I hang like a frozen pendulum, staring out of the frosted window of the Material World, trying to catch a glimpse of the outside. I like where I hang. I can sneak greedy glimpses of the world of which I do not exist in; a summer blue backdrop scattered in floating soap bubbles; streaks of pink and violet racing each other to somewhere out of my vision; and inky blacks that match my Material Other’s eyelashes.
My M.O. is beautiful: blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of gold, inquisitive blue eyes that have seen so much more of the M.W. than I can even imagine, and many, many blue garments to always cover her white skin — it reminds me a lot of the new porcelain bathtub, flawless and smooth. I am never allowed to caress any part of that delicate skin; my very existence prevents us from ever touching. But she has lots of admirers — I know because most nights she will creep up close to me, unaware that I am staring right back, and pout her lips, like the little yellow duck on the side, while she paints them the colour of a rare and beautiful sunrise.
Those sunrises always stimulate the wish to be able to leave my world and enter the M.W. just to press my nose up against the window and enhance my experience. Instead, I have to stand still and wait for my M.O. . This stillness is a curse and a blessing — I can never physically tire (she often moans about her ‘poor feet’) but mentally? Mentally, I am starved. But I am not the only thing starved in this six-by-twelve foot space. Something else has moved in. Something else is ravenous. Something else watches me just as I watch her.
It was never here before. Before, there was only me and the yellow duck, sat happy on his bed of lilac oyster shells. My M.O. chose those shells after reading a poem once. She spoke it aloud to me — a grand tale about hungry walruses and carpenters and the inevitable fate of those poor oysters. The little yellow duck and I listened eagerly, silently encouraging her always for more!
We were happy to stay where we were, happy with our placements. But It isn’t. When It first came, I rattled against the tiled walls. I nearly fell. I nearly ceased to exist in my world and the M.W. . When It first came, the yellow duck was repeatedly pushed onto the floor. He had to shiver and quake amongst the dust, waiting to be saved. When my M.O. saw us both, trembling in fear and in need of comfort, she simply shook her head with a smile.
“Just a draft, must have left the window open.”
No you didn’t! She cannot hear me because I cannot speak. I want to warn her and flail my arms, point a finger at the source, but I can’t. When she turns and smiles at me, I am reduced to replicating her actions. I am a puppet longing to burst free of my strings. Yet I cannot — I must be the perfect parallel to my mistress’ actions: every swirl of her blue dress, every flyaway strand of gold, every twitch of her eyebrows.
Yet she is oblivious to what I saw. After a while, I began to believe that maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just a breeze. I realised too late that I was right all along, on one colour saturated morning when the sky was bleeding down the frosted glass window . . .
The sky is indigo, the radiator hums, and the little yellow duck smiles at the taps. Before she left, my M.O. pulled the shower curtain across and now my limited view of this other world is even more limited. I look around the space and notice the vast amounts of purple sand in plastic tubes. She loves floral things — the candles and bath sand are all ‘lavender’, although I have never experienced the fragrance of lavender as I have no physical nose to test its pungency; just as I have no tongue to sample the rich, fat tomatoes growing on the windowsill. The fruit looks like it has absorbed all of those bleeding sunsets and produced something just as beautiful out of it: the skin is shiny, almost patent; the emerald green vines clutch at them anxiously as if they might be ripped away suddenly. Looking at its clingy stems I should have realised then that something was wrong.
Unfortunately, I was preoccupied, transfixed by the M.W.’s strange transformation of indigo to black. Heavy grey soap bubbles dawdled past my window. Frustrated, I internally willed them to move on. Go away! Let me see! They lingered a moment longer and then dutifully slumped past. Mean things. As they did, a breeze slithered in. The ceiling light rocked. Deformed shadows began to grow in the corners. The shower curtain shuddered.
Just a draft. Just a draft —
THUD. The pouty yellow duck fell to the floor, his lower lip wobbling. I froze. I wanted to believe it was a pesky draft so badly. I wanted to go back to watching the outside M.W. . Yet I couldn’t block out the growing black puddle behind the curtain. The wailing wind outside was anxious to rush by without being noticed. But I was trapped. Confined to my fate of watching this horror grow. Its shadowy limbs extended, its shapeless back curling over itself, and it began to reach. Pointed talons rippled the fabric. Ravenous growls bounced across the tiles.
Petrified, I felt my world rattle. The urge to flee, to hide, was nauseous. It just kept reaching and reaching, eager to tear flesh from flesh, shatter shard from shard. I could feel It’s craving for destruction. It felt like those greedy vines wrapping themselves around me and squeezing until I collapsed: shattered, ruined, pieces of my former being.
It’s stopped reaching. In fact those beastly claws have shrunken into thin needles. Perhaps It knows there is nothing for it here? Or maybe the silverly beam of light that penetrates this gloomy space is enough to vanquish it? In the peripherals, It continues to be sucked down the plughole, where all the other unwanted creatures are destined to.
“Leave me alone!”
SLAM.
My M.O. has finally returned. Her bad date is the least of her worries because her shouting has roused It. It has quickly reestablished itself in the corner of the shower — an ominous black shadow, greedy and starved. I want to shout out a warning: Run! Hide! Don’t come in! But I can only helplessly watch and wait for my strings to be pulled.
Footsteps. The vibrations echo, beating like a heart.
It drools. Saliva falls like faint raindrops.
Both become entities, alive and breathing. I struggle to discern between them. Footsteps thudding. Saliva dripping. Merging into one. I can’t breathe. I strain myself to make a noise — any noise! Warn her! Warn my M.O.!
I rattle against the wall.
“Hello?”
No, no, no!
The footsteps stop. The dripping stops. Everything seems to have frozen. The little duck shrinks away. I hold my breath. I must not move. She must not come in.
The doorknob turns. My M.O. pulls the light cord, peering inside. Two bulbs illuminate one half of the space. One light is out. My M.O. steps in front of me. She shivers. I shiver.
The bulb flickers. She frowns at it, mutters something inaudible. Cursing it, I think. She looks back at me and —
“Holy SHIT!”
It’s there! It’s staring at her! She flinches and screams, pivoting towards It — It lunges: teeth bared, claws tearing, limbs striking. My M.O. is screaming, flailing, sobbing. Pain is rushing through her tiny body, her skin is breaking, red rivers gush through the cracks. She is slammed into me — I crash into the tiles. I am shattered, flung in every direction. Suddenly a million me’s are replicating her futile fight — and a million It’s are clawing right back.
… And this is how I came to be here, scattered in a corner, far past the yellow duck. I am powerless! Even now, all I can do is copy her panicked thrashing. I am watching the death of my M.O. and of myself.
A blood-curdling scream rakes at every nerve possible. It has mauled her throat open, my beautiful M.O. is a ruined and bloodied carcass on the tiles. Her lungs rattle with finality. It is grinning, white teeth stained with death.
And the last thing I see, as I begin to wither into an eternal paralysis, is, as It recedes back into the depths of the plughole, the black outside giving way to a mourning fire. The sun begins to weep, its colours haemorrhaging down the window pane, as my M.O. takes her final, painful breath . . .
Photograph: Heather Lukins 2015