It Cries

He wakes up hunched and foetal. Everything smells wrong, too plastic, too new. Someone’s crying behind him. Damp submerged sobs. Female, he thinks. Behind that there’s nothing but acres of silence. A woman peers down at him, encased in a photo. She shines with youth, her smile lights up the frame, giving him the barest niggle of recognition. He tries to sit up but pain flares with each movement. His back feels stretched like there isn’t enough skin. He edges into a seated position, legs flopping over the side, paler than the white duvet. He’s shocked by his nudity. A sinewy body, dotted with wiry black hair, a splash of yellow bruises up one thigh.

Still someone cries behind. He wants to look at her but something keeps him in place. He glances at the photo again and decides to get up. Pain bolts down his back as he stands, he clutches the wall, smells the tang of fresh white paint. He staggers forwards and heaves the door open. A gloomy hallway reveals itself. He clings to the walls and shuffles to another door which opens with a click, flooding the space with saccharine light. He steps into a room covered in chalky white tiles. A small angular sink juts from the wall like an ear, a lidless toilet dwells in the corner. There are no mirrors, no taps.

He finds more lightswitches in the corridor which turn on with a snap. The hallway unfolds before him, drowned in more blank paint. Another door opens to a cupboard. Inside is a box which ticks and hums. He thinks it’s a boiler. The final door reveals an open plan living space, colourless and functional. He stands like a stranger at the doorway, wondering what’s off about the room. Then it hits: there are no windows or doors. The walls are bare save for another photo of the young woman, drink in hand, sunkissed bronze skin that makes his look lifeless. The niggle of recognition becomes a nudge.

‘Glass blisters on the road. Blood pools like an oil slick in the darkness. Its metallic scent mixes with the smell of petrol.’ The thought staggers him. He shakes his head and rips his eyes from the photo.

He thinks about the bedroom and the crying woman but pushes the thought aside. Slumps into the kitchen instead. The black lino sticks to his feet with a sucking sound. His stomach growls so he opens a drawer, watches the wooden cutlery rattle around inside. He rummages through square formless cupboards til he finds a pouch which squelches in his grip, ‘nutrient pack’ scrawled across the surface. He rips the seal and watches brown slop seep out. He digs out a wooden spoon, heaps the slop and flicks a tongue at it. Peanut butter with a bitter trace of something medicinal.

A shrill cry from behind sends him rigid. He turns towards the hallway with a wince. The door is closed, the cry too close to have come from the bedroom. He feels a prickling across his skin, glances hopefully at a nearby TV even though he knows it’s switched off. Then he stands completely still, grips the spoon like a weapon before taking a second, hesitant mouthful. Another shriek ricochets off the bare walls, he drops the spoon to the floor with a clatter. Sobs follow, flakey words in between. He can’t make them out. He waits for her to stop and when she does his appetite’s gone. He lets the slop tumble into a bin then edges back towards the bedroom walking so slowly the timed light in the hallway gives up and fades to black. He stops, listens to his ragged breath, and wills the lights to turn back on.

Eventually he reaches the bedroom door, his stomach swollen with terror. He turns the handle slowly, hears the mechanism click. Then flings the door open, sees the crumpled remains of his sleep on one side of the bed, the other smooth and untouched. Where is the woman who cried behind him? He senses movement behind and flicks around, gasps at the pain. There’s nothing. Back to the bedroom, empty with silence. The photo of the young woman stares back at him, grows in the emptiness.

‘A once beautiful face is smeared across the tarmac, painted blue by flashing lights.’

He slams the door, the hall seems to shake, and hobbles back to the living space. He jabs the remote til the TV flashes into life. A woman with a fake white smile and dead eyes appears on a cheap, pastel-coloured set, the word REPENT in thick letters at the bottom of the screen. She’s reading out Bible stories. He changes the channel and there she is again. And again, and again. There’s nothing else.

Exhausted he leans back into the sofa, which creaks under his weight. Fire scorches his spine before even a moment’s relief. He buckles under it, his hands clawing at the pain in his back. He probes the taut skin, something feels different. A loud buzz startles him. He traces it to a phone on the kitchen wall. It buzzes again like an angry wasp trying to get out.

“Hello?” His voice is soft, hidden beneath a blanket.

“Hello Carl, I’m your support worker, Martha,” comes the reply. Flat and scripted. Somehow he’s not surprised by his name.

“Have I been in some kind of accident? I can’t remember—”

“I’m glad to say the operation went well. The amnesia will wear off after a day or two. Take the nutrient packs in the kitchen and the painkillers in the bathroom cupboard as directed.”

“Operation? Where am I? I—”

“As I said, the amnesia will wear off. Is there anything else I can help you with Carl?”

He pauses, cheeks hot. “Think I’m hallucinating. There’s this woman. Crying. But there’s no one here.”

Martha gasps, Carl hears the excited whisper of a man’s voice behind.

“Has she said anything?” she says at last.

The words land like hammer blows. Carl flicks his head around, scans for movement as the pain singes his neck.

“Y-you mean she’s real?” his words sound far away.

“Of course. You must tell me when she speaks Carl. It’s very important.”

The phone goes dead. He slots it in the cradle as Bible woman talks about regret. Her voice is nasal, makes Carl’s skin itch but it’s better than the silence. He edges to the bathroom, testing every foot step in case the screaming starts again. He fumbles around in the blinding light for a cupboard. Finds one hidden in the wall, no handle. The door swings open, a photo of the bronze woman stares back. She’s in a graduation gown, hair pouring from beneath the mortar board like honey.

‘Rubber screeches like a wounded bird. A flash of terror-stricken eyes then the tearing of metal.’

Carl grabs a bottle of painkillers and slams the door on her. The crying starts again and makes his insides tremble. It’s definitely behind him, close. He looks over his shoulder, neck popping like wood on a fire. The pain dredges up peanut butter from his stomach. He stops and looks at the painkillers, pops out two shiny red capsules and looks for a tap. Sees only a tube worming out of the wall. He holds it to his mouth, squeezes and water spits out, hard and unsatisfying. He returns to the living space, tries to hide in Bible woman’s drone. “Peter 1:18 We are redeemed not with perishable things... but with the precious blood of Christ.”

The leather sofa swallows him, he braces for agony but this time it’s only a whisper. He rattles the painkillers with a smile, sits forward and attempts to turn his neck again. It pops and cracks, sends shards of pain but he manages another inch. He sees something behind him, a quiver, but the pain overwhelms. He roots through empty, dustless drawers. Claws at the lights, all sealed into the ceiling. No oven, no microwave. Everything’s flat and dull. Then he stops, eyes bulging with purpose. He hobbles with new energy to the bathroom. Holds down the tube, and squeezes the water out, drop-by-drop, trying to make a mirror out of the water. He curses when he sees the plugless hole in the sink. So he starts to wrench the tube from the wall, feels the tiles split under his rage. His back explodes with fire but he ignores it, bites down on his lip til the teeth find blood. The fire spreads down his legs, dancing along the bruises. Still he pulls. The tiles fracture, a geyser engulfs him. He screams with delight. Splinters of tile swirl in the pooling water.

Carl steps back to take in his reflection at last.

There’s a bulge on his spine.

A backpack made of skin.

Terror claws at him. He tries to flee from the sight but his foot slips, sending his world sideways. He hears his head crack on the slick floor.

Black.

Hands pull at him, watery voices echo. “Is she okay?” It’s the woman from the phone, Martha, her voice wobblier than before.

“Better be. How did this happen?” a man’s voice. Granite.

“He clearly wants to see her.”

“No damage to the victim.” A sigh from the man. “Lucky. Idiot landed on his face.”

“Thank god. Shall I increase the donepezil?”

“No, no. Time to ramp up exposure I think.”

Carl wakes up to someone crying behind him. His head throbs. He smells the bandage before he feels it. There’s something different this time, a distant mumble between the sobs. “Shh!” The crying stops. “Should’ve tried that before,” he grunts. But the mumble continues. He strains his ear, picks out words, cheers and laughter somewhere in the flat. The sound lifts him into a seated position and drags him into the hallway. He stops as he passes the bathroom. Everything is back in place, even the tiles. The speech grows louder. His breath feels tight, he has to force each inhalation. He edges to the living space and nudges the door open. The woman from the photo laughs at him. He staggers, shakes his head, realises she’s on the TV, seated at a table surrounded by drinks. The camera shakes in time with a tinny beat.

“What you gonna do next?” a woman asks, her voice wet with booze.

“Get a job. Fed up of being skint,” the woman in the photo replies. Her voice is smokey, with a Lancashire twang. Carl’s stomach ices over. He turns his head, needles of agony cross his back, the wound on his head pulses in reply. Every millimetre feels a mile, feels like every muscle will snap.

“Kavos first though girls,” comes the smokey voice.

There’s something oily and pink on his back. Raw.

“Girls trip! Girls trip!” come the faceless chants from the screen.

Sounds emerge from the pink meat, gurgled, drenched in spittle.

“Hurhs rip.”

Hot acid seeps up from Carl’s stomach. He crumples to the floor, claws at his back. Stops when he feels flesh that isn’t his.

“Gurhs rip.”

“What? What’re you trying to say?!”

“Girls… trip.”

Carl staggers back into something solid and shiny, turns to see a tall narrow mirror propped against the wall. Another sits opposite, behind the TV. He angles himself as the bile floods his throat, as the guttural voice finds its form. “Girls trip, girls trip, girls trip…”

He turns, an inch at a time until the raw, pocked face comes into view, welded to his back in a frenzy of angry black stitches. A face that once shone with youth. A face that was smeared across the road at his careless hands.

A face that he must now keep alive forever.