7:00 PM, Midnight (Chapter 2)

Saturday, December 14, 2024

Something's thudding outside.

I'd say it woke me up, but I've been half awake for the last few hours. The bedroom faces east, so the sunlight's been shining through the window for a while now. Not that I got much sleep in the first place, though. Christ, I feel rough. I can't think. I can hardly write. My eyes are bleary and my head is pounding. Stuffy, warm air is blowing through the window. The duvet is stained with sweat.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

It's coming from so far away, but it sounds so loud. Loud but distant. Far but close. A constant dull pounding.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Probably a neighbour doing early morning roof work or something.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Tosser.

I suppose I should tell you about this. About me. I don't know, you're reading my notebook so I assume you know something about me. Otherwise what are you doing with it, you creep?

Fine. Don't worry, I'll tell you. But only because it'd really annoy that cow Ms. Wilson.

Ms. Wilson is my counsellor. Or was my counsellor at any rate. The school assigned me to her because they thought I was "troubled". That meant I was quiet and didn't have any friends, which meant they panicked and thought I was either going to kill some kid or myself. They couldn't stomach the thought of all that potential paperwork, so me and this weird old hag who looked about ninety would sit in a cramped little storage cupboard plastered with dusty leaflets about puberty and drugs, talking about "my feelings", and "mindfulness", and other tripe like that every other Tuesday. We both hated it. It's just that she was paid to hate it, so we never stopped.

At the end of our second to last session together, I told her I was moving away. I can still see the relief on her face. Then, in our very last session, just three days before I left, she gave me this notebook. She wanted me to "write down everything about your new house and keep it close to you, so you never forget how lucky you are to have it." I remember that moment vividly. It was the last time I would ever see this woman, and she was still able to hit me with one last sucker-punch of bullshit before I left. But I still took the notebook. I don't know why. It wasn't like me to listen to her. It was her last wish, I guess. 

So that's that. I hope she's happy now. I just hope she's happy as far away from me as possible.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

I got out of bed at around 12 o'clock and put some clean clothes on. They were slightly damp; that didn't bother me though. I'd rather wear wet stuff than smell whatever was on my old clothes again. I picked up the wash pile I'd thrown into the corner last night and held it far away from my face as I made my way down the stairs. My feet ached as I walked.

It took me an unusually long time to find the washing machine. It was eventually found in the kitchen, tucked away in an empty larder which for some reason had a second door in its wall, presumably leading to the back garden. As for the kitchen itself, it was barebones. A sink, a fridge, some old wooden cupboards that smelled vaguely metallic, and an oven that seemed to constantly radiate a feverish heat. The fridge was empty. The cupboards only had flies in and the only content in the drawers was the cutlery that we'd brought ourselves. That was all the unpacking we had needed to do. The door in the back of the larder was locked.

I threw the dirty clothes into the washing machine and tried to get it to turn on, but I couldn't do anything. In fact, nothing seemed to work at all. I assumed they'd all been unplugged so as to avoid a power surge, but I couldn't find any sort of plug socket in the walls. I tried pulling the fridge out to see if it covered anything up, but it wouldn't budge. I eventually just gave up and shut the door to the machine with a loud click, telling myself I'd just wait for the power to come on; that thudding was probably the grid being worked on down the road.

The only other rooms were the dining room and the living room. The dining room was empty except for a single table in the middle. It was strangely high, almost taller than my waist. There was nowhere to sit. In fact, the only chair in the house was the rocking chair in the living room, still facing the door. It was warm, and sitting down I noticed it was far too big for me. It hardly even rocked. I decided to stand instead.

The telly was dated, sitting on a wobbly tripod that looked like it could collapse at any moment. A single, thick wire stretched down one of the legs into the floor. The front was a sickly brown, framing a small squareish screen that bulged out uncomfortably from the main body. It looked damp. There was nothing else on the front; no buttons or dials or anything like that. A weedy little pair of antennae sat on top, giving off a deep, piercing whine. The noise fluctuated regularly, dipping and peaking in pitch as it went. I moved away almost by instinct; my head was beginning to ache. Goosebumps prickled across my arms. I took a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. It tasted of burnt dust.

I was already getting sick of the house. I put on my trainers, still caked in the muck from the field. Then I opened the front door and left. The sky was grey, but I felt the heat on my face. It felt nice. I don't know why. The car was gone; Dad was out. The driveway was dusty. Every so often a slight gust of wind would pass over, scattering the sand across the path and kicking up a little cloud. I walked down the steps and along the path, no particular destination in mind.

The heat weighed down on me as I walked, only slightly cooled by the sweat running down my back. The dust clung to the filth on my trainers, coating them in a thin layer of reddish dirt. I kept walking, coming to a crossroads at the end of the path. To the right was a long line of shiny tarmac that started flat, before taking a sudden uphill climb. Looking through the trees, I saw the sharp point of the spire I'd seen last night. Although it was just the very tip of it, it still gave off a strange, crushing sense of anxiety. I shivered in the warmth, sweat and goosebumps running down my neck.

I went left, toward the village, trying not to think about it. The tarmac wobbled in the heat, its surface riddled with potholes full of murky water. I closed my eyes, listening to the trees rustling in the air. I heard a crow screeching above me, and I looked up to try and find it. I eventually saw it floating in the sky, circling the village. Looking for prey. I didn't think it would find anything; it was the first animal I'd seen since moving, alive or dead.

The road was long and flat. It couldn't really tell whether or not it wanted to be tarmac or dirt, so it kept flitting between the two. The dirt parts were dusty and the tarmac parts were sticky. Both made sure my feet kept aching. The sun shone hard on my neck. My armpits were soaked in sweat, and my shirt stuck to my back. I was tired. I hadn't even walked that far. But I kept going. I don't know why. It wasn't like I was desperate to get to the village. I think I just wanted to stay away from the house. I'd had enough of it for now. I walked for a while more, thinking about something else, when I saw it. Peering out from a sudden dip in the hill. Thurton Quay.

It loomed over me as I approached, swelling out from under the hill as I walked down the road. It had no welcome sign, but rather certain parts of the village just appeared as I went further in. The concrete pavements cracked in the heat, oozing out the rainwater from last night. It splashed as I walked across, washing the dust from my trainers. The mud from the field began to flake off too, dyeing the stagnant pools a sickly shade of green. I looked around; it was like a ghost town. Not one person walked the streets. Various unmarked buildings sat within the circle of road. The road itself had no markings. No building seemed to have any sort of importance; they just lay around, facing any way they liked. I could smell something. I'm not sure what. It wasn't nice. The tarmac must have been quite fresh, or maybe it had melted in the heat, because the road sank slightly beneath my feet as I walked.

The houses at the other end of the street were totally bare; crumbling white walls framing curtained windows. The thatched roofs were wet from the rain. I went to the closest porch and pressed the palm of my hand against the door. Its dark red wood felt soft against my skin. A warm wind ran through the lane, rustling my hair. I pulled my hand away. It stuck slightly to the door. I walked backwards out of the porch until I reached the middle of the road, looking up through the lane, stretching onward for a while and making a subtle curve to the left as it looped around itself. The houses all looked the same, to the point where I struggled to tell where one began and the other started.

Red door, curtained windows, crumbling walls, wet thatch.

They surrounded me as I walked along the road. Cars were parked on handfuls of drives, but it didn't feel like anyone lived in them. But I didn't feel alone. I walked with the road as it turned, and it wasn't any surprise to me that the houses kept going, still repeating up until that road we entered from yesterday. I decided to keep walking though, for no real reason. Curiosity, I guess.

I reached the road out after a few minutes of walking. The heat was suffocating. My feet were killing me and that vile smell from last night was still lingering in the air. I decided to sit down for a few minutes to rest. I leaned my back against the side of the last house to my right, facing the road as it led into the forest. I must have sat there for at least 20 minutes, just staring at the way out. I could have left. I could have simply stood up and walked out. And I wanted to. 

Despite how it may seem, I don't hate it here. But there's something about it that repulses me, rejects me, wants me gone; this visceral urge to leave, something in the folds of my brain telling me to just get out. I still feel it, writing this. Like there's a hole where my stomach's meant to be. I don't even want to go home. I just want to go.

Sorry.

I remember how the wall of the house felt against my back. The base of it was hard, as I expected it would be, but it softened slightly as it went up, so it was surprisingly comfortable against my upper back. The grass beneath me was dry and dusty, but comfortable enough to sit on. The heat felt more like a blanket at this point, and my eyelids were starting to get heavy. A dark cloud passed over the sun, casting a shadow over the village. My watch said almost 3. That must have been when I fell asleep.

When I woke up, the sky was black. The air was still. The ground was warm. My shirt stuck to the wall of the house I had been sleeping against. My back was dripping with sweat, a distinctly dark patch spreading along the back of my shirt. I remember how hungry I felt. I hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before, and my stomach was roaring. I also remember how late it felt. I thought it would have been midnight at the earliest, but it was only 7:00. Eventually my eyes adjusted to the dark enough to see a little, so I got up and started the long walk back. 

I felt safer walking back. The village was sleeping, I guess. But there was a strange sensation in the air, a sort of hanging. Like the sky was a little too low. The air felt dry and lazy. It was cooler now, but still warm. My eyes had adjusted to the dark by now, so I sped up and kept going. I found myself not feeling at all fatigued, despite my hunger. That's not to say I wasn't sleepy though. I was practically sleepwalking by the time I got back to the house.

I arrived at about 8:00. The car was parked in the driveway, so Dad must have come back when I was out. He was plating up dinner as I entered the house. It smelled like his usual; stuff with beans on. Since there were no chairs, we couldn't really eat in the dining room, so we ate in the living room instead. Dad was on the rocking chair and I sat on the floor, my back against the wall. The food was good, if not slightly overcooked. But I was too hungry to care; I finished it before Dad was even halfway done. I went to the now relatively full larder for a slice of bread, and found that not only was that weird inner door unlocked, but it was slightly ajar. I closed it. I saw some detergent by the washing machine, so I decided to stuff my clothes in and turn it on. Thankfully, it started. Soon I'll be able to wear some properly clean clothes.

Sleep was starting to catch up with me, so I decided to head to bed. Dad mumbled a goodnight as he picked at his food. After closing the door behind me, I heard a sudden sharp whine and the soft crackle of static from the telly. Dad probably wanted me gone so he could watch it in peace. I don't care, so long as he's quiet. I want to get a good sleep tonight.

The bedroom is stuffy as usual. My eyes are practically shut. My body aches.

I don't want to dream tonight. I don't think that would be good for me.

Night.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.