Rumblings

From one window to the other, my eyes studied far away, something like a smoking chimney. Thick, bitter, and sulfurous smoke traveled slowly upwards in a serpentine shape. For all that, two halves of my evening were gone. My patience was limited. Fifteen minutes later, I stood before the door where my friend was alone and useless. He waved at me with a fainted interest; I could see him sitting alone on the old armchair, wearing a white blouse and shorts, but when I approached, he turned his head towards the wall behind him where his portrait was hanging, which I painted. 

-Is he part of our plan? 

-What plan? 

He was a friend of a friend, and all his mannerisms were foreign to me most of the time, and if I made him a portrait, it was out of sympathy. I’m very bad at it anyway. The summer was in the past, a memory I left that day, but let’s go back to the body again, you know, because you keep mentioning him repeatedly… let’s be back at the Farmville, the white house, the plastic door with a slight creaking sound when opened. What else? Well, there is a kitchen over there, knock knock, who is there? It’s just an old country house with plumbing issues, nothing important, three kinds of cheese in the fridge, and no people in sight.

Haven’t you heard? I want to be known as the master of manipulating, without a doubt. I wish I could change the patterns for a bit, for example, when the door opens to creak a little more because I said so, and then I ask for the receptionist even though there’s none! I would like to see waves around me, not in WATER; NO, I want to make AIRWAVES. YES, I WANT TO CHANGE THE WAY OUR EYES SEE, OUR BODIES SENSE. Beyond everything, I want to ask weird questions to the seven-layer cake woman sitting on a blue velvet couch with eyes wide open, hands on her silk yellow skirt. My questions will be like” Where is Bob?”  even though there is no Bob for her or me to tell the truth. After that, she would look at me without knowing what was happening. With her ability to find solutions, she might try to express an answer, nonetheless, she can’t. Her mouth stays open like this and closes again. It’s unfathomable to her that I made the rules for asking questions.

The next question, which is, wait for it .. ‘who died the night before the accident?’ Another one:’ Did my car burn out alive?’ And another, hear this out, “Could you bring me this water from the table, please?” Careful, there is no water on the table; the table is far from my sight even, and she screams, yes that’s right, her eyes terrified, her mouth in weird ugly awful grimace she screams, and I laugh. 

-That’s it? 

-Yes, that’s it. After all these questions, I’ll take out the laundry before making myself an omelet. Meanwhile, I’ll open my laptop and search for a flower called amaryllis nimphys. It is easy to be identified as the befriended man of an awful scream! How about that? And that’s the book I’m reading currently. It’s called “I Drunk the Nectar of Death”…

-ok, let’s sum it up. You are in the house. What is that smell?

-Its pink roses

- oh, so it’s mice

-Huh, mice. Lately, I have put on a lot of traps.