, allowing the smoke to collect in the back of hir throat. S/he lies back on the table and sprawls out; as s/he exhales the smoke, s/he thinks about the warmth s/he feels in hir throat in contrast to the cold sensation of the table on hir bare skin.

S/he allows neuself to indulge in a few more drags before sitting up and hopping off the table; cigarette in hand, s/he walks out of the kitchen. S/he takes a few drags from hir cigarette while walking down the hallway towards the bedroom; hir bare feet slapping the cold floor with each step. S/he enters the bedroom with an apathetic swiftness.

‘You were gone a long time, is everything okay?’

Leslie walks past the brass bed and flicks hir cigarette at the stranger; it lands on hir bare stomach.

‘What the fuck!’ the stranger frantically slaps at the cigarette, subsequently pushing the embers deeper into hir flesh. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

Leslie picks up the stranger’s clothing and walks out of the bedroom, stopping at the apartment door.  ‘Get out!’

The stranger gets out of the bed and hesitantly walks towards the now open door. Still naked, Leslie walks out of the apartment and towards the elevators on the far end of the hallway. The stranger follows closely behind hir, muttering agitatedly whilst trying to hide hir exposed body. Leslie however, walks down the hallway with an apparent swagger; s/he doesn’t seem to be concerned by hir nudity whatsoever.

Leslie stops in front of a set of buttons and presses the one bearing a “down” arrow. Seconds pass and the elevator dings; the doors open and reveal an elderly person with a quad cane. Leslie tosses the nude stranger’s clothing in front of the wide-eyed senior, who is now shaking despite the thick shawl draped across hir pointy shoulders and hunched back.

The stranger lunges after hir clothing, colliding with the decrepit senior. The senior yelps as s/he is tackled onto hir back, the stark-naked stranger unintentionally pinning hir to the elevator floor.

The elevator dings as Leslie walks away, the doors closing behind hir, encasing the naked stranger and the elder in a sinking box. Leslie heads back towards hir apartment, the carpet muffling every bare-footed step.

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Its orange scales shimmer like brilliant carnelian in the blaring light of the afternoon sun. Surrounded by aqua s/he hovers, idly courting the deep sea diver; bubbles playfully escaping from hir pursed lips. Suddenly a shadow is cased over the blue gravel that lays beneath hir, followed by a sudden turbulence. Without warning s/he is jetting through the water, shooting up above hir beloved deep sea diver. Suddenly s/he cannot breathe; s/he gasps for air, but the air is too dry. S/he begins to spasm, flipping and flopping around in what seems to be a canvas bag. S/he looks around; s/he can see large flat stones beneath hir, nothing like the blue gravel s/he has become accustomed to, and nostalgic for. S/he can see a large disc on the wall with a painted-on ambig. S/he tries to cry out for help, but hir pleas are met with a rhythmic ticking.

The canvas bag begins to cave in; s/he topples out of it and onto a sticky piece of plastic. S/he looks around, gasping for air, hir body begging for moisture. Hir eyes meet with those of a giant scaleless creature standing beside hir. S/he begs the creature for water, but after seeing a disconcerting glint in the giant’s eyes, s/he soon realises that hir pleas are futile. S/he struggles to ask the creature why it’s doing what it is doing; s/he asks what s/he has done to deserve the torture s/he is being subjected to. The creature reaches over hir and retrieves a second sheet of plastic, draping it over hir and subsequently cutting off what little oxygen s/he was receiving.  The creature picks hir up and crumples the plastic around hir. The creature then walks towards the bowl of water from which s/he was kidnapped and drops hir into it. S/he lands with a splash; the impact is absorbed by the plastic, unfortunately for hir, the water is not. S/he slowly sinks towards the bottom of the bowl, the plastic traps in the cool temperature of the water surrounding hir. Hir eyes meet with those of the beloved deep sea diver and as hir body nestles into the blue gravel, s/he says goodbye.

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Leslie’s eyes snap open and s/he props neuself up quickly and begins gasping for air. S/he is covered in sweat and there is a dark damp spot on the mattress where hir back was laying. When hir breathing begins to return to normal s/he glances at hir alarm clock; the time is 2.47 AM. After deciding that s/he’s gotten all the sleep s/he is going to be getting, Leslie exhaustedly swings hir feet out from under the blankets and steps out of bed. Still recovering from sleep, s/he clumsily makes hir way out of the bedroom and into the dark hallway. S/he walks towards the kitchen but enters a door to the left nearly adjacent to the kitchen, and reaches out in front of hir, pulling on a string and subsequently filling the room with light. The room is wallpapered with photographs and an intricate web of red yarn.

Leslie walks across the room, which is slightly bigger than hir bedroom, and sits down at a dark brown desk. S/he pulls open the top left drawer of the desk and retrieves a half-empty bottle of scotch as well as a pack of unfiltered Kools. S/he removes the cap from the scotch and sits it on the desk. Digging through the drawer, s/he finds a pack of matches and proceeds to light a cigarette that s/he retrieved from the pack. S/he takes a long drag of the cigarette and inhales, letting the nicotine-rich smoke fill hir lungs. S/he holds it in, leans back in the chair and exhales, letting the smoke escape from hir nostrils. S/he leans her head back and looks around the room, following the intricate crimson trails running along the walls, stopping at photographs like destinations along a railway.

With a thud Leslie sets the front two legs of the chair back on the ground and stands up; taking the bottle of scotch in hir free hand, s/he slowly paces around the room. Leslie studies the trail of photographs as s/he has done in the past. S/he takes swigs of the scotch in between purposeful drags of hir cigarette, letting the ash fall where it may. S/he’s studied these photographs hir entire life; they were taken and arranged by hir parents when s/he was very young.

Hir parents were private investigators; they were investigating the death of a twenty-one year old. The death was declared a suicide, but the family was convinced otherwise, claiming their deceased relative was murdered, more specifically; assassinated. Leslie’s parents were very close to solving the case when the trail became cold. Seven of their leads went missing, six of which turned up dead; all were recorded as suicides by the authorities.

Leslie spent over two years tracking down the last missing lead. S/he revisited each location hir parents recorded in the files, and spoke to every living lead on the wall. After nearly three years Leslie finally had an idea of where the missing lead may be found. It turned out that the victim being investigated was in talks with a close college acquaintance about providing some financial aid in the purchase of an old theatre; this fact seemed quite irrelevant, until Leslie noticed that the theatre was at one point in time owned by a moderately successful producer, whose child inherited it after hir death. The child was an arrogant gambler and one day ended up putting the theatre down as collateral after taking out a loan with a few notorious sharks. The child couldn’t pay the loan, and the theatre was sold multiple times afterwards. The child ended up paying the loan back through services to the mafia; after the loan and interest was paid back s/he became a mole for the authorities; this particular mole was one of the ‘missing leads’ who turned up dead, not only that, s/he was the second cousin of the last lead.

Leslie takes a swig of the scotch and goes to put the cigarette to hir lips, only to notice that s/he has smoked it down to a nub. S/he flicks it away and retrieves a fresh one from hir pack, lights it up, and carries on hir ritual smoke-drink pattern.

S/he looks at the mantle clock ticking away on the desk; it’s 2.59.

‘Time is passing by slowly tonight’ s/he mutters to neuself.

S/he puts the cigarette between hir lips and uses hir free hand to pick up the chair and place it in front of the photograph of the prophetical theatre. S/he stares at the theatre; the second hand of the clock ticking away behind hir, the sound emanating through hir ear canal, gradually making its way into hir frontal lobe.

The clock strikes three.

A chime dings thrice, and a jolt surges through Leslie’s spinal cord. S/he quickly gets to hir feet and walks out of the office, ripping the photograph of the theatre off the wall as s/he exits. S/he enters the bedroom and pulls open a chest of drawers. S/he retrieves a black pair of denim pants and a tight black vest; s/he puts them both on. S/he then pulls on a pair of socks and walks to the front door of hir apartment. Leslie slides on a pair of black leather ankle boots and puts on hir jacket; as s/he opens the front door to leave, s/he shoves the photograph of the theatre into the pocket of the grey trench-coat.