"Throw one at me if you want, hash head. I've got all five senses and I slept last night, that puts me six up on the lot of you."
- Brendan Frye, Brick.
The old bed sagged and gaped, seeming to swallow Tarquin. Sleeping. Deep and dreamless. The silence of the early morning broken periodically by an errant car along the sallow lights of the old cracked Fleet street. In the distance on a hill, a water tower, looming over the houses and hate factories like an obscene giant, desperately observing his horde. The faint smell of moisture in the air, the clouds like shadows in the sky, occasionally catching the glint of the nearby strip malls and hardware mega stores, a fluorescent orgy of light.
In the peaceful din, a figure. It climbs up the railing of apartment fifteen. The figure looks around, quiet, it's black eyes catching the a shine of the hardware sign . The figure leans back over the rail and helps another up. Tarquin. Sleeping. The old lock of the old aluminium framed glass door is unlocked by the figure who was helped up. Tarquin stirs but doesn't wake, years of living in the complex of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street has aclimatised him to noise. It's hard to sleep if there isn't now. The old man underneath him in seven shouting at the television, the junkie couple fucking or fighting or both next to him in fourteen, the single middle aged wierd guy in twelve reminding Tarquin of what he is doomed to become. Two hundred and thirty four constantly breathes and seethes, a honeycombe of sadistic sweat and tears, a monument to apathy and hopelessness and Tarquin, a part of it. His mortgage, his Swedish kitchen, his beige loungeroom, his old aluminium framed glass door opening.
They filter, taking only what necessary, like black wrays silently moving along the sea bed. Lifting what is needed, discarding what isn't. Tarquin. Sleeping. The door of Tarquin's room is slowly opened by a wray. It looks at Tarquin, it's black eyes catching the red hue of the alarm clock radio. The door betrays the wray with a sound and Tarquin's eyes open and trace to the location. The wray stands, cold, icy, still. They stare at eachother, a rich sweat enveloping Tarquin, his palms clammed, his heart skipping. This isn't a dream it's a nightmare. They stare. How long have we being staring at eachother? It feels like forever. The wray is joined by it's companion. They both stare, they all stare. Tarquin remembers where the knife is and takes a breath. One of the wrays shift it's weight to move. Go. In a beat, in what seems like the liminal space between moments he throws the covers towards the wray and moves, his hand catching his father's knife. A war cry, the only thing Tarquin could think to say as the two wrays and he collided. His father's knife finding a stomach, the wray's fists' and bodies finding Tarquin's. His father's knife returning to the same stomach once more and once more and once more. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. A wray screams, his arms reach and strangle Tarquin. A crack. As violent and sudden as it started the fight is over. Tarquin, breathless looks down, a sharp burning in his lung. The other wray runs, leaving Tarquin and it's companion. The companion is still. They both slump to the ground. Tarquin drops his father's knife and touches the cold metal phillips head sticking out of his right lung. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. Tarquin and the wray slump, together, still, both of them leaning on eachother. Tarquin strains to see around him, his eyes bruised and bloody and crying. The taste of iron rich on his tongue.
In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thrity four Fleet street Tarquin struggles to breath, he is tired and wants to sleep. He needs his sleep. He has work in the morning. It's starting to rain. Tarquin struggles to breath and remember why he is on the floor with a motionless wray. The wray isn't stuggling. The wray is still. Tarquin tries to talk but can only manage a gargle of rich, dark blood. Tarquin misses his mother. Tarquin wants his mother. Tarquin lies, sobbing, next to a dead boy in apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street. In a pool of thick, wet blood. Missing his mother. In the dark. In the rain. In the distance, sirens.
They filter, taking only what necessary, like black wrays silently moving along the sea bed. Lifting what is needed, discarding what isn't. Tarquin. Sleeping. The door of Tarquin's room is slowly opened by a wray. It looks at Tarquin, it's black eyes catching the red hue of the alarm clock radio. The door betrays the wray with a sound and Tarquin's eyes open and trace to the location. The wray stands, cold, icy, still. They stare at eachother, a rich sweat enveloping Tarquin, his palms clammed, his heart skipping. This isn't a dream it's a nightmare. They stare. How long have we being staring at eachother? It feels like forever. The wray is joined by it's companion. They both stare, they all stare. Tarquin remembers where the knife is and takes a breath. One of the wrays shift it's weight to move. Go. In a beat, in what seems like the liminal space between moments he throws the covers towards the wray and moves, his hand catching his father's knife. A war cry, the only thing Tarquin could think to say as the two wrays and he collided. His father's knife finding a stomach, the wray's fists' and bodies finding Tarquin's. His father's knife returning to the same stomach once more and once more and once more. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. A wray screams, his arms reach and strangle Tarquin. A crack. As violent and sudden as it started the fight is over. Tarquin, breathless looks down, a sharp burning in his lung. The other wray runs, leaving Tarquin and it's companion. The companion is still. They both slump to the ground. Tarquin drops his father's knife and touches the cold metal phillips head sticking out of his right lung. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. Tarquin and the wray slump, together, still, both of them leaning on eachother. Tarquin strains to see around him, his eyes bruised and bloody and crying. The taste of iron rich on his tongue.
In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thrity four Fleet street Tarquin struggles to breath, he is tired and wants to sleep. He needs his sleep. He has work in the morning. It's starting to rain. Tarquin struggles to breath and remember why he is on the floor with a motionless wray. The wray isn't stuggling. The wray is still. Tarquin tries to talk but can only manage a gargle of rich, dark blood. Tarquin misses his mother. Tarquin wants his mother. Tarquin lies, sobbing, next to a dead boy in apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street. In a pool of thick, wet blood. Missing his mother. In the dark. In the rain. In the distance, sirens.
