Hypnotised by the Heat

“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.” G had sent Booteel this a few months ago. Followed by another text that read: “Shall we go? I think the scented candles are optional, but this looks great. A few hours drive from home. We can hike, wild swim and have time away from the wife and work and kids. Game?”

Booteel was impatient. He wanted sleep to sow its seeds and take him into the next day. He didn’t like this cabin. He didn’t like the heat and he didn’t like being ditched by his friend when all was agreed and he had left his Mercedes in the car park and had put shorts on to get into his Borneo of the Wild role.

Why do all those married succumb to fingers and thumbs pressed against their chest? Freedom should be plenty but instead most seem trapped. Blaming and shaming one another when the dance is dead, and communication is an argument about Netflix or who sleeps with the kids. Was Booteel jealous? Maybe. He hadn’t had anything close to a partner in three years and the thought of soft soothing sleep and caressing seemed far flung and bygone. He was too busy with work – sell your soul and sell more homes people! Pitch desperate dunces against one another. Play the game and make these fools rise their offers for bricks and mortar that aren't worth the inflation sensation. Go grab a cave and do the cave paintings again for it’s all bullshit isn't it? Yep. And Booteel knew it was madness, but the bonuses were substantial, and he was addicted to the prattle and escape.

PUT ON THE TIE AND SHIRT, DO THE HOURS, THINK YOU ARE HELPING AND PRETEND YOU ARE SOMEBODY.

But Fucking Hell! This bonding time, this men’s retreat, this sacred male space was utter twoddle. He was stuck now in this bloody cabin. In this mean serene vast outlandish green now well past dusk with no signal and nothing to do but forget and rest.

Sleep Booteel. Sleep. Unwind from mind and bring out the morning when the alley cat is calm and you can finally walk the five kilometres to the car park, get in your fancy car and wish you had gone to Spain.

But it was too hot. He was all hot and bothered. Skin was laced with slimy sweat. Better take your pants off then. NO. Then Booteel is likely to grab his dick and touch himself. And he doesn’t like to wank in an unknown place. Might have cameras and perverts watching.

Booteel takes a few deep breaths. In through his nose and out of his mouth. Settle.

He turns on the light of the lamp and looks around. He can’t see any cameras.

He turns off the light and rolls onto the opposite side to confuse the snooze police.

A whirring, buzzing, singing, flapping sound is upon him. Hits his face. Sounds big.

He instantly turns on the light again. There is a mosquito on the white wall waiting for him.

He gets off the bed, grabs the book from the coffee table that he hasn’t really read and approaches the bloodsucker. Slowly, slowly... WHAM! BAM! Squashed that MUTHERTRUCKER into jam. There’s bits of blood and a lost leg and wing.

Booteel gets back into bed and the lights go off.

A minute of silence then a high-pitched throng of stinging song and bleach for the ears. This one is bigger than the first – for sure – and Booteel has a thirst for smacking these critters.

Lights on.

Again, it is on the white wall. But this one is bigger and vibrating. The bugger wants Booteel’s heart.

The book is grabbed and smashed without hesitation onto the brains of the mosquito. Any good grades and hopes of university are gone. Now there is just a mess of blood and squish. Booteel goes over to the wide-open window and shoves it down before retreating to the bed with strewn out sheets.

Lights off.

His time had come. Sleep was giving him his dues.

But then a Whizz and a bling of long-drawn-out floating cymbals by his ears. Something big brushed his face.

‘FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!’ He shouted and grappled with the light. On it came.

There staring him out was a huge panting specimen. This must be the King. His kind would be extinct. NOW.

With a slick flick of arm and elbow he grabbed the book that now had new meaning and executed this flying leggy predator. The white wall was a memoir of innocence now dashed and dazed by blood. The mosquito oozed out puss and blood and dripped down.

Booteel did a little dance. Then a bow. And the lights went off. All finally seemed calm.

The window was closed and the Three Musketeers of mouth sucking were dead.

Embrace, embrace the face of Nod.

Minutes maketh a twenty and Booteel must have been sleeping now but he wasn’t sure. Sweeping feelings of distrust thrust open the scene in the back of whatever mind was operating still. Maybe he hadn't found the promised land yet. Confusion was contagious for he could hear the faint sound in the distance of flapping and draining. He called for waterfalls and meadows. The heat had hypnotised him but his body was still on the operating table. Drills blared and roared out. A tall being with a t-shirt sporting the slogan BAN LANDLORDS leant over him and held a huge syringe aloft in the air before crashing down with force into his body. He felt cardiac arrest was his best impression and bolted up and down as the bed spread out like an octopus having all his tentacles swiped off. The vultures swarmed in and started pecking manically at his exposed insides. Nothing was protected anymore. Damn you skin! Damn you boundaries and barriers of such impeccable precision! Listen to me. Protect me. Give me back my sovereign being. Give me back my body! The jungle and the desert covered him and the hyenas rocked into town, hailing down the bikers that seemed to be big brown bears. They appeared to be wearing the skins of butch steroid freaks. Fuck! The hyenas wailed and cackled and slammed down on Booteel’s legs. Snap and crackle and Pop. The moon laughed and started on her plate.

Booteel awoke in crazed pain and pulled for the light. The lamp fell to the floor and Booteel scrambled to reach it and fell off the bed. Bang and thud and like rotten spuds he hit the floor and shrieked in agony. This had to be a dream too. The distress was too real. Something didn’t feel right. He ushered out his hands and found the switch of the fallen lamp.

Lights on. Limbs off.

His legs were butchered in blood and bone. His feet had fucking gone. This was unreal. The room span and span and the tapes in his head sped up and all the reels got wrapped around his neck. He couldn’t breathe. Hyperventilating. Where the fuck were his legs? Huge bites on his knees. Gore from splashing and streaming of ruby red waves. His blood. He felt sick.

He was sick. All over his lap. He couldn’t stop the tears and the panic. He was not one for hysterics, but he felt faint and foul and ready to eat his fists to hide the pain. Baffled and bewildered he prayed for help.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE HELP ME.

He dragged himself around the room in circles and cried into the rug.

He dug at the dreams and convinced himself it was a nightmare.

He tried to prevent the blood flowing out further but was sick again. Deep gagging and retching as the flesh and designs inside him, vile and sinewy, mocked him for not knowing what to do.

And then a loud knock at the door.

Booteel wailed and sobbed. He dragged his shocked body to the front of the cabin, planting his hands onto the wooden boards and staining everything.

He couldn’t reach the handle at first.

Grab! Miss. Grab! Miss.

A hiss and a roar to achieve the impossible.

Finally, he got the handle in his grip and with all his might opened it.

Hallelujah.

He rolled onto his back and drank trickles of blotchy blood.

The door swayed open.

There stood a figure. Tall. With long legs and a big head. It was wearing that t-shirt about landlords.

‘Hey. Hope I'm not too late. I’ve come for your arms.’