Untitled by Gearoid O Broin
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Untitled by Gearoid O Broin
The following story has been selected as a featured runner-up in our 2015 short story contest (Contest Theme - "The Self-Destructiveness of Vengeance and Hate")
Untitled by Gearoid O Broin
There are beggars on both sides of the fence. The screaming from the locked room at the end of the hall has stopped now, and the silence is uncomfortably close. I know what they do in there. I’ve seen it. Briefly, through a narrow chink in the door; but I have seen it. The horrible writhing serpents of blood trickling; dripping; and then the seawall breaks. After that the door was locked, and I was flayed. It doesn’t upset me as much as it used to. That locked door. I used to pray it would open one day for me. It’s hard to believe I ever prayed now. In this godless place. I hear a faint, muffled bang. The door. The external door. They’ve gone for the day. I close my eyes, and suddenly I am away from the room. The door. The silence.
There are beggars on both sides of the fence. Those slimy bastards. Why do they want to get in so badly? What the f*ck could they possibly be afraid of out there? Out there is death. Out there is hunger, starvation, desperation and death. And yet they want to come in here. I can hear them very faintly now through the walls, shouting. Braying for attention. Attention they should hope not to get. Idiots. Screaming, stubborn idiots. They almost deserve to be in here for what they think. I can hear their thoughts louder than their cries. Food. Warmth. Shelter. They haven’t got a f*cking clue. Freedom of speech, they cry. Rights to amnesty and a bed. Just for the night. There is no ‘just for the night’.
I don’t know what day it is anymore. I stopped counting years ago. Or it could have been weeks. In here a day is as good as a month or an hour. An hour is as good as you make it. They start early, and finish up when the sun is setting. I presume it is summer, because the evenings take so long in coming. Every day, about half way between the screams and the silence, the locked door is opened and a masked man slides a tray to me across the floor. Then the door is locked once again. The tray – stacked with green bread and a cup of liquid –, the man in the mask, and the demented screams from behind the locked door are my only links to the outside. I can hear the cries from the fence, and there is a window in the wall – just out of reach above my head –, but these are not links. All these things do is alienate me further from the world. I looked out that window once. Put faces to the demented voices at the fence. But that just made me sick with envy. Half of the men there were dead already. They just didn’t know it yet. The sunlight has reached the foot of my bed. Behind the locked door, the screams begin again.
I don’t notice the smell any more. I’m sure it’s still there. There are certain things I just don’t question at this stage. The sunrise is not one of those things. Nor are the beggars.
I tend to drift in and out of varying stages of semi-consciousness. I don’t dream anymore because I don’t really sleep. But the rare moments of true unconsciousness are moments I have learned to treasure. I think it is the drink that comes with my bread. It makes me feel better, but though it is quite sweet, it seems to drain more energy than it gives. The green bread isn’t really bread either. But they keep me sedated, and allow me to drift.
The sunlight has reached the head of my bed, and another final scream rings and fades from behind the locked door. There was no gush. They snapped his neck. The key sounds in the lock, and the door opens. The man never makes eye contact. He just opens the door, slides the tray across, then turns and leaves, closing and locking the door behind him. Even as I eat, I don’t really think about what the beggars are saying. I used to listen. Try to distinguish words. Sentences. But after a while, the cries became just another background source of white noise. I eat the bread, drink the liquid, and slide the tray back across to the door. The man will return to collect it soon, though I am never awake to see it. I can feel the meal taking effect already. I let it take me.
The screaming has already started again. I don’t know why they scream. I presume they are guests at the house like I am. I am not naive nor arrogant enough to presume my room is unique, and I know it isn’t the beggars who are selected. If one of them were to cross the fence, they wouldn’t last long enough to scream like that. Lucky bastards. I will not scream.
From what I can gather aurally, the beggars simply set up camp at the fence during the night. They seem to fall silent at much the same time as the screams from behind the locked door, and start up again in the morning, just before the screams resume. I used to take the silence as a comfort. Now it unnerves me. I close my eyes and leave my thoughts in the room behind me.
Even though I never sleep through the entire night, the morning routine serves as a decent alarm clock. The beggars start up first, then the external door is opened, and then the screaming begins again. The house has hundreds of guests, though I have never met any of them. Occasionally, I can hear them moving around in the next rooms. Dashing their heads against the wall. Kicking their beds around the room. Hanging themselves with their socks. We’re not allowed socks anymore. The air is warm enough. We don’t need them anyway. They just added to the smell. I don’t notice the smell anymore, but I know it’s there. There are no flies. There were never any flies. They seem to have better sense than the beggars at the fence. They avoid the place. I don’t know what the man in the mask does with the bodies when they’re done. I suppose I’ll probably never know.
The light has hit the bed, and the screaming stops. I wait in stoned silence. The key. The door. The tray. That was odd. He looked right at me. I saw his eyes. There was something oddly human about those eyes. I eat, drink, and slide the tray back across. I can’t stop the smile from stretching my cracked lips as the meal takes effect. I’m going to die today.
I wake up in a stained red chair with chains across my chest and manacles binding my hands and my feet. The man is standing over a table across the room, his back towards me. He isn’t wearing his mask. Laid out on the table are various cutting implements. Knives, saws, cleavers. And a couple of hand drills and metal files. In the corner to my left, there is a tall, gaunt-faced man sitting in a chair much like mine, but brown, and without the chains. A walking stick is laid carefully across his lap. He is also smiling. I’ve never heard him speak. I don’t know if he can. The man at the table makes his selection, and turns around. A hacksaw. He has a close cropped haircut, and bold, grotesque features. He is shorter than he looked from the room. I’ve seen what happens in this room. The horrible writhing serpents of blood trickling; dripping; and then the seawall breaks. He walks calmly towards me, a grimace on his face. A smile on mine. I am going to die today. I will not scream.
Untitled by Gearoid O Broin
There are beggars on both sides of the fence. The screaming from the locked room at the end of the hall has stopped now, and the silence is uncomfortably close. I know what they do in there. I’ve seen it. Briefly, through a narrow chink in the door; but I have seen it. The horrible writhing serpents of blood trickling; dripping; and then the seawall breaks. After that the door was locked, and I was flayed. It doesn’t upset me as much as it used to. That locked door. I used to pray it would open one day for me. It’s hard to believe I ever prayed now. In this godless place. I hear a faint, muffled bang. The door. The external door. They’ve gone for the day. I close my eyes, and suddenly I am away from the room. The door. The silence.
There are beggars on both sides of the fence. Those slimy bastards. Why do they want to get in so badly? What the f*ck could they possibly be afraid of out there? Out there is death. Out there is hunger, starvation, desperation and death. And yet they want to come in here. I can hear them very faintly now through the walls, shouting. Braying for attention. Attention they should hope not to get. Idiots. Screaming, stubborn idiots. They almost deserve to be in here for what they think. I can hear their thoughts louder than their cries. Food. Warmth. Shelter. They haven’t got a f*cking clue. Freedom of speech, they cry. Rights to amnesty and a bed. Just for the night. There is no ‘just for the night’.
I don’t know what day it is anymore. I stopped counting years ago. Or it could have been weeks. In here a day is as good as a month or an hour. An hour is as good as you make it. They start early, and finish up when the sun is setting. I presume it is summer, because the evenings take so long in coming. Every day, about half way between the screams and the silence, the locked door is opened and a masked man slides a tray to me across the floor. Then the door is locked once again. The tray – stacked with green bread and a cup of liquid –, the man in the mask, and the demented screams from behind the locked door are my only links to the outside. I can hear the cries from the fence, and there is a window in the wall – just out of reach above my head –, but these are not links. All these things do is alienate me further from the world. I looked out that window once. Put faces to the demented voices at the fence. But that just made me sick with envy. Half of the men there were dead already. They just didn’t know it yet. The sunlight has reached the foot of my bed. Behind the locked door, the screams begin again.
I don’t notice the smell any more. I’m sure it’s still there. There are certain things I just don’t question at this stage. The sunrise is not one of those things. Nor are the beggars.
I tend to drift in and out of varying stages of semi-consciousness. I don’t dream anymore because I don’t really sleep. But the rare moments of true unconsciousness are moments I have learned to treasure. I think it is the drink that comes with my bread. It makes me feel better, but though it is quite sweet, it seems to drain more energy than it gives. The green bread isn’t really bread either. But they keep me sedated, and allow me to drift.
The sunlight has reached the head of my bed, and another final scream rings and fades from behind the locked door. There was no gush. They snapped his neck. The key sounds in the lock, and the door opens. The man never makes eye contact. He just opens the door, slides the tray across, then turns and leaves, closing and locking the door behind him. Even as I eat, I don’t really think about what the beggars are saying. I used to listen. Try to distinguish words. Sentences. But after a while, the cries became just another background source of white noise. I eat the bread, drink the liquid, and slide the tray back across to the door. The man will return to collect it soon, though I am never awake to see it. I can feel the meal taking effect already. I let it take me.
The screaming has already started again. I don’t know why they scream. I presume they are guests at the house like I am. I am not naive nor arrogant enough to presume my room is unique, and I know it isn’t the beggars who are selected. If one of them were to cross the fence, they wouldn’t last long enough to scream like that. Lucky bastards. I will not scream.
From what I can gather aurally, the beggars simply set up camp at the fence during the night. They seem to fall silent at much the same time as the screams from behind the locked door, and start up again in the morning, just before the screams resume. I used to take the silence as a comfort. Now it unnerves me. I close my eyes and leave my thoughts in the room behind me.
Even though I never sleep through the entire night, the morning routine serves as a decent alarm clock. The beggars start up first, then the external door is opened, and then the screaming begins again. The house has hundreds of guests, though I have never met any of them. Occasionally, I can hear them moving around in the next rooms. Dashing their heads against the wall. Kicking their beds around the room. Hanging themselves with their socks. We’re not allowed socks anymore. The air is warm enough. We don’t need them anyway. They just added to the smell. I don’t notice the smell anymore, but I know it’s there. There are no flies. There were never any flies. They seem to have better sense than the beggars at the fence. They avoid the place. I don’t know what the man in the mask does with the bodies when they’re done. I suppose I’ll probably never know.
The light has hit the bed, and the screaming stops. I wait in stoned silence. The key. The door. The tray. That was odd. He looked right at me. I saw his eyes. There was something oddly human about those eyes. I eat, drink, and slide the tray back across. I can’t stop the smile from stretching my cracked lips as the meal takes effect. I’m going to die today.
I wake up in a stained red chair with chains across my chest and manacles binding my hands and my feet. The man is standing over a table across the room, his back towards me. He isn’t wearing his mask. Laid out on the table are various cutting implements. Knives, saws, cleavers. And a couple of hand drills and metal files. In the corner to my left, there is a tall, gaunt-faced man sitting in a chair much like mine, but brown, and without the chains. A walking stick is laid carefully across his lap. He is also smiling. I’ve never heard him speak. I don’t know if he can. The man at the table makes his selection, and turns around. A hacksaw. He has a close cropped haircut, and bold, grotesque features. He is shorter than he looked from the room. I’ve seen what happens in this room. The horrible writhing serpents of blood trickling; dripping; and then the seawall breaks. He walks calmly towards me, a grimace on his face. A smile on mine. I am going to die today. I will not scream.
