Short story by Kylie Whitehead
The Night: A Viscous, Black Bubble
I pick up the phone. Hello? Nothing. An insect drone, a distant helicopter dial tone. Did it really ring? A shrill echo flits through my skull. Was that always there? Both hands clammy on cold plastic. I wrap the cord around my fingers. I pull too tight. My fingertips, engorged leeches sucking at the edges of my palm. Are you there? The sound of rain on the windows, on the door. A thousand little knocks. Are you there? Do you want to come in?
Something cold and wet grazing my fingertips. Is that you? Are you kissing me? Is that your tongue, your cold water lips? No, of course, the dog. She nuzzles, folds my arm at the elbow with her long snout. I rest a splayed hand on her bulbed head. She becomes still, a garden statue. A growl starts low in her belly and rises in her throat, snaps in her jaws; a breaking branch, a kicked can to make you walk faster in the night. Just one bark, a warning between us, honed over years. Our breath hot in the cold air, the moonlight carries wisps of white hair rising from two sets of lips. She looks at me. I hold her head in both hands and rest my forehead on hers. Her muzzle points downwards. She gazes up into my eyes from two small, uninhabited galaxies.
She whips her head free from my hands and our noses collide, hers wet against mine. My skin tightens as it dries. She staggers in two full twirls, drawing crop circles in the carpet. She lies down, her head heavy in my lap. Neither of us close our eyes. Her ears stick up, the silhouettes of two wary rabbits in the night. I hold her head when they twitch at sounds only she can hear.
A voice outside, is it you? It ebbs closer in waves, louder and then quieter and then louder still. I am frozen, pinned down by the dog’s rock head. A second voice. I hold my breath. Call and response. Two whales singing in the ocean night. Laughter. A low grunt carried on gasps. A faulty-strimmer screech. Louder now and louder, shadow puppets through the blinds. And then quieter and quieter, dampened by the velvet darkness. No waves anymore. The night, a viscous, black bubble. We float. We wait.
In the dark we are seen but not heard, watched but not listened to. We don’t make a sound, afraid that what noise we do make will break the spell. I don’t know when you’re looking, but I can feel you all over me, all of the time. A mud bath, a full body cast, woodworm in my bones. You’re in my blood, my breath. My lungs, hard and inflated, paralysed to keep you from escaping.
I stir. I’m lighter now. Did I fall asleep? I am fumbling for what it was that weighed me down. The light is different now, but no less lacking. In my memory you tell me it’s okay. Your hand presses down, palm on my cheek, my jaw, I wonder if you can feel my teeth through my skin. You look into my eyes and I remember now, it floods me, a burst dam. You rush back into me on panicked breath.
An engine, outside. Are you there? My legs are cold, her warm skull no longer pinning me. No, not a car, a growl. In the doorframe, an arrow pointing towards the bed; a tail, tense and low between two shaggy elbows on sinewy legs. Tk tk tk, the sound of claws on the wood floor as I push up, heels digging into hard wood, my body unfolding, a letter to you. A wire-haired four legged child cowers behind my knees, nuzzles me toward the bedroom. I reach behind with one low hand. A nose, hot and dry now, fills my cupped palm. We edge towards the door, snout in hand, a hot, leathery stone in a cool, wet clam.
The light fitting swings gently. A breeze? The window is open. When did I open it? Did you open it? You didn’t mind the heat or the way our legs were glued together with cold sweat. But tonight it isn’t hot. When were you last here? She is growling at the light fitting. I push myself toward the ceiling with my toes, my fingertips graze the light bulb’s cardboard shell. She relaxes. The air is cold and thick and still. I slice it with the arc of my arms as they glide from the ceiling to my calves where she cowers. The light fitting swings, more gently now. Shadows scatter sending broken glass glittering into the corners. She knows we are stalked. I turn out the light to comfort her.
On one side of the bed you linger, the fragrant ghost of your body clinging to the sheets. On the other side, we sit and then lie, her chin balanced on my ankles, our four ears pricked, a definitive line drawn between us and you. We’re not alone and yet we’ve never felt so isolated. She starts to snore lightly, her breathing slows, a toy with batteries running low.
A shadow in the doorway, tall and wiry, are you watching me? A gentle bark slips through her teeth on a snore, fast asleep now. My hand, five sardines flopping heavily in a rubber glove, searching for the TV remote. An index finger on the rubbery red button; the screen, sherbet scattering, fizzling into life. I hear a voice in the static. Are you there? I can’t hear you when I try to listen. I hold my breath and wait for your voice on the white static of my blood. Broken black and white streaks flashing a thousand shadows onto the walls. The dog’s rough grey fur comes to life, crawling with ants as static waves wash over her peaceful flank which rises and falls with the rhythm of her dreams. What does she dream of? Do you dream about me?
Neon worms jolt, interpretive dancers stubbornly refusing the dark, leaking slimy trails across the alarm clock screen. Light creeps around the room, an intruder, but still morning doesn’t come. I close my eyes and try to let the static pour into my head, a soothing earwig burrowing to jam my thoughts of you. The screen cuts out, the dog jerks into life, an automaton responding to a coin. Pale grey light casts harsh borders around the curtains and I’m reminded of your eyes, the weak blue-grey wash on which huge, black pupils bob as you stare at me through the dark.
A crash, something shatters in slow motion. A thud, claws clacking on wood, a growl, a whimper. I mouth your name, to feel you safely on my lips, the only sound the gentle wet suction of my tongue against the roof of my mouth as I conjure you. I hover on the edge of my bed, afraid of what awaits me beyond the still-life in the doorframe. She makes no noise now. The silence fills the air with water. I wade into the kitchen. The dog grips my eyes with hers and we are locked together. Between us a broken plate, glass, some forks, a spoon. Her eyes tell me it doesn’t make sense. I wonder how she knows. I see your reflection in the shards and my fingers are drawn to my lips, an imitation of yours. Your face in glass, cleanly slicing my foot as I stoop to pick her up, you are inside me. She wriggles as I carry her out of the kitchen. She doesn’t yelp when I drop her from too great a height to close the door. She licks the bloody footprints, a breadcrumb trail to the sofa where I squeeze a small shard between two thumbnails, the diamond glass oozing out through new red lips in the sole of my foot. Her face is so happy when she sticks out her tongue, a smile as she kisses this new mouth. I start to cry. I don’t try to stop.
I close the doors, pull the world tighter around us so that we have less space, so that we take up more. We sit at opposite ends of the sofa and wait. Footsteps in the bedroom, the television comes on. I hear the static first, and then music, voices. The dog is sitting straight, her ears are cupped towards the bedroom door, collecting sounds from within like rainwater. She stands and looks at me. We communicate telepathically. She sits back down. Silence. We wait.
The light begins to fade from dust to milk, bleaching the cave we have made for ourselves. We weren’t safe in the dark, but here, halfway between what we know is real and what we’re not sure we believe, this is the hardest part. This is when I think about you the most. On the rare mornings I do begin to drift, she climbs on top of me, relieved that I am still. I let her lie on my chest. I try to pretend she is not suffocating me like I am her.
The light flickers, or my eyelids do, and I drift into sleep, comforted by the focus her weight brings to my breath. When I dream of you, you are played by someone else, someone I once knew but can’t remember. Awake, I dream of being with you but in my dreams you are always leaving me. A nightly grief. Now I dream that I am pregnant with your child, a child I want to abort. You hold me. It's going to be okay, you say, and I suck in the air you exhale like cigarette smoke, fresher than any breath I have ever taken. But it’s too late. I’ve already had the baby. We are trapped.
I wake up to the alarm, muffled by the bedroom door. The window is closed now. Did I close it? Was it ever really open? The light is on, the volume on the TV turned down low. Breakfast hosts spread fallacy like sunshine to rouse late risers. In the kitchen, a broken glass on the floor. No sign of blood, not even on the dog’s muzzle, although she always does take good care of herself. I begin to sweep and she watches me from the threshold, head cocked. Good girl I tell her and her tongue slides out of her mouth, a fresh lump of meat breaking through pierced packaging, a smile. She pads out of the room, tk tk tk, claws on wood. I wrap the glass in newspaper and two carrier bags. She comes back in, lead in mouth. I try to take it from her but she turns her head to the side. Put your coat on first she is saying, it’s cold. Yesterday’s clothes, I put on my shoes, a jumper that you left here, forgotten. She lets me take her lead and together we step out into the harsh daylight, the haunting forgotten in our loves; hers and mine and yours.
I pick up the phone. Hello? Nothing. An insect drone, a distant helicopter dial tone. Did it really ring? A shrill echo flits through my skull. Was that always there? Both hands clammy on cold plastic. I wrap the cord around my fingers. I pull too tight. My fingertips, engorged leeches sucking at the edges of my palm. Are you there? The sound of rain on the windows, on the door. A thousand little knocks. Are you there? Do you want to come in?
Something cold and wet grazing my fingertips. Is that you? Are you kissing me? Is that your tongue, your cold water lips? No, of course, the dog. She nuzzles, folds my arm at the elbow with her long snout. I rest a splayed hand on her bulbed head. She becomes still, a garden statue. A growl starts low in her belly and rises in her throat, snaps in her jaws; a breaking branch, a kicked can to make you walk faster in the night. Just one bark, a warning between us, honed over years. Our breath hot in the cold air, the moonlight carries wisps of white hair rising from two sets of lips. She looks at me. I hold her head in both hands and rest my forehead on hers. Her muzzle points downwards. She gazes up into my eyes from two small, uninhabited galaxies.
She whips her head free from my hands and our noses collide, hers wet against mine. My skin tightens as it dries. She staggers in two full twirls, drawing crop circles in the carpet. She lies down, her head heavy in my lap. Neither of us close our eyes. Her ears stick up, the silhouettes of two wary rabbits in the night. I hold her head when they twitch at sounds only she can hear.
A voice outside, is it you? It ebbs closer in waves, louder and then quieter and then louder still. I am frozen, pinned down by the dog’s rock head. A second voice. I hold my breath. Call and response. Two whales singing in the ocean night. Laughter. A low grunt carried on gasps. A faulty-strimmer screech. Louder now and louder, shadow puppets through the blinds. And then quieter and quieter, dampened by the velvet darkness. No waves anymore. The night, a viscous, black bubble. We float. We wait.
In the dark we are seen but not heard, watched but not listened to. We don’t make a sound, afraid that what noise we do make will break the spell. I don’t know when you’re looking, but I can feel you all over me, all of the time. A mud bath, a full body cast, woodworm in my bones. You’re in my blood, my breath. My lungs, hard and inflated, paralysed to keep you from escaping.
I stir. I’m lighter now. Did I fall asleep? I am fumbling for what it was that weighed me down. The light is different now, but no less lacking. In my memory you tell me it’s okay. Your hand presses down, palm on my cheek, my jaw, I wonder if you can feel my teeth through my skin. You look into my eyes and I remember now, it floods me, a burst dam. You rush back into me on panicked breath.
An engine, outside. Are you there? My legs are cold, her warm skull no longer pinning me. No, not a car, a growl. In the doorframe, an arrow pointing towards the bed; a tail, tense and low between two shaggy elbows on sinewy legs. Tk tk tk, the sound of claws on the wood floor as I push up, heels digging into hard wood, my body unfolding, a letter to you. A wire-haired four legged child cowers behind my knees, nuzzles me toward the bedroom. I reach behind with one low hand. A nose, hot and dry now, fills my cupped palm. We edge towards the door, snout in hand, a hot, leathery stone in a cool, wet clam.
The light fitting swings gently. A breeze? The window is open. When did I open it? Did you open it? You didn’t mind the heat or the way our legs were glued together with cold sweat. But tonight it isn’t hot. When were you last here? She is growling at the light fitting. I push myself toward the ceiling with my toes, my fingertips graze the light bulb’s cardboard shell. She relaxes. The air is cold and thick and still. I slice it with the arc of my arms as they glide from the ceiling to my calves where she cowers. The light fitting swings, more gently now. Shadows scatter sending broken glass glittering into the corners. She knows we are stalked. I turn out the light to comfort her.
On one side of the bed you linger, the fragrant ghost of your body clinging to the sheets. On the other side, we sit and then lie, her chin balanced on my ankles, our four ears pricked, a definitive line drawn between us and you. We’re not alone and yet we’ve never felt so isolated. She starts to snore lightly, her breathing slows, a toy with batteries running low.
A shadow in the doorway, tall and wiry, are you watching me? A gentle bark slips through her teeth on a snore, fast asleep now. My hand, five sardines flopping heavily in a rubber glove, searching for the TV remote. An index finger on the rubbery red button; the screen, sherbet scattering, fizzling into life. I hear a voice in the static. Are you there? I can’t hear you when I try to listen. I hold my breath and wait for your voice on the white static of my blood. Broken black and white streaks flashing a thousand shadows onto the walls. The dog’s rough grey fur comes to life, crawling with ants as static waves wash over her peaceful flank which rises and falls with the rhythm of her dreams. What does she dream of? Do you dream about me?
Neon worms jolt, interpretive dancers stubbornly refusing the dark, leaking slimy trails across the alarm clock screen. Light creeps around the room, an intruder, but still morning doesn’t come. I close my eyes and try to let the static pour into my head, a soothing earwig burrowing to jam my thoughts of you. The screen cuts out, the dog jerks into life, an automaton responding to a coin. Pale grey light casts harsh borders around the curtains and I’m reminded of your eyes, the weak blue-grey wash on which huge, black pupils bob as you stare at me through the dark.
A crash, something shatters in slow motion. A thud, claws clacking on wood, a growl, a whimper. I mouth your name, to feel you safely on my lips, the only sound the gentle wet suction of my tongue against the roof of my mouth as I conjure you. I hover on the edge of my bed, afraid of what awaits me beyond the still-life in the doorframe. She makes no noise now. The silence fills the air with water. I wade into the kitchen. The dog grips my eyes with hers and we are locked together. Between us a broken plate, glass, some forks, a spoon. Her eyes tell me it doesn’t make sense. I wonder how she knows. I see your reflection in the shards and my fingers are drawn to my lips, an imitation of yours. Your face in glass, cleanly slicing my foot as I stoop to pick her up, you are inside me. She wriggles as I carry her out of the kitchen. She doesn’t yelp when I drop her from too great a height to close the door. She licks the bloody footprints, a breadcrumb trail to the sofa where I squeeze a small shard between two thumbnails, the diamond glass oozing out through new red lips in the sole of my foot. Her face is so happy when she sticks out her tongue, a smile as she kisses this new mouth. I start to cry. I don’t try to stop.
I close the doors, pull the world tighter around us so that we have less space, so that we take up more. We sit at opposite ends of the sofa and wait. Footsteps in the bedroom, the television comes on. I hear the static first, and then music, voices. The dog is sitting straight, her ears are cupped towards the bedroom door, collecting sounds from within like rainwater. She stands and looks at me. We communicate telepathically. She sits back down. Silence. We wait.
The light begins to fade from dust to milk, bleaching the cave we have made for ourselves. We weren’t safe in the dark, but here, halfway between what we know is real and what we’re not sure we believe, this is the hardest part. This is when I think about you the most. On the rare mornings I do begin to drift, she climbs on top of me, relieved that I am still. I let her lie on my chest. I try to pretend she is not suffocating me like I am her.
The light flickers, or my eyelids do, and I drift into sleep, comforted by the focus her weight brings to my breath. When I dream of you, you are played by someone else, someone I once knew but can’t remember. Awake, I dream of being with you but in my dreams you are always leaving me. A nightly grief. Now I dream that I am pregnant with your child, a child I want to abort. You hold me. It's going to be okay, you say, and I suck in the air you exhale like cigarette smoke, fresher than any breath I have ever taken. But it’s too late. I’ve already had the baby. We are trapped.
I wake up to the alarm, muffled by the bedroom door. The window is closed now. Did I close it? Was it ever really open? The light is on, the volume on the TV turned down low. Breakfast hosts spread fallacy like sunshine to rouse late risers. In the kitchen, a broken glass on the floor. No sign of blood, not even on the dog’s muzzle, although she always does take good care of herself. I begin to sweep and she watches me from the threshold, head cocked. Good girl I tell her and her tongue slides out of her mouth, a fresh lump of meat breaking through pierced packaging, a smile. She pads out of the room, tk tk tk, claws on wood. I wrap the glass in newspaper and two carrier bags. She comes back in, lead in mouth. I try to take it from her but she turns her head to the side. Put your coat on first she is saying, it’s cold. Yesterday’s clothes, I put on my shoes, a jumper that you left here, forgotten. She lets me take her lead and together we step out into the harsh daylight, the haunting forgotten in our loves; hers and mine and yours.
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Kylie Whitehead is a writer of short fiction from Bristol, UK. She is the founder of Slush Bristol, creating a friendly support network for women who write. Follow her on Twitter @kyliesaysrelax.
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