THE FEAR

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
The fear is a short story about a poor soul trying to get through a hangover.

Submitted: August 23, 2013

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Submitted: August 23, 2013

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I wake up. Or maybe I don’t. My mind, my head, my being all seems to be disconnected from the body. Is this a dream? The only thing that can be made out from the complete darkness is an old thick white door with the number 23 on it. This door is in engulfed in flames, but I know I have to go in, it can’t be unsafe in the conventional sense because part of my conciseness knows none of it is real but is it dangerous for mental well-being. Do you regret anything buddy? Any bad dreams pal? Is there something on your mind? The door opens without my command; the flames disappear as a massive gasp of air sucks the oxygen from the entrance. I see the man sitting on the black couch, smiling, fixated on me. “Come on Michael, sit down” he hisses, gesturing to the empty space beside me. The body glides towards me slowly without movement of the feet. This entity before me his pale, with grease waxed hair cropped to both sides of his head with a grin that takes up the width of his skinny rancid face. His attire looks at first fancy, a crisp black suit, an expensive piece that would make the front window of any respectable clothing store, but on closer inspection it was tainted. A taco stain ran down the left sleeve, lager patches just over the knees and vomit on the silk shirt collar. “I’m sorry; you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know you.” I announce with all the strength I could muster. Up and down his shoulders went, his animalistic green and yellow stained teeth taking up his massive cat grin parted for a ball shrinking cackle, fit to take on any battle cry. Tears which seemed to solidify when hitting the ground ran down his face, this was a happy man; this was the tiger that just caught his deer. “Oh but you do know me Mike, everyone knows me!” “Are you hungry?” This was a trick question, the tiny part of my conciseness that still held to reality kicking in for the briefest of moments. “Come now Mike, don’t be so rude, ARE YOU HUNGRY?” “Sir what are you talking about?” I try to be respectable in a hopeless attempt to gain favour and maybe get a fraction of kindness back in return. “I left this for you; on the off chance you were hungry in the morning”. A foul smell suddenly invaded the lifeless box room; it was pungent, decaying, damp, wet foulness. It was kebab. “You probably should have eaten that in the bathroom last night, can leave quite a whiff.” Not a bone in my body could move, it felt like I had sleep paralysis as I watched the half eaten kebab slowly crawl across the floor towards me. The entity began slapping his knees and rolling on the couch from hysterical laughter while I watched in horror. This able bodied kebab was very much like a snail, leaving a trail of ooze behind it. “Get that away from me, don’t let it fucking touch me!” “Don’t be so dramatic Mike, you and Mr. Kebab have already met, a fractional part of your journey from pub to bed last night! Can’t remember? Oh not to worry, that’s my job. That’s what I do, my service to humanity. Forget about the kebab, make yourself comfortable and watch.” The entity points to an ancient television set, this piece of equipment looks to be one of the first of its kind, advertising nothing but static on its oval screen. As I slowly take a seat on the couch I feel this man for the first time, throwing his long skinny arm over my shoulder, held in a cold embrace. “Now buddy, let’s see what’s on!” The entity violently blinks and a black and white picture slowly comes into focus, the volume of the television up far too loud. I soon come to realise the main protagonists in this video is my cousin Jeff and I, but there are many characters, a small drunken army that seems too big for the tiny street that they’ve been allowed to loiter on. My counterpart and I are at each other’s necks, coats, eyes or hair, anything we can grab hold off, wrestling for what looks to be life itself, but it’s not. Each of us have one hand on what looks to be the left overs of a massive hot dog, the extra salad that has been ordered has long hit the ground. I lose my footing and my cousin realises this is the chance to win. With a bull like rage he tackles me straight through the only venue left open on this tiny street, an all-night Italian take away. The door comes off its hinges and lands on both of us, while the wind swept bouncer dashes towards our untimely entrance. As security picks up Jeff in a fit of rage I make for the exit and successfully camouflage myself into the soup of people. “GET DOWN HERE NOW, GET DOWN!!” Paul screams over his phone as he leans against an old sports shop that has long closed. I go to calm a best friend but another, Dave, beats me to winters, falling along the way. “What are you doing Paul?” I hear Dave drunkenly enquire. “Dave I rang the guards, there’s fights EVERYWHERE!” The channel suddenly changes with a blink of the entity’s eyes. This horrifying programme shows me in the never ending line of Abrakabara, my left eye watching my phone, the right staring at Dean as he shouts hysterically in a language I don’t understand. The receiver of his gibberish abuse is some poor polish man trying to get through her shift in this hole of a chippy. “VAMOOSE! VAMOOSE!” he screams waving his index finger as he slowly moves backwards to the door “VAMOOSE!” “Dean  what……….what are you doing?” I remember that one sentence took a great deal of effort. “This fucker won’t give me my chips so I’m shouting Latvian at him!” “He’s polish and you weren’t in the line so you didn’t order chips.” It was too late, Dean was gone and with him any distraction from my wild texting fingers. It’s amazing what makes sense when your drunk, twelve texts to the one person who didn’t reply once just seems perfectly fucking plausible. “Turn it off! Please turn it off, I can’t take anymore!” The television goes silent. Hundreds of pint glasses half filled with water begin to take over the ground surface in the box room. I jump to the ground from the couch towards them like a cliff diver to the ocean. I manage to gulp one down, its cold crisp refreshing taste washing the congealed paste from my mouth. The thin man looks down upon me laughing, he grew in size and strength the longer I watched the old tv, but I just couldn’t help myself. “You think hydration will help you?!” he questioned followed up by his howling cackle. “LEAVE ME ALONE, WHAT ARE YOU, WHAT ARE YOU?!” The entity slowly stood up towering over me. The roof of the box room expanded to make room for his immense height. This man wasn’t laughing anymore, a hard fact that made him much more daunting. He leaned down, supporting himself in a squat like position, his face no more than a few centimetres away from mine. With a pure vodka breath that was barely tolerable, he looked me straight in the eyes and stated “It once was bored, so it had to drink, it ended up pissing in the kitchen sink. The week has gone by, it’s time for the beer, why my good man, I’m simply the fear.” With those words I was ripped from the room and awoke in my bed, my whole face wet from a pool of saliva on my pillow. I knew I shouldn’t leave this bed, what if those half deleted images in my head actually happened last night? What if they weren’t a nightmare? Was there any way to find out without making this feeling of dread any worse? No there wasn’t. It was time for the perfected damage control plan. More water, more denial, more listening intently to the boys drunken adventures which in comparison might render yours futile in the destruction of society and more 04293 51223. Remember ignorance is bliss. 


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