Little Demons

 

 

I listened as Ronnie snored, the sound neatly pulled up and out and into the noise of traffic outside.  I watched the wind blow little circles through the ashtray resting on the windowsill.  Beyond, a perfect view of a brick wall; behind me there was the pitch dark and the sounds of Ronnie snoring and the soft rustle of sheets rising and falling with his breath.    I knew the walls were still that shade of baby-puke green all the flops on Market Street sported; the bed remained a hard-luck case of busted springs and lice-infested sheets.  Even with the lights out, in dark night, I knew these things.  They never change.

 I felt nothing. I shook free another cigarette and lit it.  I listened to the girls on the street and distant car engines growing louder and then quieter again, soft squealing tires turning a corner.  I felt the little folds—the hills and valleys of the sheets—beneath me like great arteries.  They moved, gently, as of blood being pumped.  There is nothing in the dark that isn’t in the light—only my demons coming to call. Like marching ants they pick up speed.  The folds in the sheet pulsed with their intent, orderly movements.  I felt them going down the side of the bed and then up my legs, beating the well-worn path in my flesh.  They grew—not so much ants as roaches, not so much roaches as rats.  Some come to rest on my shoulders, pushing, impatient for a drag from my cigarette.  Others overtake the bed, investigating the stale breath of Ronnie’s snores or nibbling the errant bedbug in their path. 

I caught a brief image of Ronnie’s face, the face he would make should he awake and find them so.  A demon whispered, “wake him.”  Another squealed, “take him, now.”  It never changes.  Smiling, I put away Ronnie’s face.  The demons would win in the end, of course.  I don’t refuse them so much as I ignore them all together.  Someday, I’ll wake him.  Someday I’ll watch as his big dumb jaw drops in horror and the rats start crawling in.  I can even imagine them chewing their way through his sinuses, nibbling past the cartilage into his brain, moving his eyebrows up and down enticingly with their tails from beneath that Cro-Magnon forehead of his.

A brick wall, in front me, I felt the mortar begin to seep.  The bricks appeared to loose cohesion though the structure never changed.  Never changes.  The sheets pulsed lightly with the flow of blood through the arteries of the madwoman I projected over my tiny universe.  The demons rested.  My energy was sapped.  I watched the wind blow circles through my ashtray one last time, then crawled under the sheets with my Ronnie.  Tomorrow we’d go on as always.  Let the demons rest a while.  In the end they would win but I wasn’t too worried about that.  In the end, there is nothing in the dark that wasn’t always right there in the light. 

 

 

Reviews

[facadeofshadows]

Your portrayal of this woman was striking! Very vivid and powerful. I really like her, haha.

You do have an interesting writing style. Honestly, I found it difficult to read. Your sentences felt really harsh at the beginning of the story, and I almost didn't continue� which would have been very sad. But as I got further down, things seemed to come together a bit better. Don't be afraid of the word "the" or "and." Try to pull your sentences together into more fluidity.

Your descriptions were beautiful. I particularly was enchanted by the wind in the ashtray. Imagery is a strong point for you! Use it. Weave your words together as well as you do your images.