kafkaontheshore
03-30-2014, 02:08 PM
Over a minute had passed since he’d looked back at the body. Not out of disgust, not out of horror...not even out of fear...No. He was preoccupied with squeezing the life out of a ketchup bottle onto a full plate of chips, his red stained hands camouflaging against the condiment. Behind his back, the body lay still, slumped against the wall, its limp eyes fixated on the cream coloured wallpaper. Just five minutes earlier, those same eyes were moving frantically between the man now swallowing his food and the knife which now rested on the table; remembering that thought made the man snigger. The oven had been turned on, forcing prophecies of a charred death into the victim’s head. Little did she know that blood lust makes one hungry.
The publisher lowered the paper from his face and grinned at Cormac.
“Who would have thought such horror would bring such delight.” Cormac wore a look of disdain.
“Should be done in the next couple of months. I’m just figuring out the ending.”
“I’m sure you’ll find the solution. You always do.”
*
Cormac sat on his cold wooden chair, the one that he spent what seemed like centuries on while writing his books. The table he sat before was bare, except for a largish sketchbook, four pencils, and a copy of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Something was troubling Cormac, and had been for a while. He was rambling:
‘Even the holiest of men have sadistic thoughts, perhaps even fantasies. The mere notion of being entertained by fear, horror and gore has to be sadistic. If being entertained by this is sadistic, then what is the entertainer? A liar spawning a hoax, in this case...I write, but never have I done. I am the entertainer who has stage fright...It turns my stomach.
You, standing there in the corner with your face against the wall, turn around and reveal yourself. Your hunched shoulders, gangling limbs, mischievous, clawing hands - how to rid myself of you I ask and the answer stares dumbly back at me. I’ve always known the answer, but now I have nothing left to stop myself from answering.’
Cormac’s mind was deteriorating.
He’d grown up in the cocoon of suburbia; a grey, protected haven. However Cormac’s childhood had been far from heavenly. On Cormac’s twelfth birthday, his last surviving grandparent died. This was the beginning of his father’s decline. From this day onwards, his mother and father’s relationship disintegrated, and Cormac’s simple life was rattled. Months would pass by where he wouldn’t see his father, and while his mother tried to survive, this downtrodden life was eating away at her. Two years after Cormac’s twelfth birthday, his father murdered three students living together in an apartment on H---- H---. The aftermath of news reports and investigations stalked him. Gruesome rumours meant that never for a second was Cormac free of his father, or his actions. Cormac’s first home away from his mother was a three minute walk from H---- H---.
By the age of twenty six, Cormac had written four immensely popular horror books. Each one was revered for its ability to grind down the inner workings of the human being, and how these inner workings would ultimately lead to their downfall. People seemed to have an appetite for Cormac’s twisted writing, and by the age of seventy one, Cormac had written seventeen books - fourteen were nominated for notable prizes. The three that weren’t nominated were ones in which Cormac had diluted the horror.
He awoke on his seventy second birthday. He lived alone near the R---- R----. His mother, now sick in old age, was housed at a hospice just a ten minute walk from his house. She had alzheimer’s and now struggled to recall who Cormac was. He sat patiently at her side as he always did. They talked for a while, among numerous things, about fiction. She said that fiction was a useless lie made for those who rely on others to provide them with an interesting story. Cormac stayed with her for another ten minutes, and then left for his house.
Alone, aged seventy two - a youthful seventy two at that - Cormac was becoming nostalgic, as he saw no benefits in looking forward. He would sit at his desk, smoking Camel straights until his chest would begin to wheeze, and contemplate his work. More and more Cormac viewed his work as a gross lie; his illegitimate child that had grown up in a haze of plagiaristic tales. All Cormac wished to do was cleanse himself of this self loathing brought about by his fake, sadistic tales.
*
Cormac entered the building at eight in the evening. Apartments lined the corridors, and little noise came from inside them. In his bag lay his latest book, a notebook, pencil, and an A-Z map. A knife sat in his right pocket. It was the one his father had given him.
Cormac walked up to number 6. As he knocked, someone from the adjacent apartment opened the door. They gave Cormac a soft smile and sauntered down to the stairway, quickly glancing back at him as they went through the door. Cormac was wearing a long black mac which ended just above his knees, dark brown cords and smart black brogues: he had dressed well for the occasion. Cormac switched his attention back to number “6”, hearing heavy footsteps approaching from behind it. The door opened, and a thirty-odd year old man appeared. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing pale white skin.
“Hello?” the man asked in a thick city accent. Cormac imagined himself at the bottom of a cavernous pit, the words echoing around the walls melodically. Cormac smiled.
“Hi, sorry...Does Esmeralda live here?”
“Errr, no sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong place mate...Don’t think there’s an Esmeralda in the building.”
“Oh…” uttered Cormac, providing a convincingly puzzled facial expression. “Sorry, guess I got the address wrong.” Cormac knew where he was and why he was there. “Do you know where abouts “S----- C---- is?” Cormac began pulling out the A-Z map from his bag, simultaneously feeling the knife graze his breast as he leant down. The man chuckled to himself, and pulled a phone from his pocket.
“Don’t worry I’ll get it up on here. What was the place called again?” As the man stepped forward, eyes glued to the screen, Cormac gripped his knife and tore it down the man’s left arm. A crevice formed, and blood spilled down, coating his palm in a layer of dark red. The man gave a muffled, inhuman cry before Cormac plunged deep into his stomach. The man’s legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed. He lay strewn in such a pitiable heap, twitching and convulsing, swamped by such shock, that he could not meet the eyes of Cormac, his executioner. All Cormac could do was stand and watch as the seconds passed until there were no more seconds left to pass.
The body lay motionless on the floor, his head covering the “we” in the “welcome” doormat he had perhaps unwisely invested in. Cormac pulled the man into the apartment, a trail of blood shadowing its every movement. Cormac closed the door gently. Turning round, he surveyed his surroundings: a small sofa stood in front of him; paintings lined the walls; a television was propped up on a stack of worn out magazines. Behind the sofa was a counter which sheltered a modest kitchen. A recently brewed cup of tea was steaming. A bottle of ketchup was open; its head was missing.
Cormac saw a pair of shoes and a drenched coat hanging over to them. The drops of rain falling from the end had formed a puddle in one of the shoes. On a table at the back of the room was a book. Cormac's name was printed along the spine.
Cormac stepped over the body which he had leaned against the wall, the head lolling to one side. He sat down on the sofa, the cushions exhaling as Cormac eased onto it. He stared at the blank television screen. Cormac was unsure of what to do next. No overwhelming thought or action entered into his head. He had imagined something quite different to what he was feeling now.
He pulled his notebook and pencil from his bag. But the flurry of thoughts and emotion never came. Words were not spilling from his mind onto the page. What had he expected? A scene similar to the ones he had curated so many times before? He swivelled his head so that the man stared straight back at him. The hollow eyes bore into Cormac. The man was the same - cold and lifeless - but as Cormac continued to stare he thought he saw movement. Flick. A tiny, almost invisible movement, but the man was still. Cormac shivered.
Behind him, a timer suddenly bleeped. Cormac was snapped out of his fugue state, and he rose from his seated position. In the oven was a full tray of chips. For some unknown reason, Cormac felt the urge to stop them burning. He held a dishcloth between his hands and levered the tray out. The dishcloth was smeared with blood from his hands. A drip from his coat made the tray sizzle. Without thinking, he raised a chip to his mouth and dropped it in. It burnt his tongue, but he carried on eating.
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The publisher lowered the paper from his face and grinned at Cormac.
“Who would have thought such horror would bring such delight.” Cormac wore a look of disdain.
“Should be done in the next couple of months. I’m just figuring out the ending.”
“I’m sure you’ll find the solution. You always do.”
*
Cormac sat on his cold wooden chair, the one that he spent what seemed like centuries on while writing his books. The table he sat before was bare, except for a largish sketchbook, four pencils, and a copy of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Something was troubling Cormac, and had been for a while. He was rambling:
‘Even the holiest of men have sadistic thoughts, perhaps even fantasies. The mere notion of being entertained by fear, horror and gore has to be sadistic. If being entertained by this is sadistic, then what is the entertainer? A liar spawning a hoax, in this case...I write, but never have I done. I am the entertainer who has stage fright...It turns my stomach.
You, standing there in the corner with your face against the wall, turn around and reveal yourself. Your hunched shoulders, gangling limbs, mischievous, clawing hands - how to rid myself of you I ask and the answer stares dumbly back at me. I’ve always known the answer, but now I have nothing left to stop myself from answering.’
Cormac’s mind was deteriorating.
He’d grown up in the cocoon of suburbia; a grey, protected haven. However Cormac’s childhood had been far from heavenly. On Cormac’s twelfth birthday, his last surviving grandparent died. This was the beginning of his father’s decline. From this day onwards, his mother and father’s relationship disintegrated, and Cormac’s simple life was rattled. Months would pass by where he wouldn’t see his father, and while his mother tried to survive, this downtrodden life was eating away at her. Two years after Cormac’s twelfth birthday, his father murdered three students living together in an apartment on H---- H---. The aftermath of news reports and investigations stalked him. Gruesome rumours meant that never for a second was Cormac free of his father, or his actions. Cormac’s first home away from his mother was a three minute walk from H---- H---.
By the age of twenty six, Cormac had written four immensely popular horror books. Each one was revered for its ability to grind down the inner workings of the human being, and how these inner workings would ultimately lead to their downfall. People seemed to have an appetite for Cormac’s twisted writing, and by the age of seventy one, Cormac had written seventeen books - fourteen were nominated for notable prizes. The three that weren’t nominated were ones in which Cormac had diluted the horror.
He awoke on his seventy second birthday. He lived alone near the R---- R----. His mother, now sick in old age, was housed at a hospice just a ten minute walk from his house. She had alzheimer’s and now struggled to recall who Cormac was. He sat patiently at her side as he always did. They talked for a while, among numerous things, about fiction. She said that fiction was a useless lie made for those who rely on others to provide them with an interesting story. Cormac stayed with her for another ten minutes, and then left for his house.
Alone, aged seventy two - a youthful seventy two at that - Cormac was becoming nostalgic, as he saw no benefits in looking forward. He would sit at his desk, smoking Camel straights until his chest would begin to wheeze, and contemplate his work. More and more Cormac viewed his work as a gross lie; his illegitimate child that had grown up in a haze of plagiaristic tales. All Cormac wished to do was cleanse himself of this self loathing brought about by his fake, sadistic tales.
*
Cormac entered the building at eight in the evening. Apartments lined the corridors, and little noise came from inside them. In his bag lay his latest book, a notebook, pencil, and an A-Z map. A knife sat in his right pocket. It was the one his father had given him.
Cormac walked up to number 6. As he knocked, someone from the adjacent apartment opened the door. They gave Cormac a soft smile and sauntered down to the stairway, quickly glancing back at him as they went through the door. Cormac was wearing a long black mac which ended just above his knees, dark brown cords and smart black brogues: he had dressed well for the occasion. Cormac switched his attention back to number “6”, hearing heavy footsteps approaching from behind it. The door opened, and a thirty-odd year old man appeared. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing pale white skin.
“Hello?” the man asked in a thick city accent. Cormac imagined himself at the bottom of a cavernous pit, the words echoing around the walls melodically. Cormac smiled.
“Hi, sorry...Does Esmeralda live here?”
“Errr, no sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong place mate...Don’t think there’s an Esmeralda in the building.”
“Oh…” uttered Cormac, providing a convincingly puzzled facial expression. “Sorry, guess I got the address wrong.” Cormac knew where he was and why he was there. “Do you know where abouts “S----- C---- is?” Cormac began pulling out the A-Z map from his bag, simultaneously feeling the knife graze his breast as he leant down. The man chuckled to himself, and pulled a phone from his pocket.
“Don’t worry I’ll get it up on here. What was the place called again?” As the man stepped forward, eyes glued to the screen, Cormac gripped his knife and tore it down the man’s left arm. A crevice formed, and blood spilled down, coating his palm in a layer of dark red. The man gave a muffled, inhuman cry before Cormac plunged deep into his stomach. The man’s legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed. He lay strewn in such a pitiable heap, twitching and convulsing, swamped by such shock, that he could not meet the eyes of Cormac, his executioner. All Cormac could do was stand and watch as the seconds passed until there were no more seconds left to pass.
The body lay motionless on the floor, his head covering the “we” in the “welcome” doormat he had perhaps unwisely invested in. Cormac pulled the man into the apartment, a trail of blood shadowing its every movement. Cormac closed the door gently. Turning round, he surveyed his surroundings: a small sofa stood in front of him; paintings lined the walls; a television was propped up on a stack of worn out magazines. Behind the sofa was a counter which sheltered a modest kitchen. A recently brewed cup of tea was steaming. A bottle of ketchup was open; its head was missing.
Cormac saw a pair of shoes and a drenched coat hanging over to them. The drops of rain falling from the end had formed a puddle in one of the shoes. On a table at the back of the room was a book. Cormac's name was printed along the spine.
Cormac stepped over the body which he had leaned against the wall, the head lolling to one side. He sat down on the sofa, the cushions exhaling as Cormac eased onto it. He stared at the blank television screen. Cormac was unsure of what to do next. No overwhelming thought or action entered into his head. He had imagined something quite different to what he was feeling now.
He pulled his notebook and pencil from his bag. But the flurry of thoughts and emotion never came. Words were not spilling from his mind onto the page. What had he expected? A scene similar to the ones he had curated so many times before? He swivelled his head so that the man stared straight back at him. The hollow eyes bore into Cormac. The man was the same - cold and lifeless - but as Cormac continued to stare he thought he saw movement. Flick. A tiny, almost invisible movement, but the man was still. Cormac shivered.
Behind him, a timer suddenly bleeped. Cormac was snapped out of his fugue state, and he rose from his seated position. In the oven was a full tray of chips. For some unknown reason, Cormac felt the urge to stop them burning. He held a dishcloth between his hands and levered the tray out. The dishcloth was smeared with blood from his hands. A drip from his coat made the tray sizzle. Without thinking, he raised a chip to his mouth and dropped it in. It burnt his tongue, but he carried on eating.
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