The smoke sifts like a snake –
Bending in a wind that cannot be felt.
Dancing to a song that cannot be heard.
Shivering through a spiral that cannot be seen.
There is no such thing as the line. It cannot be crossed; it does not exist. It is a spiral – one you slide down the first time you question a personal moral choice. I ride that spiral…
It has no definite beginning, middle, or end. I say this as someone who managed to slip off only to be snatched once more.
That’s what it does. It encases you. A key dangles from your finger but its jingle is all you hear. A saviour is in arm’s reach but all you see are shades.
Like a cocoon it transforms you, day-by-day, night-by-night, bit-by-bit. A mirror never finds you, as long as your knuckles are covered in blood and broken glass. But the voices – they never leave. They can’t ever leave, so long as you remain.
How they pretend to be your friend, whispering coaxes no friend would ever suggest. They offer you a piece of cake for a stomach ache and then tell you eating more will make you feel better. And this cake never ends. You never eat enough to please the voices. More slices continue to appear; the cake gets bigger, thicker, richer. Until all you see is cake. Everywhere: cake, cake, cake. It is no longer pink, pretty, fluffy. It is green, rotten, diseased. And it surrounds you. Shoves itself down your throat. Chokes you. Devours you.
* * *
My spiral started when I was seventeen, although back then it looked more like a carousel – bright lights and happy faces. No one had sad eyes, cracked lips, broken dreams. Smiles never stopped; boredom was our friend. The world was our buffet and our stomachs could never be filled. Jobs were for those that had buried fun: education for those that couldn’t think for themselves.
Our brains were stuck in high school, because for us it had never really started nor had it ended. Real life was a dream we talked about like a movie – we were going to watch it eventually but just hadn’t gotten round to it.
The first time I tried weed was in a friend’s caravan, camped outside the front of a house. He knew the owner and had an arrangement. This was his home: a crumbled bed, television set straight out of hard rubbish, and an abundance of dope.
I had known this friend – let’s call him Lockie – for most my life. Our parents met attending a gathering for divorced ex-wives, and whilst in the children’s area – both of us around six at the time – we sparked a friendship and continue it to this day. Unfortunately, due to circumstances at home, at the age of sixteen he was forced to leave his nest and find a place in the real world. Along the road he met a collection of characters – a lot of them users of weed. And just like a garden of thorns, when surrounded by them long enough you are bound to prick yourself eventually.
He fell off the radar for months at a time, generally having no phones where he stayed (or any other means of communication). The few times we caught up he would tell me stories of the road – the people he had met, the places he had stayed, the things he had seen. After awhile though, something seemed different about him.
His eyes seemed hollow; his voice – muffled in an apathetic coating. The words he spoke seemed lazy, as if they had barely slipped out his mouth. Eventually his stories became tangled, barely coherent. He would laugh at pauses or jokes that only he had heard. Lockie had always been a strange boy, but I had never seen him like this. It should have scared me. It should have been a warning as red as his bloodshot eyes.
But I took the bong in Lockie’s outstretched hand, brought the lighter to the cone-piece, and sucked down a cloud of smoke to erase everything I had just thought about.
This was it… the feeling I was after… I was completely… numb… My head was so light yet felt like a stone, bobbing from side to side. My entire body breathed relaxation. My arms, fingers, legs, toes, tingled like happy fireworks. Everything was beautiful… Nothing mattered… No one mattered… My soul had been unchained, and all it wanted to do was dance in silence. How it felt… I will never forget that first feeling… that first rush… that first moral choice… faded…
* * *
What brought me to do such a thing, you might ask? I could give you a few of the easy, boring answers: boredom, depression, curiosity, acceptance – but the real reason was rebellion (at least at first). My father hated a lot of things: weed and homosexuals among them. And seeing as I had no interest in the same sex, the option of smoking weed seemed passable.
My father had never been what you’d call a dad to me – even though I was forced to call him so. By the time he met my mother he was an ex-Vietnam veteran and had two other wives he’d seen to the courthouse – both having left him because of his physical violence. Whatever Mum saw in him, she did. But just like the others she eventually saw his bad side. Yet, she stayed. And then I came into the picture.
All the shouting, yelling, screaming, kicking, punching, smashing, banging, crashing, slamming didn’t stop when I was born. It only worsened. Up until seven years old it was all I heard at night – causing me to develop a nasty habit of sleeping with the bed sheets pulled over my head (to block out the noise – and in my childish rationalisation: protect me).
That was the portrait of my father.
Growing up he offered lessons such as: say “no” to drugs, never ever turn gay, money is life’s most important virtue, and always obey the law. That is why I ventured into the home of Mary Jane, did not care for authority, and never much regarded money.
If you hadn’t already gathered, my father was an intimidating man. I could not simply stand up to him. So this was my way of expressing myself; of venting every bad feeling I brewed inside. This was my way of saying: “hey, Dad… FUCK YOU!”
* * *
I visited Lockie at least once every week for the time he stayed in that caravan. Sometimes I would bring a friend, mostly I came alone. Lockie never minded either way. He was generous like that. Just happy for some company to drag him out of his thoughts, as long as we didn’t pinch too much of his smoke.
Eventually, the wind swept him away once more, and I was left not-high and dry. The days toyed with my mind. Every time I would see someone smoke weed on TV or hear about it in a song I would think back to my time spent in Lockie’s caravan; long for it.
* * *
There is something stoners recognise in each other – a sixth sense they possess that notices the behaviour of a fellow smoker. Before I was smoking heavily, the school-smokers already had me on their radar. They saw my slumped shoulders, tired eyes, uncaring attitude, and chilled demeanour – and thought, bingo!
It wasn’t long before they befriended me, offering me bags of dope in their handshakes – at a price of course. At first I was hesitant. There was a big difference (in my mind) from taking drugs to actually purchasing them. But I longed for that lost feeling, that feeling I thought I’d never get again until I saw an old, dear friend.
I agreed to meet Joe – the head of the school stoner pack – at his house after school. “Everyone who smokes comes round,” he said. “Mum doesn’t mind…” No, she certainly didn’t. I didn’t know what to think when I arrived to see Marie – Joe’s mum – sitting on the couch with a bong pressed against her lips, surrounded by my fellow students. I had entered a brand new world: one that redefined morals, beliefs, and perspective. One that redefined… me…
* * *
I spent every Friday after school at Joe’s house. Soon that turned into three times a week, to every second day, until I was skipping school all the time to visit Joe’s array of endless smiles. It was all I could think about. And it buried every problem: trouble at school, fights at home, self-esteem, girl problems, depression. As long as I was around those guys with a bong in my hand, I was content.
Eventually high school ended, but nothing seemed to change. I was the only one that had gotten into uni – but it was a course that didn’t require an ENTER, and I dropped out after a year. No one really went anywhere. They just floated around. And I liked that. It gave me security knowing none of these people would disappear into the lights of Hollywood or wear a suit into Wall Street.
It was ambition Limbo. No one ever spoke about the future, only the night ahead. Jobs bought dope and booze – they weren’t much good for anything else. People in the circle rotated so only two to three of us would actually work at a time. The rest would just leech until one of us got fired, then the rotation would switch, repeat.
This was how we lived in the world with minimal interaction. Reality was not something we liked to face often. Why do you think we were smoking in the first place? Even going to parties made us feel out of sync. Everyone would be drinking, laughing, talking about their courses and plans for the future. We couldn’t relate on any scale, until the topic of weed came up of course. That was the difference between a casual smoker and us. They could join in the festivities and then go about their lives. For us it was just about time. Something we had been waiting a few minutes – or hours – too long for. The only reason we even shared was to appear normal – another lie to the world: “we’re not addicted. Look, we pass it around!”
That’s the worst thing about weed. How normal you can seem. How you can carry on with this addiction gnawing at your back and not even a single soul notices. They just assume you’re tired (I’ve used this excuse many times when stoned – especially to my father). Unlike heroin, where your struggle is impossible to be ignored, weed is a light drug that isn’t considered serious. In fact, when I came out of a weeklong stay at a halfway house – my first attempt to quit, all of my friends laughed at me when they heard where I had been. “You went into rehab for weed? Is that even possible? That’s like going to rehab for cigarettes! How weak are you?” Needless to say I moved on from these friends and began my journey to get clean. With the help of a drug counsellor I lasted six months, which at the time was very impressive to me.
* * *
My old friends kept calling, asking where I’d been and why I hadn’t been round. They all said they missed me, but I didn’t see what was to miss – by the end of my stay with them I barely spoke, and the few words that did come out were always related to smoking.
But it wasn’t just the old crew that called. The voices also came creeping back, crawling on their bellies, hissing insecurities: “It’s been six months, your life has barely changed. Is this really worth it? Come back to us, Paul. You need to!”
I gave in, unable to take their nagging any longer. I told myself it was a reward for being good and that it’d be a once off. That was the first brick of a barely built wall coming down.
Joints at parties became okay – it was just a social smoke. Smoking at friends was fine – I hadn’t paid for it. Smoking alone wasn’t a problem – it was just on weekends…
After all – I had been to rehab: I was cured…
* * *
Again I was in a haze of smoke, surrounded by my fellow stoners, not quite sure what had happened. It felt like I had sleepwalked back into a nightmare. The thought of rehab became a distant dream; I lost all contact with my counsellor – ashamed to face her; and fell right back into my escapist wonderland.
No one treated me like an addict, because I wasn’t in their eyes. None of us were. We were just a group of psychedelic explorers who didn’t need or care for the world: we just needed each other and a few hits of the bong to keep us happy – and by happy I mean disillusioned.
About this time I noticed a change within myself: despair was rising. Because I had quit – and failed – the possibility of escaping this mess fell into a razor-wire tunnel. I would never make it through without a pair of fucking big wire cutters, and I could spot none in sight.
So I accepted my fate and continued to waste my brain cells day-after-day, night-after night, bit-by-bit.
* * *
My mum was sick of me by now. Sick of my self-destruction, my apathy, and my “wasted creativity”. She said if I didn’t do something with my life I would be kicked out. She refused to watch me slowly kill myself in front of her, as she put it. Well, being homeless wasn’t an option for me. I could barely scrape enough bucks together to feed my addiction, yet alone worry about feeding myself. So I reluctantly followed her wishes.
Having destroyed my Year 12 results to a lack of care left me with few choices. I tried enrolling as a late-age uni student, but was rejected, so turned my sights to a Tafe education.
One of the few things I did enjoy in school had been writing. In my old rock band I was the lyricist, and during my free time wrote short stories – some even placing in a few competitions.
I found a home in Holmesglen, deciding to undertake a course in creative writing. The distraction of work seemed to be effective for a time until I bumped into an old friend I had shared a circle with once before.
Of course the topic of weed came up, but not my recovery. We spoke about the good times, the joy of smoking, and our current habits. I don’t know why I wasn’t stronger. It was like someone spoke for me.
“Yeah, I’m still smoking,” I said.
“Awesome,” my friend replied. “Feel like catching up and having a sesh’ sometime?”
“Sure.” Wait… what? “I’m free Thursday night?” Why am I saying this?
“Ace. I’ll catch you then.”
And that was that. Back on the bandwagon I hopped, ordering the horses to be whipped at full speed.
* * *
A counsellor at rehab once said to me, “When someone wants to quit… they will…” But that never seemed to relate to me. It seemed to contradict my definition of addiction.
People don’t become addicted to things they hate; it’s the things they adore that hook them. And why would you want to quit something you adore? Sure, the cons might start to outweigh the pros, but it’s not that simple. Addicts don’t share the same mind-frame as most. Logic is twisted. An addict can trek halfway across the city to score drugs but can barely be assed slumping off the couch to grab the TV remote.
I know all the dangers of smoking weed: I’m living/breathing some of them. I know the stupidity that goes into willingly killing brain cells. And yet I do it every day.
A part of me hopes by putting my blood on paper that I will no longer feel apathetic about shedding it. But I am long since past trying to predict my strength and resolve. I am now mentally and physically addicted to this toxic plant, it’s thorns deep under my skin.
I do not cry pity. I do not seek attention. I just crave for a glimmer of hope. To see an end to this gun-heavy battle. Because the smoke pouring out of every weapon… is the only thing I see…
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Thursday, December 3, 2009
SHORT STORY - CURSOR
CURSOR
A SHORT STORY BY PAUL NICHOLAS
The computer screen flickered. A sharp, annoying, buzzing flicker that called to me like a whisper. In the quiet of my one room apartment, in the darkened space I sat. It flickered. I stared.
I was lonely this particular night, as any man who works alone gets. I was a writer, you see, an aspiring one of course. Halfway through my first-to-be-novel. I had barely seen sunshine in the last six months. Not due to fear of it, but due to my dedication. I refused to rest until my book was bound and complete, I would not stop until its words had hit the street. So I got lonely. On this night. Every night.
During one of my hourly breaks, I came across an interesting site that went by the name Cursor. It was a chat room, it seemed, a place for singles to meet. But this was like no dating site I had ever come across. There was no place to input a username or password, no browsing function, no advertisements, nothing. It simply displayed an ENTER button with the quote “Cursor: Plenty of rooms, plenty of chances” underneath.
I was not a foolish man. But I was not a coward. A mysterious website only had the potential of installing a virus onto my computer, and for that I was prepared. I had plenty of anti-virus software to combat an easily squashed web-bug, so, allowing stupidity to cloud itself as curiosity, I clicked.
What appeared both scared and intrigued me. It was multiple shots of empty apartments, all at different angles – like some sort of security coverage – yet none revealed occupants. They were so similar that for all I knew it could’ve been the same place. Empty rooms all looked like clones, speaking with the same voice until given one of their own through furniture, and these rooms were no different. Except – for whatever reason – they pulled me to watch. Pulled me to click. Pulled me to choose. It was my own ‘what’s behind door number one?’ and I was not going to walk away forever wondering which I would’ve picked and what would’ve happened. Consequences died in the arms of curiosity, hushed by two words ‘what if…’ And rational thought soon joined their burial, leaving carelessness to roam free in my fingers.
CLICK!
I chose door number three.
A plain white screen appeared with a small grey box that had just one word – Name – and a vertical line that blinked at me. I typed each letter on the keyboard as the line pushed out my input: T E D and then hit ENTER.
I was taken to a chat room, but it was empty. My name was the only one displayed on the side bar, and there seemed to be no words filling up the screen. No general chatter. No unnecessary insults. Nothing.
Bored already, I dragged my cursor to the corner and was about to click the exit cross when a little ding sounded, and the announcement Natalia has joined flashed across the screen. She greeted me right away.
Natalia: Hello, how are you?
I was disappointed to be honest. All this build up, all this mystery, to just climax at ‘hello, how are you?’ This was just another standard chat site. Worse, in fact. It had no design, no creativity, and from the looks of it, next to no users. But I was lonely. And I did like Russian girls – especially their accents – so I decided to amuse this random guest, and myself, by seeing where the conversation went.
Ted: Not bad. Just a little lonely and looking for someone to talk to.
Natalia: Me too. I haven’t had a boyfriend in so long and thought I’d give this site a try.
I could picture her voice, thick and hot, coated in a Russian accent. It was soft, yet husky, reminding me of the Soviet spies James Bond had seduced. The ones with breasts as big as airbags and lips so thick they could’ve swallowed you whole. To me, it was the sound of sexy.
The next thing to enter my head was what she was wearing. No, I’m not a pervert. I’m a writer. I was simply using a tool I possessed – imagination – to increase the believability of this online encounter, and why would you use a hammer when you owned a drill?
All she had on was a black lace bra and panties (okay, maybe I am a little bit of a pervert), and her skin was the perfect shade of cream. In my eyes – in my head – she was a goddess, and she was talking to me.
We started discussing what each did for a living: I told her I was a writer (trying to be) and she told me she was a teacher (studying to become one). From there we went to desires, what we sought in that special someone, why we had been let down before. It was quite therapeutic really. And even though I had never seen Natalia’s face, or truly heard her voice, the connection we shared was undeniable.
Now I’d never done anything like this before, but when she suggested the idea of an ‘online relationship’, I ran with it. Like a dangerous but enthralling sexual position, I ran with it.
Every day for a week I went on the site during my breaks, where Natalia would always be waiting for me in that same empty room. Always the same greeting: ‘Hello, how are you?’ that eventually got on my nerves. Hell, we’d talked enough to greet each other a little more personally, I thought. She could at least come up with something a little more thought-straining than ‘hello, how are you?’
But it was only a small annoyance. And soon I went from just talking to her on my breaks, to talking to her every thirty minutes, to every five minutes, until it was all I did.
I didn’t mind at first. But after another week passed and my novel had not gained a page, yet alone a word, I knew it was time to set some boundaries.
Ted: Look, Natalia. I’ve really enjoyed the chats we’ve had. But this is getting a little too much.
Natalia: I don’t understand? I thought we were getting on really well.
Ted: We are. It’s just… I told you I was a writer. And this novel I’m working on is really important to me. It’s my first. It’s my chance. And I’ve barely touched it since we’ve gotten to know each other. I just think if we didn’t talk… as often it would be a lot better for both of us.
Natalia: Please don’t do this. I’ve never connected with someone like I have with you. I think… Ted… I think I’m in love with you.
There it was. The L bomb. The four letter word that could kill a relationship or set it free. In this case it was the former. That was it. Natalia had crossed the line and was trying to pull me over. I had to either get the hell out of there, or risk being dragged into her obsessive embrace.
I immediately left the chat room. I switched off my computer and walked away. I was done. Finished. Never again would I visit that site. Never again…
* * *
Four nights passed and my novel was flowing once more. I hadn’t thought about Natalia, or the dreaded site she lurked on. All I had on my mind was work: characters, clauses, imagery and style. No other thoughts but the ones that mattered. And I was content. Feeling as if a hypnotist had clicked his fingers and freed me from his trance; a fortnight long escapade that had blinded me from reality.
I was in the middle of my twenty-second chapter when something happened. A message popped up. It was from… Natalia? This couldn’t be. I wasn’t on that site and I definitely wasn’t using any other form of chat program. How had she…?
Natalia: Where have you been, Ted? I’ve missed you…
My skin crawled. Every part of me shuddered. I didn’t even bother to answer. I just reacted. I clicked off the box and resumed my writing, not putting any more thought into what I had seen.
Then came another pop-up.
Natalia: Why are you ignoring me, Ted? Don’t you love me?
I swallowed and then held my breath, until I nearly choked. Now I knew I wasn’t seeing things. How was she doing this? Why was she doing this? I closed the box but this time sat and stared, waiting for the computer to do what I knew it would. But nothing came. No pop-ups. No messages. She was gone.
I wiped my brow and brought my fingers back to the keyboard, only just allowing myself to breathe. I attempted to come back to where I was writing, but it was hopeless. Natalia was all that was on my mind now. Where she was hiding and when she would be back.
Suddenly, my novel vanished off the screen and my email system appeared. My computer opened my address book, selected everyone from my friends to my mum, dad, brother, even my god damn grandma who only checks her emails once a month when her Meals on Wheels ‘smart boy’ comes to visit. There was no message sent. Just a blank page with a file attached titled Open. It was not one of my own, I was certain, and I immediately opened it up not even caring if it was the most malicious virus in the world. My computer was being possessed by Satan.
The first page simply held the words LIFE IS A LIE.
After the title page – and hundreds of pages following – were three words repeated. Over. And over. And over:
TED IS DEAD.
Right before my eyes my bank accounts were accessed and emptied, my credit cards – deleted, my word documents – deleted, all my personal information – deleted.
My screen was flooded with that same damn message I’d come to loath:
Hello, how are you?
Everywhere I looked:
Hello, how are you?
‘No!’ I screamed. ‘No! No! No!’
Every light in my house blew in one giant BANG! as my computer shutdown and short-circuited. I ran to the door. Locked.
‘Help me!’ I cried. ‘Somebody, help me!’
I banged on the door with all I had, until my palms burned red and the wood felt soft.
No answer. Why couldn’t anyone hear me?
‘Somebody! Please! Help me!’
I let my head fall against the door as hopelessness wet my eyes.
‘Fuck… Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’
That’s when I heard her. Not in my head. Not in my imagination. In this very room. I heard her.
‘Hello, how are you?’
No… it couldn’t be… it wasn’t possible… how could…?
Natalia…
She sounded exactly like I imagined – if her voice had been infused with a hive of wasps. And how she looked. Oh God, how she looked… I’d be lying if it wasn’t a resemblance. But her skin. Her skin. It hung from her as if it were stolen from a corpse. Green, rotted, lifeless flesh that was decaying before my very eyes. And her head appeared as if it had been rotted from the inside out by some festering disease that left her with only one eye, which looked right through me.
She smiled. It was more haunting than any words she could’ve spoken. A single smile was all she needed to paralyse every part of me.
She edged forward with a swaggered, stilted walk that made her appear as if all her limbs were broken. I wanted to run. But I couldn’t even flinch a toe.
A voice that sounded like my own came out without thought. ‘Why are you here?’ it shouted. ‘What do you want?’
Her smile extended as did her arms. She didn’t even have to say it. I knew what she wanted…
‘How is this possible?’ I muttered, not expecting an answer. ‘This has to be a dream. I must’ve dozed off at the computer.’
I rubbed my eyes. Opened them. She was still there. Closer than before.
‘Get the fuck away from me!’ I screamed, as I threw an unlit candle from the table. The wick pierced her eye and she didn’t even twitch. She just pulled it out as if it were nothing more than a splinter.
I unglued my feet and headed straight for my room, the deafening cry of Natalia’s scream following me like a demonic nuclear blast.
‘TED!’ she cried. ‘TED, COME BACK!’
I threw a chair against the doorknob as a makeshift barrier. Deep down I knew it wouldn’t hold, but hope – or foolishness – told me I would be all right.
‘TED!’
A thump was heard against the door that came from a fist with strength that did not match its wielder’s appearance. If she had come against Mike Tyson in a fight his career would’ve ended with the headline: ‘Tyson comatosed by zombie bitch from hell’.
‘TED!’
I backed into the furthest corner, watching the door shake as each thump deepened the cracks that had already formed around the rim of the chair.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I screamed. ‘Why me?’
She laughed. A laugh that was so dark, so sinister, I could’ve sworn my heart momentarily stopped beating.
‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, Teddy.’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Open your eyes,’ she snarled. ‘Can’t you even recognise your own apartment?’
She burst into thunderous laughter that shook the walls around me. My lamp smashed, as dirt and plaster sifted from the ceiling, covering me in a coat of smoky powder.
Recognise my own apartment? What was she trying to tell me? What did she mean?
‘You still haven’t figured it out?’ she laughed. ‘It’s okay. You will soon.’
Her fist shattered through the door, fanned into fingers, reached down, and removed the chair. The door creaked open and for a second I thought it might be the last sound I hear. But then came her locust-infested voice.
‘Hello, Ted. How are you?’
I charged at her and screamed. And then. She was gone. Everything was gone. I was in an empty apartment, the same I’d clicked on – door number three – when I’d first entered the website. But this just looked like my apartment, except… empty.
‘Hello, Ted. How are you?’
I turned around, and there she was. Standing in the middle of the room with that same wilted smile.
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘What the hell is going on?’
She nodded towards the computer. It hadn’t been there before, but it was there now, flickering and buzzing in this empty room.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘It has your answers,’ she said.
I approached the computer and sat down. All across the screen were news articles, dated back from over four years ago. They read: Tumour Girl’s online plea for help ignored, Email circulation considered a hoax – girl never saved, and finally, Donation website, Cursor, shutdown.
I finally understood. Natalia. The website. It hadn’t always been a cursed chat room. It had been set up to help raise money for an operation to remove her brain tumour, and no one had donated a single cent. They had all considered it fake. Just another forwarded email sending you to a website filled with viruses and haunted promises of coming to kill you in the night if the demands of the email weren’t met.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I truly meant it.
She nodded, and then, she was gone. The articles on the computer disappeared and were replaced with a blank document titled Cursor. The tiny line blinked at me, and I imagined it was Natalia winking repeatedly with her one eye. I knew what I had to do.
Bringing my hands to the keyboard, I let my fingers run wild with purpose, hitting each letter as if it were broken. I don’t know why I felt the need to write just because a blank document was in front of me, but I did. Something about how it stared at me – waiting – commanded me to fill it with words. Not just any words. Her words. Her story. It was like the empty room was all set up for me. Like every point in my life had lead me to here. For this reason.
I don’t know how long I wrote for; there were no clocks in the room (not even on the computer). But it felt like hours. Nothing disturbed me. I didn’t feel hungry or tired. It was like I was in some sort of Limbo that I was completely oblivious to.
And then finally, I was done. But something happened. When I clicked SAVE a message popped on the screen that looked exactly like Natalia’s chat box:
NO ONE CAN SAVE YOU…
The message vanished, and I shook my head.
I’ve spent too much time in here, I thought. Wherever here is. Yeah, that’s it. Too much time…
I clicked save again:
SORRY TEDDY, THIS BUTTON IS BROKEN…
‘WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?’ I screamed, as I banged my fists on the keyboard. ‘I did what you want! I wrote your story, now let me go! LET ME GO!’
No messages.
‘God damn you!’
I grabbed the keyboard and hurled it straight through the monitor, shattering it in a shower of sparks, as I used every single sac in my lungs to scream.
The printer started spitting out page after page:
TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD.
‘FUCK YOU!’ I shouted. ‘FUCK YOU TO HELL!’
The computer screen flicked back on. I don’t know how, but it fucking did! The security footage was back. Why was she showing me this? How was this important now?
I didn’t want to, but I came forward and stared, analysing each shot – each angle – as if my life depended on it.
Door number one, door number two, door number three, door number four, door number five, door number six. Door after door, shot after shot, over and over and over, until it became obvious. So obvious, for a split second I thought I deserved to die for my own ignorance. But it was only a split second. And I quickly regretted it.
These weren’t different apartments. It was the same apartment, my apartment, just shot at different angles. Of corse it was empty, but in multiple shots contained a stain on the carpet. The same I’d caused one clumsy night with a bottle of Merlot.
I’d never had a choice. This was always going to happen. Life is a lie? This bitch was a fucking lie… The only truth she revealed was torture. I was just a piece of food to be played with. That’s all I’d ever been. By just entering the site I’d sealed my fate from the beginning. She just wanted to see a limp-legged fool try and run from his death and laugh as he did.
As if right on cue, she laughed. Her horrid, demonic, body-numbing laugh. It sounded as if it were coming from my head. Like she was haunting every fibre of my mind.
Then, the security coverage disappeared and the document I’d previously typed came back on the screen. All the text I’d written was erased in one clean sweep and new words started filling up the document:
The computer screen flickered. A sharp, annoying, buzzing flicker that called to me like a whisper. In the quiet of my one room apartment, in the darkened space I sat. It flickered. I stared.
What the fuck… This was everything that had happened since the first night I’d met Natalia. But not just what had happened, everything I was thinking, feeling, or even contemplating. It was a story. My story. This… story…
When the words finally caught up to this moment they did not stop. They continued to type. Type this. Right now. Right… now… 1,2,3,4,5,6, STOP! STOP THIS YOU BITCH! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW! Time’s up… Wait… I didn’t think that… Oh shit… OH SHI……………………………………………………………………………………………………
A SHORT STORY BY PAUL NICHOLAS
The computer screen flickered. A sharp, annoying, buzzing flicker that called to me like a whisper. In the quiet of my one room apartment, in the darkened space I sat. It flickered. I stared.
I was lonely this particular night, as any man who works alone gets. I was a writer, you see, an aspiring one of course. Halfway through my first-to-be-novel. I had barely seen sunshine in the last six months. Not due to fear of it, but due to my dedication. I refused to rest until my book was bound and complete, I would not stop until its words had hit the street. So I got lonely. On this night. Every night.
During one of my hourly breaks, I came across an interesting site that went by the name Cursor. It was a chat room, it seemed, a place for singles to meet. But this was like no dating site I had ever come across. There was no place to input a username or password, no browsing function, no advertisements, nothing. It simply displayed an ENTER button with the quote “Cursor: Plenty of rooms, plenty of chances” underneath.
I was not a foolish man. But I was not a coward. A mysterious website only had the potential of installing a virus onto my computer, and for that I was prepared. I had plenty of anti-virus software to combat an easily squashed web-bug, so, allowing stupidity to cloud itself as curiosity, I clicked.
What appeared both scared and intrigued me. It was multiple shots of empty apartments, all at different angles – like some sort of security coverage – yet none revealed occupants. They were so similar that for all I knew it could’ve been the same place. Empty rooms all looked like clones, speaking with the same voice until given one of their own through furniture, and these rooms were no different. Except – for whatever reason – they pulled me to watch. Pulled me to click. Pulled me to choose. It was my own ‘what’s behind door number one?’ and I was not going to walk away forever wondering which I would’ve picked and what would’ve happened. Consequences died in the arms of curiosity, hushed by two words ‘what if…’ And rational thought soon joined their burial, leaving carelessness to roam free in my fingers.
CLICK!
I chose door number three.
A plain white screen appeared with a small grey box that had just one word – Name – and a vertical line that blinked at me. I typed each letter on the keyboard as the line pushed out my input: T E D and then hit ENTER.
I was taken to a chat room, but it was empty. My name was the only one displayed on the side bar, and there seemed to be no words filling up the screen. No general chatter. No unnecessary insults. Nothing.
Bored already, I dragged my cursor to the corner and was about to click the exit cross when a little ding sounded, and the announcement Natalia has joined flashed across the screen. She greeted me right away.
Natalia: Hello, how are you?
I was disappointed to be honest. All this build up, all this mystery, to just climax at ‘hello, how are you?’ This was just another standard chat site. Worse, in fact. It had no design, no creativity, and from the looks of it, next to no users. But I was lonely. And I did like Russian girls – especially their accents – so I decided to amuse this random guest, and myself, by seeing where the conversation went.
Ted: Not bad. Just a little lonely and looking for someone to talk to.
Natalia: Me too. I haven’t had a boyfriend in so long and thought I’d give this site a try.
I could picture her voice, thick and hot, coated in a Russian accent. It was soft, yet husky, reminding me of the Soviet spies James Bond had seduced. The ones with breasts as big as airbags and lips so thick they could’ve swallowed you whole. To me, it was the sound of sexy.
The next thing to enter my head was what she was wearing. No, I’m not a pervert. I’m a writer. I was simply using a tool I possessed – imagination – to increase the believability of this online encounter, and why would you use a hammer when you owned a drill?
All she had on was a black lace bra and panties (okay, maybe I am a little bit of a pervert), and her skin was the perfect shade of cream. In my eyes – in my head – she was a goddess, and she was talking to me.
We started discussing what each did for a living: I told her I was a writer (trying to be) and she told me she was a teacher (studying to become one). From there we went to desires, what we sought in that special someone, why we had been let down before. It was quite therapeutic really. And even though I had never seen Natalia’s face, or truly heard her voice, the connection we shared was undeniable.
Now I’d never done anything like this before, but when she suggested the idea of an ‘online relationship’, I ran with it. Like a dangerous but enthralling sexual position, I ran with it.
Every day for a week I went on the site during my breaks, where Natalia would always be waiting for me in that same empty room. Always the same greeting: ‘Hello, how are you?’ that eventually got on my nerves. Hell, we’d talked enough to greet each other a little more personally, I thought. She could at least come up with something a little more thought-straining than ‘hello, how are you?’
But it was only a small annoyance. And soon I went from just talking to her on my breaks, to talking to her every thirty minutes, to every five minutes, until it was all I did.
I didn’t mind at first. But after another week passed and my novel had not gained a page, yet alone a word, I knew it was time to set some boundaries.
Ted: Look, Natalia. I’ve really enjoyed the chats we’ve had. But this is getting a little too much.
Natalia: I don’t understand? I thought we were getting on really well.
Ted: We are. It’s just… I told you I was a writer. And this novel I’m working on is really important to me. It’s my first. It’s my chance. And I’ve barely touched it since we’ve gotten to know each other. I just think if we didn’t talk… as often it would be a lot better for both of us.
Natalia: Please don’t do this. I’ve never connected with someone like I have with you. I think… Ted… I think I’m in love with you.
There it was. The L bomb. The four letter word that could kill a relationship or set it free. In this case it was the former. That was it. Natalia had crossed the line and was trying to pull me over. I had to either get the hell out of there, or risk being dragged into her obsessive embrace.
I immediately left the chat room. I switched off my computer and walked away. I was done. Finished. Never again would I visit that site. Never again…
* * *
Four nights passed and my novel was flowing once more. I hadn’t thought about Natalia, or the dreaded site she lurked on. All I had on my mind was work: characters, clauses, imagery and style. No other thoughts but the ones that mattered. And I was content. Feeling as if a hypnotist had clicked his fingers and freed me from his trance; a fortnight long escapade that had blinded me from reality.
I was in the middle of my twenty-second chapter when something happened. A message popped up. It was from… Natalia? This couldn’t be. I wasn’t on that site and I definitely wasn’t using any other form of chat program. How had she…?
Natalia: Where have you been, Ted? I’ve missed you…
My skin crawled. Every part of me shuddered. I didn’t even bother to answer. I just reacted. I clicked off the box and resumed my writing, not putting any more thought into what I had seen.
Then came another pop-up.
Natalia: Why are you ignoring me, Ted? Don’t you love me?
I swallowed and then held my breath, until I nearly choked. Now I knew I wasn’t seeing things. How was she doing this? Why was she doing this? I closed the box but this time sat and stared, waiting for the computer to do what I knew it would. But nothing came. No pop-ups. No messages. She was gone.
I wiped my brow and brought my fingers back to the keyboard, only just allowing myself to breathe. I attempted to come back to where I was writing, but it was hopeless. Natalia was all that was on my mind now. Where she was hiding and when she would be back.
Suddenly, my novel vanished off the screen and my email system appeared. My computer opened my address book, selected everyone from my friends to my mum, dad, brother, even my god damn grandma who only checks her emails once a month when her Meals on Wheels ‘smart boy’ comes to visit. There was no message sent. Just a blank page with a file attached titled Open. It was not one of my own, I was certain, and I immediately opened it up not even caring if it was the most malicious virus in the world. My computer was being possessed by Satan.
The first page simply held the words LIFE IS A LIE.
After the title page – and hundreds of pages following – were three words repeated. Over. And over. And over:
TED IS DEAD.
Right before my eyes my bank accounts were accessed and emptied, my credit cards – deleted, my word documents – deleted, all my personal information – deleted.
My screen was flooded with that same damn message I’d come to loath:
Hello, how are you?
Everywhere I looked:
Hello, how are you?
‘No!’ I screamed. ‘No! No! No!’
Every light in my house blew in one giant BANG! as my computer shutdown and short-circuited. I ran to the door. Locked.
‘Help me!’ I cried. ‘Somebody, help me!’
I banged on the door with all I had, until my palms burned red and the wood felt soft.
No answer. Why couldn’t anyone hear me?
‘Somebody! Please! Help me!’
I let my head fall against the door as hopelessness wet my eyes.
‘Fuck… Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’
That’s when I heard her. Not in my head. Not in my imagination. In this very room. I heard her.
‘Hello, how are you?’
No… it couldn’t be… it wasn’t possible… how could…?
Natalia…
She sounded exactly like I imagined – if her voice had been infused with a hive of wasps. And how she looked. Oh God, how she looked… I’d be lying if it wasn’t a resemblance. But her skin. Her skin. It hung from her as if it were stolen from a corpse. Green, rotted, lifeless flesh that was decaying before my very eyes. And her head appeared as if it had been rotted from the inside out by some festering disease that left her with only one eye, which looked right through me.
She smiled. It was more haunting than any words she could’ve spoken. A single smile was all she needed to paralyse every part of me.
She edged forward with a swaggered, stilted walk that made her appear as if all her limbs were broken. I wanted to run. But I couldn’t even flinch a toe.
A voice that sounded like my own came out without thought. ‘Why are you here?’ it shouted. ‘What do you want?’
Her smile extended as did her arms. She didn’t even have to say it. I knew what she wanted…
‘How is this possible?’ I muttered, not expecting an answer. ‘This has to be a dream. I must’ve dozed off at the computer.’
I rubbed my eyes. Opened them. She was still there. Closer than before.
‘Get the fuck away from me!’ I screamed, as I threw an unlit candle from the table. The wick pierced her eye and she didn’t even twitch. She just pulled it out as if it were nothing more than a splinter.
I unglued my feet and headed straight for my room, the deafening cry of Natalia’s scream following me like a demonic nuclear blast.
‘TED!’ she cried. ‘TED, COME BACK!’
I threw a chair against the doorknob as a makeshift barrier. Deep down I knew it wouldn’t hold, but hope – or foolishness – told me I would be all right.
‘TED!’
A thump was heard against the door that came from a fist with strength that did not match its wielder’s appearance. If she had come against Mike Tyson in a fight his career would’ve ended with the headline: ‘Tyson comatosed by zombie bitch from hell’.
‘TED!’
I backed into the furthest corner, watching the door shake as each thump deepened the cracks that had already formed around the rim of the chair.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I screamed. ‘Why me?’
She laughed. A laugh that was so dark, so sinister, I could’ve sworn my heart momentarily stopped beating.
‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, Teddy.’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Open your eyes,’ she snarled. ‘Can’t you even recognise your own apartment?’
She burst into thunderous laughter that shook the walls around me. My lamp smashed, as dirt and plaster sifted from the ceiling, covering me in a coat of smoky powder.
Recognise my own apartment? What was she trying to tell me? What did she mean?
‘You still haven’t figured it out?’ she laughed. ‘It’s okay. You will soon.’
Her fist shattered through the door, fanned into fingers, reached down, and removed the chair. The door creaked open and for a second I thought it might be the last sound I hear. But then came her locust-infested voice.
‘Hello, Ted. How are you?’
I charged at her and screamed. And then. She was gone. Everything was gone. I was in an empty apartment, the same I’d clicked on – door number three – when I’d first entered the website. But this just looked like my apartment, except… empty.
‘Hello, Ted. How are you?’
I turned around, and there she was. Standing in the middle of the room with that same wilted smile.
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘What the hell is going on?’
She nodded towards the computer. It hadn’t been there before, but it was there now, flickering and buzzing in this empty room.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘It has your answers,’ she said.
I approached the computer and sat down. All across the screen were news articles, dated back from over four years ago. They read: Tumour Girl’s online plea for help ignored, Email circulation considered a hoax – girl never saved, and finally, Donation website, Cursor, shutdown.
I finally understood. Natalia. The website. It hadn’t always been a cursed chat room. It had been set up to help raise money for an operation to remove her brain tumour, and no one had donated a single cent. They had all considered it fake. Just another forwarded email sending you to a website filled with viruses and haunted promises of coming to kill you in the night if the demands of the email weren’t met.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I truly meant it.
She nodded, and then, she was gone. The articles on the computer disappeared and were replaced with a blank document titled Cursor. The tiny line blinked at me, and I imagined it was Natalia winking repeatedly with her one eye. I knew what I had to do.
Bringing my hands to the keyboard, I let my fingers run wild with purpose, hitting each letter as if it were broken. I don’t know why I felt the need to write just because a blank document was in front of me, but I did. Something about how it stared at me – waiting – commanded me to fill it with words. Not just any words. Her words. Her story. It was like the empty room was all set up for me. Like every point in my life had lead me to here. For this reason.
I don’t know how long I wrote for; there were no clocks in the room (not even on the computer). But it felt like hours. Nothing disturbed me. I didn’t feel hungry or tired. It was like I was in some sort of Limbo that I was completely oblivious to.
And then finally, I was done. But something happened. When I clicked SAVE a message popped on the screen that looked exactly like Natalia’s chat box:
NO ONE CAN SAVE YOU…
The message vanished, and I shook my head.
I’ve spent too much time in here, I thought. Wherever here is. Yeah, that’s it. Too much time…
I clicked save again:
SORRY TEDDY, THIS BUTTON IS BROKEN…
‘WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?’ I screamed, as I banged my fists on the keyboard. ‘I did what you want! I wrote your story, now let me go! LET ME GO!’
No messages.
‘God damn you!’
I grabbed the keyboard and hurled it straight through the monitor, shattering it in a shower of sparks, as I used every single sac in my lungs to scream.
The printer started spitting out page after page:
TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD. TED IS DEAD.
‘FUCK YOU!’ I shouted. ‘FUCK YOU TO HELL!’
The computer screen flicked back on. I don’t know how, but it fucking did! The security footage was back. Why was she showing me this? How was this important now?
I didn’t want to, but I came forward and stared, analysing each shot – each angle – as if my life depended on it.
Door number one, door number two, door number three, door number four, door number five, door number six. Door after door, shot after shot, over and over and over, until it became obvious. So obvious, for a split second I thought I deserved to die for my own ignorance. But it was only a split second. And I quickly regretted it.
These weren’t different apartments. It was the same apartment, my apartment, just shot at different angles. Of corse it was empty, but in multiple shots contained a stain on the carpet. The same I’d caused one clumsy night with a bottle of Merlot.
I’d never had a choice. This was always going to happen. Life is a lie? This bitch was a fucking lie… The only truth she revealed was torture. I was just a piece of food to be played with. That’s all I’d ever been. By just entering the site I’d sealed my fate from the beginning. She just wanted to see a limp-legged fool try and run from his death and laugh as he did.
As if right on cue, she laughed. Her horrid, demonic, body-numbing laugh. It sounded as if it were coming from my head. Like she was haunting every fibre of my mind.
Then, the security coverage disappeared and the document I’d previously typed came back on the screen. All the text I’d written was erased in one clean sweep and new words started filling up the document:
The computer screen flickered. A sharp, annoying, buzzing flicker that called to me like a whisper. In the quiet of my one room apartment, in the darkened space I sat. It flickered. I stared.
What the fuck… This was everything that had happened since the first night I’d met Natalia. But not just what had happened, everything I was thinking, feeling, or even contemplating. It was a story. My story. This… story…
When the words finally caught up to this moment they did not stop. They continued to type. Type this. Right now. Right… now… 1,2,3,4,5,6, STOP! STOP THIS YOU BITCH! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW! Time’s up… Wait… I didn’t think that… Oh shit… OH SHI……………………………………………………………………………………………………
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Welcome To The Jungle! - READ FIRST
Hi readers,
I am a 22 y.o. aspiring writing, currently studying Professional Writing. Enclosed is a small collection of my works: various short stories and chapter pieces. Unfortunetly blogger.com doesn't format the posts correctly (indenting etc.) so I hope that isn't a hassle.
Other than that I hope you enjoy what is offered (please feel free to leave CONSTRUCTIVE criticism - these are my babies I don't want you slapping them).
Yours truly,
Paul Nicholas.
I am a 22 y.o. aspiring writing, currently studying Professional Writing. Enclosed is a small collection of my works: various short stories and chapter pieces. Unfortunetly blogger.com doesn't format the posts correctly (indenting etc.) so I hope that isn't a hassle.
Other than that I hope you enjoy what is offered (please feel free to leave CONSTRUCTIVE criticism - these are my babies I don't want you slapping them).
Yours truly,
Paul Nicholas.
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