Keyhole

Keyhole

The feeling of bare wood rakes against my neck. I sit against the wall, staring at my long bony arm. Nothing but the sound of my breath keeps me from silence. I cannot move. I cannot speak. All I can do is think of the other side of this door.

I’ve been sitting here for hours now, or it feels that long. I’ve passed the time though. At first I picked a patch on the floor beside me, where there’s still some carpet left. I’ve worked up quite a pile. Then I counted my track marks. I found seven on my left arm (the one I’m looking at now), four on my right. Then there’s six on my legs (total), two on my neck and one on my c**k. You don’t want to do that too often, but sometimes the other veins won’t heal before you need to shoot up again. Still, I had pus coming out for a week.

Most of the time though, I’ve just been imagining what I’ll find when I open that door. I know she’s in there. Every now and then I hear her breathing. I looked through the keyhole a couple of times, but I couldn’t see s**t. I don’t need to see to know. She was f*****g somebody, and he’s still in there.

I started suspecting she was sleeping around a couple of months ago. By that point the heroin had completely killed my sex drive. She had only started using recently, so she was acting like a kid discovering chocolate for the first time. Because she was so elated with the world, she wanted to do it almost every night. Sometimes I just lay there and let her do her thing, but she kept yelling at me for being lazy, so I stopped bothering.

Eventually she stopped pestering me. Then whenever I came home she always seemed in a rush, like she was trying to hide something. Sometimes when I’m asleep she even goes out and thinks I don’t notice. I know she can’t afford food or junk without me, so she must be with a guy.

I can’t go in yet. I have to wait for her to come out with him, so I can catch her. If I just barge in now, even though I’ll be right, she’ll win. She’ll be the one too good for me and I’ll just be the helpless b*****d who got screwed over. This way, I’m the mastermind. I’ll be the one in the position of power, ready to attack. She’ll walk out with her little piece of c**k to find me sitting there, stroking my pile of carpet like Blowfeld. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.

I look back down at my arm. I must have been scratching at it or something, because it’s gone all red. S**t, maybe she knows I’m out here. Maybe she’s hiding in there, just laughing at me while I sit on the floor scraping myself to death. Maybe they’re doing it right now, knowing the whole time all that separates them from me is a few inches of pine.

I can’t take it anymore. I’m coming for you. I’m going to drag both of you out here and make you pay for what you’ve done to me. Most importantly, you’re never getting money or smack from me ever again.

A sudden surge of energy allows me to rise. I am a lowly junky no more. Now I am a man with a mission. I stride the three steps from one side of the hall to the other, ready to avenge. In one fell swing, the door opens, breaking the divide.

 

I look up. She’s lying there, asleep. Alone.

 

For a long time I don’t know what to do. I just stand there, motionless. What should I think? Obviously I was wrong, she’s right here in front of me. Still, I don’t feel satisfied. I feel like I never opened the door.

I need to go somewhere. Not far, just away from this f*****g room. Now. With a great deal more effort than it took to open, I close the door and head into the bathroom. I’m sweaty as hell, so I turn the tap up as cold as possible and drench myself. That helps to take me back, and I manage to gather my thoughts a little.

Looking up from the sink, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Disgusting acne leaps out from my face at every possible angle. Blackheads, whiteheads, those sacs with the weird gunk inside. They’re all there, showcased like in a zoo. Parents should take their kids to see this instead�"cheetah cubs don’t teach you to stop popping spots.

I wonder if I looked like this when I met Jane. She wasn’t using back then. I’m the one who first turned her onto it. I can tell people judge me for it, even my so-called friends. “She was such a sweet girl, before he turned her onto that s**t”. I heard someone say that as we left the pub one time. I think it was her aunt or something. The thing is, nobody thinks about how I got “turned onto” junk. It was my older brother, two years ago, but does anyone care? No, because they need a villain. Well, what if auntie knew that sweet Jane has given smack to at least four of her friends? When it comes to heroin, we’re all innocent and we’re all guilty.

To be honest, I don’t know why I keep her around. I don’t want to have sex with her. I don’t even like her. I guess it’s just easier. Still, I should probably tell her to f**k off now, while I have the energy. I mean, she still might be cheating on me, if not at this very instant. Yeah, I’ll go back in there now. I’ll go back in, and she�"

 

I just heard a laugh. Not just any laugh, either- a guy’s laugh. I pounce like a cat and I’m right back at the keyhole, peering into the source of my despair. I still can’t see anything. I tear open the door and find her lying there again. I check under the bed, the wardrobes, anywhere big enough to fit a person. All I find are some clothes and empty chocolate wrappers. I turn back toward Jane. She’s still asleep, thank god. If she had woken up, I couldn’t have dealt with it. Here I am on all fours, surrounded by socks and bras, like I’m going to find her secret lover in an underwear drawer. I look like a stray dog scrounging for food.

I’m pathetic. I’m tired and pathetic. Without putting anything back, I drag myself out of the bedroom and into the room next to it. I don’t know what to call this room; all it has is some old patio furniture and a small window. I prop myself up in the nearest corner and stare over to the other side. That corner�"not the one I’m sitting in, the one I’m looking at�"is where I kept all my comic books. I had hundreds of them, all stacked in shelves and ordered as well as I could. I sold my last one three months ago. Grant Morrison’s Doom Patrol. It wasn’t my favourite, but it was worth the least, so I sold it last.

What do I have now? No money, nothing to do. Just some furniture that’s too s**t to sell and Jane. I got rid of everything I liked and kept what I hated. What does that say about me?

This room is depressing the hell out of me. I can’t think of anywhere that won’t, though. No matter where I go, I’ll be there.

Finally I decide to go back to the hallway. I’m still tired, but I do it anyway. I end up back at the wall opposite the bedroom. The familiar grain of wood welcomes my neck’s return. I sit. I wait. I don’t know why, but I have nothing else to do.

You know, maybe he is in there. Maybe.

Author's Note

The second story I ever wrote. Also the most cringe-worthy thing I've ever written. Shit execution to an idea I actually like. I'd appreciate feedback because I do think there's potential.

Reviews

[V]

I'm usually not that much interested in short stories (even though I have written some too but rather poetic ones), this one read quite nice, there's a soberness about it which I like and some traits that make it read kind of personal and you're right, this style has potential yet that's all I can say about it, I'm not a good reviewer when it comes to stories because I'm mainly interested in poetry.

[Kim Black]

Thanks Vanessa

[barleygirl]

I'm impressed at the way you can paint a bleak picture, but it's not actually cringe-worthy, in my eyes. I mean, sometimes a bleak write is so intense, it's hard to get thru it. But you manage to show this desperate scenario in a different way . . . it's full of morbid details, but overall, the ongoing internal dialogue of the narrator (which is the focal point) keeps the reader's mindset in a more cerebral place, rather than a graphic sensory yukky place. I'm more pondering this guy's observations of his sad life, as I'm reading, rather than staying stuck on the various descriptions of pus & so on.

As I read, I was guessing all along that he would finally touch this lady & figure out that she'd died from an overdose. Becuz of this, I felt a little "letdown" at the less intense ending. Nevertheless, the fact that he doesn't even touch her or check her out to see if she is OK, this is a testament to how self-absorbed he is, which is so pathetically realistic about addiction. That's what stands out the most about this portrait. You spend a good amount of time TELLING, as well as SHOWING (the most powerful way to write) . . . yet this is the part where you SHOW without telling & that what makes it so powerful to me -- this aspect of they guy SAYING he cares about this lady, but you show us that he really doesn't give a crap about anything but himself.

[Coyote Poetry]

Powerful story written. You create character, dangerous life and I liked the thoughts and the conversation. The story had a real life feel to the words. Thank you Kim for sharing the outstanding story. You brought me in and you held my attention.
Coyote

[Kim Black]

Thanks, I appreciate it a lot!

[Coyote Poetry]

Was my pleasure and you are welcome.