The House Remembers: Day 5
Nothing. No dreams at all, just darkness and silence.
***
It was, Todd guessed, about 11 a.m. His head pained him slightly, but otherwise he felt better than he had any right to do, given the amount he'd had to drink. A deep sense of satisfaction filled him at the thought of being able to slam an entire album's worth of material onto Big Al's desk on Friday morning: that'd show the sneering fucker that he hadn't lost it!
So good was he feeling, in fact, that he practically vaulted out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. As he was shaving he noticed that the bourbon-induced puffiness of recent months had entirely left his face. In fact, he looked a good ten years younger than he had on the day of his arrival. Even the slow retreat of hair from his temples seemed to have reversed itself.
"Jesus!" he crooned at his reflection, "You're one beautiful fucker! Maybe I ought to do this country-living thing more often."
No breakfast this morning he decided, just grab some coffee, set up the equipment and get to work.
***
Two hours later he'd assembled all the paraphernalia of his profession in the space in front of the garden window, a short stroll from the coffee table, to which he'd added a few more bottles from the cellar.
"Just as well I'm leaving tomorrow," he'd thought as he'd plonked the bottles down, "there's no space left for any more - I'd have had to start throwing the empties away!"
With a contented sigh of anticipation he adjusted the mike-stand he'd placed by the armchair that he'd earlier dragged in front of the window, plugged in his portable Yamaha keyboard and sat down.
As he played that afternoon he heard a fire in the music that had long been absent from his life. His fingers seemed more nimble, his voice firmer and clearer than they'd been in years. The music transported him, carrying him away to some dark but magnificent realm of his imagination and a deep peace filled him.
He was happy...
... until with a tiny 'plink' the filament in the light bulb in the pink shade that grew like an obese rose from the centre of the ceiling gave out, and the room dropped like a rock into the depths of a black sea lit only by the dim glow from LEDs and his computer screen.
Shock gripped him. He'd been so immersed in the music that he'd been unaware of the passing of time, unaware of the thickening of the shadows outside, unaware of the encroachment of night.
"SHIT!"
The abruptness of the ending of his reverie, combined with the fact that he had made several trips to the coffee table and was more than a little drunk, left him confused and helpless. He stood, breathing heavily, trying to get some kind of mental grip on what had happened.
Gradually his eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness and he could make out, at a distance of what seemed miles, the coffee table with its rows of wine bottles standing like stiff sentinels in the darkness.
On the table, he knew, were candles and a lighter. If he could find them he could at least provide himself with enough light to find the door and get a replacement light bulb from the kitchen.
He began to shuffle towards the table.
"Got to be careful." he told himself, "Cables all over the place."
Gradually the coffee table came closer , but the muscles in his legs were beginning to ache and it did, indeed, seem as though it was miles away, and that he'd been walking for hours.
In the end, though, he'd almost made it when his foot encountered a solid object on the floor. The unexpectedness of the contact was too much for his alcohol-diminished sense of balance to cope with and, after an arm-windmilling, swaying few seconds' fight to remain upright, he plunged forward.
As he fell he felt the object shift. It uttered a satisfied "meow" and disappeared.
Todd crashed forward onto the table, which collapsed under him. Glass broke loudly as he fell, and although instinct had raised his arms to protect his face he felt stabbing pains in his forehead and cheeks.
He lay gasping amid the debris for a while until, raising a hand to check for damage, he felt a shard of glass embedded in his cheek, and he panicked.
"My face," he screamed, "My face!"
Scuttling like a crab, he moved towards the door until his head made contact with its solid oak. He groped for the doorknob and hauled himself up.
Stumbling through the door, he saw that the light in the hallway was dim, yellow and flickering but he was too terrified to wonder at it. He had to get to the bathroom and look at his face!
He fell twice as he mounted the stairs but his sense of urgency impelled him to his feet. He had no time to notice the thick smears of blood that his hands left on the bannisters, no time for anything.
Half-running, half-falling, he plunged head-first into the bathroom. Putting his hands on either side of the sink he steadied himself and, steeling himself for the worst, he looked into the mirror.
Relief flooded through him. There were a few red marks on his forehead. Tiny slivers of glass glinted here and there in his cheeks, but not big enough to leave scars, or at least no scars that make-up couldn't hide. He reached for the tweezers with which he plucked his eyebrows and began to tease them out.
He didn't see the deep gashes in his wrists, didn't hear the swift dripping of his blood into the sink.
Suddenly, he felt weak. He braced himself against the sink, but lacked the strength to hold himself erect and he fell to his knees.
His vision was blurring in waves: things would shift into sharp focus, and then grow indistinct, and the waves came faster and faster. He looked down at the floor between his knees, at the growing red puddle that was forming there.
"Have to get someone in to clean that up." he thought.
One by one, throughout the house, the lights went out.
***
It was, Todd guessed, about 11 a.m. His head pained him slightly, but otherwise he felt better than he had any right to do, given the amount he'd had to drink. A deep sense of satisfaction filled him at the thought of being able to slam an entire album's worth of material onto Big Al's desk on Friday morning: that'd show the sneering fucker that he hadn't lost it!
So good was he feeling, in fact, that he practically vaulted out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. As he was shaving he noticed that the bourbon-induced puffiness of recent months had entirely left his face. In fact, he looked a good ten years younger than he had on the day of his arrival. Even the slow retreat of hair from his temples seemed to have reversed itself.
"Jesus!" he crooned at his reflection, "You're one beautiful fucker! Maybe I ought to do this country-living thing more often."
No breakfast this morning he decided, just grab some coffee, set up the equipment and get to work.
***
Two hours later he'd assembled all the paraphernalia of his profession in the space in front of the garden window, a short stroll from the coffee table, to which he'd added a few more bottles from the cellar.
"Just as well I'm leaving tomorrow," he'd thought as he'd plonked the bottles down, "there's no space left for any more - I'd have had to start throwing the empties away!"
With a contented sigh of anticipation he adjusted the mike-stand he'd placed by the armchair that he'd earlier dragged in front of the window, plugged in his portable Yamaha keyboard and sat down.
As he played that afternoon he heard a fire in the music that had long been absent from his life. His fingers seemed more nimble, his voice firmer and clearer than they'd been in years. The music transported him, carrying him away to some dark but magnificent realm of his imagination and a deep peace filled him.
He was happy...
... until with a tiny 'plink' the filament in the light bulb in the pink shade that grew like an obese rose from the centre of the ceiling gave out, and the room dropped like a rock into the depths of a black sea lit only by the dim glow from LEDs and his computer screen.
Shock gripped him. He'd been so immersed in the music that he'd been unaware of the passing of time, unaware of the thickening of the shadows outside, unaware of the encroachment of night.
"SHIT!"
The abruptness of the ending of his reverie, combined with the fact that he had made several trips to the coffee table and was more than a little drunk, left him confused and helpless. He stood, breathing heavily, trying to get some kind of mental grip on what had happened.
Gradually his eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness and he could make out, at a distance of what seemed miles, the coffee table with its rows of wine bottles standing like stiff sentinels in the darkness.
On the table, he knew, were candles and a lighter. If he could find them he could at least provide himself with enough light to find the door and get a replacement light bulb from the kitchen.
He began to shuffle towards the table.
"Got to be careful." he told himself, "Cables all over the place."
Gradually the coffee table came closer , but the muscles in his legs were beginning to ache and it did, indeed, seem as though it was miles away, and that he'd been walking for hours.
In the end, though, he'd almost made it when his foot encountered a solid object on the floor. The unexpectedness of the contact was too much for his alcohol-diminished sense of balance to cope with and, after an arm-windmilling, swaying few seconds' fight to remain upright, he plunged forward.
As he fell he felt the object shift. It uttered a satisfied "meow" and disappeared.
Todd crashed forward onto the table, which collapsed under him. Glass broke loudly as he fell, and although instinct had raised his arms to protect his face he felt stabbing pains in his forehead and cheeks.
He lay gasping amid the debris for a while until, raising a hand to check for damage, he felt a shard of glass embedded in his cheek, and he panicked.
"My face," he screamed, "My face!"
Scuttling like a crab, he moved towards the door until his head made contact with its solid oak. He groped for the doorknob and hauled himself up.
Stumbling through the door, he saw that the light in the hallway was dim, yellow and flickering but he was too terrified to wonder at it. He had to get to the bathroom and look at his face!
He fell twice as he mounted the stairs but his sense of urgency impelled him to his feet. He had no time to notice the thick smears of blood that his hands left on the bannisters, no time for anything.
Half-running, half-falling, he plunged head-first into the bathroom. Putting his hands on either side of the sink he steadied himself and, steeling himself for the worst, he looked into the mirror.
Relief flooded through him. There were a few red marks on his forehead. Tiny slivers of glass glinted here and there in his cheeks, but not big enough to leave scars, or at least no scars that make-up couldn't hide. He reached for the tweezers with which he plucked his eyebrows and began to tease them out.
He didn't see the deep gashes in his wrists, didn't hear the swift dripping of his blood into the sink.
Suddenly, he felt weak. He braced himself against the sink, but lacked the strength to hold himself erect and he fell to his knees.
His vision was blurring in waves: things would shift into sharp focus, and then grow indistinct, and the waves came faster and faster. He looked down at the floor between his knees, at the growing red puddle that was forming there.
"Have to get someone in to clean that up." he thought.
One by one, throughout the house, the lights went out.
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