Thoughts on an experiment

In short, I was wondering if I should do a stream of consciousness experiment. For those who don't know, that's basically when you write down whatever comes to mind as fast as possible in a constant burst of energy.

I might do that, and it might get weird, so...see you soon?

Black Cat: Chapter One

The only people who would look at her in Grimora were the guards, arrows nocked and ready.

 “I still love you,” Cy told the capital from under her tattered cloak. She got the impression that it was an unrequited feeling. Perhaps it had something to do with her eyes. “Like drops of sapphire paint,” one noble had commented through her nose. “If someone had smudged them.”

Cy had never seen herself clearly, but she still remembered each color before her eyes were left only with gray and blue. The reflection in the tiles while she had scrubbed the grout was of a scrawny girl with skin whiter than the marble. A curled mess of black had sat atop her head, but she had been ten at the time. Her hair was still a perpetual mess, she knew that much.

Her love for the city came from humility and ingrained awe for that which was more powerful than she. When she still had it, her heart had been stolen by the sights of the city carved into once towering mountains. Grimora was shaped like a diamond locket resting upon a crimson sea where black petals as large as small ships floated. Terraced homes and shops dotted every row on plains with grass so green it was black. Everywhere, there was color. Yellows, oranges, pinks, like a maiden blushing. The city was proud of itself for all except the crawling lower castes.

She held on to her admiration as the sand hit the scabs on her knees. Even thanking the pain for keeping her wits sharp in silence.

Speaking of time, Cy ran her thumb over her left wrist to check her mark. The irritated tattoo had been burning since she had entered the massive market. The man she called master had to be reached before the mark rendered her paralyzed with pain.

Calmly hyperventilating, she danced between the hundreds of people fawning over the new silks, gems, and enough perfume that her nose began to run. She recalled her first memory of the market from over a decade ago—how tall the stalls of reclaimed wood had seemed then as she clutched her master’s hand and listened to him explain why she could never touch anyone here. He had lit a cigar that smelled of luxurious spices and mumbled, “Your kind come in through the hidden gate. They come looking for a chance at a better life, but they have to work hard at it. Do you understand?”

Her meis, the trader’s tongue, hadn’t been very strong when she was eight years, but she nodded and squeaked, “Yes, master.”

The pain in her chest matched the burning of her wrist. “I love you,” she insisted quietly, voice trembling. “I will work to prove it. To sit in a tea shop someday as a real person.”

“I love you, too.” A whisper crept up her spine and eased the sun’s poison. Cy rested her hand on the small creature in the basket she hid under her cloak. From what little she could see, he looked like a simple black cat.

No cat could speak, of course.

Every time the thought struck, she asked. “Alain, what are you?”

And his answer would always be, “A cat.”

He had simply appeared one night while she dug graves for the other faceless slaves that hadn’t survived the crashing sea. In that lonely hour, a talking cat hardly seemed unusual compared to the usual people who visited. She named him Alain, a name that meant “mercy” in the trader’s tongue. They had a mutual understanding; she would not question his presence and he would comfort her when the beatings and nights full of empty bellies got beyond her ability to cope. Whether he was a figment of isolation or something beyond her comprehension, she didn’t care. He had saved her life enough to convince the cog it was irrelevant. 

“Will you sing for me?” he asked.

“Will you tell me what you are?” She tried again.

“A cat.”

Cy listened for anyone muttering about her presence. The crowds were too taken by the new creations of a local seamstress today, it seemed.

“Alright.” She sucked in her breath and blew out the wild, black curls that clung to her chapped lips; she didn’t know how to sing. Instead, she clacked her tongue to mimic the steps of the horses nearby, whistled to mock the oilbirds as they fought over spare crumbs and followed it with a throaty beat.

Alain made his own sounds, sounds that Cy had never heard, to accompany her song of the street.

Of course, for as long as there had been an Alain, there had been the ripples in her vision.

Cy didn’t know what they were, exactly. From what little she could make out among the shadows and faint blues, the tears always appeared as though someone had ripped paper. They sucked the heat from the area, drew the color from the paint and sometimes made plants wilt; those were the big ones.

They also appeared at the worst times—such as now. This one ripped open right in front of her, and she almost skidded into it. It stood several heads above her, even when she stood up straight. Cy looked down at Alain, and he looked back sternly.

“There is no time,” he told her.

She looked into the cold depths of the tear, considering the cat’s words. What would happen if she left the tear alone? That Cy didn’t know. What she did know was what would happen if she kept her master waiting.

“Time must be made,” she decided at last.

Her head stayed bowed and she stumbled slightly, hoping that the watching guards would buy her simpleton act. It’d worked well enough for the decade she had been enslaved.

She moved towards the tear, the roar of the crimson waves in her mind [CC5] as she began to sing to it.

The cold tendrils swept out, snaking through the shadows in her eyes. They pulled paint from the walls in tiny chips, and she saw fruit that the local aristocrats were sampling rot slowly in their palms and mouths. How did no one ever notice?

Cy braced herself before it like an island amidst tides of people moving about the marketplace. The tear inhaled color, heat, and the very air from her lips, but she held fast. The footsteps in the marketplace became her beat and the roaring chatter a sample platter for her. So, she did the only thing she could. Sing.

Tch, tsk, tch, tsk

Did you see the way she looked at,

Tch, tsk, tat, tat

It’s always so expensive here!

Tat, tsk, mmh, ah,

Why is that cog girl just standing there-?

In response, the anomaly rippled and bubbled as though oil was trapped beneath its surface. Its slashing fury grew stronger against her song.

Cy had moved close enough to grab the sides and dug her worn fingers in. Her bare feet scraped the hot stone beneath as she struggled with it, singing loudly. The people nearby had begun to flicker and grow short of breath. Her eyes darted over to a stooped woman who had grabbed her chest. She cried out as the tear let loose what felt like a punch to her diaphragm and stumbled back—they had never fought back before.

Looking up, she grew wide-eyed as a misty hand reached through the hostile oddity and darted for her.

Perhaps the cages would have been better.

She scrambled to her feet, narrowly avoiding a crowd of passing artisans who all cursed her under their breath; if they saw what she did, they might have understood.

Still, the anomaly grasped for her. Cy thought of her master’s voice that could freeze any slave, no matter how hysterical, in their place. Her own was no louder than a squeaking rat, but she tried to muster up the same tone. “S-Stop! Immediately!”

To her surprise, the hand hesitated.

“Go back to your place of origin, or home!” Cy stammered. “Wherever ghostly hands [CC6] reside!”

Her hesitation seemed to irk the anomaly and it lashed out, leaving a cold slash across her collarbone. Holding in a cry, she jabbed her finger at it and scolded, “You are not welcome here! Return, i-immediately!”

She felt Alain’s presence stir at her side, felt it seem to grow bigger than her own as his voice rumbled in unison with her own:

“Now,” they said together.

Cy kept her brow furrowed as other hands reached through the tear, these smaller and glowing a faint blue, and pulled the gnarled, gray hand back inside. As though she had dismissed a rude guest, the tear even sealed on its own this time.

A sigh of relief escaped her, and she murmured her thanks to Alain.

Of course, Cy should have known better than to have paused. She didn’t flinch as a set of hands that seemed intent on crushing her arms came around her shoulders.

“Grimoran city guard,” the disinterested voice announced. “You ought to know better than to stop outside of your area, cog.” He said the last word with inflection typically saved for rotting food.

“My apologies, ser,” [CC7] Cy murmured and tucked every emotion neatly away.

“Come along.” He sighed and used her as a shield to clear a path through the bustling market; no one there would be caught dead touching a cog. “Your marks have been lit up for an entire thirty minutes while you lazed about. Have you a desire to see the cages, welp?”

“No, ser.”

“Oh.” His voice dripped with disdain every time she bumped into his armor. “You are that simple one, aren’t you? Ah, Master Domirus is always crowing to go easy on you. Do you share his bed well?”

Despite herself, Cy flushed red. “Ser, I would respectfully ask that you not shame master’s name with that assumption.”

He pushed her through to the small alleyways that veered away from the market and hugged the gargantuan perimeter wall.

Cy knew the route, even before the crunch of broken liquor bottles and smell of burning trash. The straw roofs of the stooped huts announced the presence of the shantytown, as the guards liked to call it. Her arrester barked for the gate to be closed behind him, lest any others dare to stray.

Sometimes, the shantytown would have quiet nights where the cogs would sing or make up poetry on the spot. With a guard present, the entire town might as well have been deserted. They moved on, the guard grunting in disgust every few seconds. “You wear your shame well—who could have any pride living here?”

“No one, ser.” She chewed her lip.

Up a total of one hundred and fifty stairs, each she knew by the arrangement of the cracks and protruding weeds, the sweet smell of cigars filled the air. Her heart leapt into her throat.

The guard rapped his knuckles on the heavy door of a vast building overlooking the shantytown. “Master Domirus?”

The familiar droll, sensual, and deep voice responded, “Enter.”

Cy moved inside and instinctively went to her hanging cage; third down from the first, in front of the one windowpane in his quarters.

“I caught this cog ignoring your summons in the market, ser.” The guard had dropped any attitude. If anything, he sounded more afraid than she felt. “Some observed her talking at nothing and pointing angrily.”

She swore internally as the bars dug into their usual spots on her legs. It hadn’t come to mind how silly she had to look scolding something no one else could see.

Her master was quiet, and the guard became less and less confident in his reporting. “And I just wanted to ensure that she was returned, ser.”

Domirus was letting him squirm. What she didn’t know yet was what the guard had done to offend him. Her every memory was bathed in the scent of his cologne, the inflection of disinterest in his every word, and the way people quieted wherever he walked. Finally, her master murmured, “Cy, will you sing for me?”

Without hesitation, she began doing her best impression of every beautiful noise she remembered and blended it into what she hoped was a song.

“What do you think?” Domirus asked the guard.

“Uh, it is certainly unlike what I have heard before, ser.”

“Cy is a little bit of a songbird. I like to call her that, anyways. I named her ‘sigh’ because she made me sigh so much when she was a child.” He gave a long pause and a puff of his smoke blew into her nose. “I guess I like having a story to go with my girls. A lot of them do not make the journey to your circle. I do believe some of my cogs are busy polishing armor at your barracks, no?”

The guard fell silent. Cy kept singing, legs shaking under her.

“Ah, but you did not come to hear of my nostalgia,” Domirus exhaled his smoke and his chair creaked. “Thank you for escorting her back, ser. I will be sure to commend you to the captain.”

“Thank you.” The guard all but stumbled out.

“You can take a breath,” Domirus told Cy when the door shut.

She paused, heart fluttering.

“Not the brightest young man, is he?” the chair creaked again and she could hear the fine leather of his boots move across the room. “Thoughts?”

Cy thought about the scenario and quickly realized, “He didn’t tell you his name.”

Domirus chuckled, “Do you suppose the captain of the guard has many Meij’in lads with a single freckle on his cheek? I certainly hope not.”

She admired his wit. She had to. “Well played, master.”

“I do enjoy a bit of fun outside of business.” He paused and asked, “He didn’t do anything to offend, did he?”

An unspoken rule amongst the cogs is that you only ever tattled on a non-cog if you loathed him enough to not mind the thought of his family burying him.

“Oh, no, master.” Cy assured. “He simply did his job.”

“I am glad. Now, of course you know you were late.”

“Yes, ser.” She admitted.

“I must ask some hard questions,” his chair squeaked again with his returning weight. “This is the third time someone has reported a pale cog girl having ‘fits,’ if you will. One gentleman claimed he heard you talking to imaginary people. A woman in the monastery saw you beating on a wall, and now this.”

Her stomach cramped with anxiety. Every word he spoke was a poem that she was desperate to hear told fully.

“The lender reports are, however, quite good.” Papers shuffled as he commented, “No complaints on your work ethic – you are on time and learn every job assigned to you by the borrower. Some have even sent their compliments to me for raising you so well.”

“Thank you, master.”

He sighed deeply, the room smelling of nothing but smoke now. “It is always a risk to send you out there. My customers see a little blind woman at their beck and call, and they start to think ill of requesting a slave in the future. None of the other in my employ have a scampering blind woman in their care, no? Now, admittedly, most ignore it as they are used to cogs looking pitiable, but too many are taking a shine to you.”

Her confusion must have been evident because he clucked his tongue lightly. “Oh, I know. You are wondering how it is possible to be too pleasing, too commendable and what not? Truth be told, Cy, you are a sweet girl, but I cannot have my customers feeling even a tiny twinge of guilt, and with these recent fits some of them are starting to believe that you are, well, touched in the head.”

Cy blinked, frozen.

“Can you explain these outbursts?” He lit another cigar with a flourish of fresh, poisonous fumes.

“Sun poisoning, master.” Her voice shook. “The heat merely gets to me sometimes is all! Please, forgive me!”

Domirus hushed her. “I do believe you.”

She exhaled in relief.

“That does not change the fact that it is hurting my business,” he continued.

The pain in her chest returned, as if the broken glass in her foot had crawled into her heart. “Master, please!”

“Ah, you know I’m fond of you,” he consoled. “You have been fighting for that stamp into the laborer caste for over a decade. I know you would never go against me. You have always been my little songbird, always so eager to please and work.” Domirus paused to inhale his sin and savor it, “Listen. I’ll give you a dose of opiates beforehand. You’ll sleep right through it.”

Despite herself, she began to sob. With a grip on the bars, Cy sputtered, “Please!”

The chair creaked and he moved towards her. His large, oddly smooth hand rested on her as he stroked his thumb over her crown.

She nuzzled his hand, shaking. “I only want to stay with you, master. Please, if you would only let me stay!”

Domirus leaned his considerable height down and kissed her forehead through the bars. “No tears, songbird. Once you go to sleep, there will be no more pain. That’s the best I can give someone in your position.” He ruffled her hair, tone almost slipping, “They wouldn’t ever have let you remove those chains, sweetling. Even if you worked a thousand years, this city would have no love for you. I’m sorry.”

“I do not care about dying!” She wailed, “Please, I only want to stay at your side!”

He didn’t answer.

Cy curled into a ball and rocked herself. Domirus called for his workers to come and take her cage away.

They moved her to a cart and locked down a cloth tarp over the cage. The rickety wheels groaned in protest as they pushed her on.

“I love you,” she cried into her knees.

Domirus did not answer. Grimora did not answer.

Alain pushed himself under her arms and rubbed his head against her chin.

They bounced and swerved her cart through fetid air. She had been marched down this path two times and knew there was only one destination.

It was not long until the quiet dripping from the hollow areas of the winding tunnel turned into the soaring roar of the ocean beneath.

Soon, the creaking of rusted chains managed to drown out both the ocean waves slamming against the cliffs and the other cogs.

When Cy had last been at the cages, it had been as punishment for spilling tea on a noblewoman’s carpet - she had gotten three hours. The other time it was for crying out during a whipping and that had been five; they’d never fully submerged her.

This time, it would be until she could cry no more.

---

Chronic

She related each day to what she thought having a baby must be like -- a never-ending nightmare. Waking up on her uncomfortable cot was always done at the provocation of the ceaseless pain in her shoulder.

Five years ago, five fucking years ago, she had worked at a warehouse. Dirty, filled with ants and angry, bitter people, but it paid and she had aspirations for college. One fine day, ten people had called out on the line. Ten people out of fifteen. So, off her fat ass went working most of the positions simultaneously to try and get out the holiday gorefest that sailed constantly down the line.

Her reward? A strained trapezius muscle. No worries, some muscle relaxers, a wrist brace and she'd be good to  go.

Five years later, she wasn't good to go.

The injury had eased at first, but over the years had turned into a burning lump of incessant inflammation in her right shoulder, neck and wrist.

Any attempts to have it seen to were met with the same response. "Your insurance won't cover a specialty doctor. Get a referral." Referral achieved. "Nope, not in your network."

American health insurance, ladies and gents.

Now, as she slogged around the house, the burning accompanied her like a whining child. Five years old and it never shut the Hell up.

She wrapped the decrepit brace around her right wrist and fastened it as tight as she could. Her hand might be swollen and purple by lunch, but fuck it. Four Aleve pills later and she was as ready as possible.

Work, agony. Lunch, agony. Being told that the only orthopedist in her network was still waiting to be approved, AGONY.

Her misery apparently only wanted her company. It was in her neck as she went home, throbbing an demanding attention.

"Alright," she murmured when she got home. The house was a mess. Cleaning was practically asking the impossible.

A step into the kitchen looked like it was on the way to an A&E show. It brought tears to her eyes, just remembering the days before the pain, before the accompanying depression and suicidal thoughts.

There was one clean knife.

It wouldn't be for very long.

******

This is a story based on my own experiences. While I have gotten a lot better, I am typing this with a wrist brace on and the pain in my neck. Point is, chronic pain is a nightmare child that never stops biting your nipple.

Code Adam

The intercom buzzing interrupted his retail trance: "Code Adam."

Adam groaned. A Code Adam meant that one, his coworkers would be making fun of his name all day and, two, that someone had lost their brat in the store.

Again.

They were up to fifteen that week.

He dutifully put down the box of toys that people had been too lazy to put back and walked around, looking for any little kids that were either alone or pissing their pants. He hoped it wasn't the second one (for the fifth fucking time).

What kind of parents was it this time?

Adam took a peek up at the counter. Yep, overweight soccer mom with a fake Gucci ensemble, massive manicured nails and a voice like a belt sander to the ears. His favorite. Probably let her precious little Jeffrey or Tarquin or whatever name she thought sounded edgy or unique play while she yacked on her phone.

He cupped his ear, hoping to catch those magic words. "-I can't believe you didn't watch him better!"

Aha! There it was. Adam rolled his eyes outwardly but sort of snickered on the inside. These retail-hating assholes always blamed them, the retail monkeys, for not taking care of their precious little monsters.

"He's such a good boy!"

Or, his favorite, "Don't tell me how to parent my child!"

Then parent them, he always thought while he nodded and groveled for his pitiful job.

They all searched while attempting to keep up with shoppers who didn't give two fucks about anything else but getting checked out to shut their bleating spawn up. When told no one could leave the store for a bit, there was more than a few threats to call: the manager, corporate, the police, lawyers, whatever.

By the time he had circled around, Adam noticed the police actually were there.

His heart sank a little. That was the fifteenth kid that they hadn't been able to track down. Now he almost felt a little bad for the clawed soccer mom -- her tears seemed hysterical and genuine.

Adam sighed and went back to work. He was sure he'd get the gossip later, but noted the details: young toddler, blonde hair, green eyes and wearing a blue jumper with some obscure cartoon character on the front.

Fifteen kids in one damned week. How effective could the code be if it seemed to fail every damned time?

He tried to think and couple his love of crime shows: had there been any suspicious repeat customers in? Anyone that looked shady? Customers all sort of looked the same to him, except for the four hundred pound woman that had smuggled dolls in her cleavage; no one even attempted to stop her.

No one came to mind.

His trudge to the stock room felt heavier than normal. All that was left was those stupid, massive dolls that had grown in popularity. Adam heaved the box onto the trolley and rolled it out, attempting to avoid squishing any little monsters.

These things were so creepy. They never looked the same, either. First there was a bunch of blank-eyed little girls with their lips flapping around. Supposedly, they talked, but he avoided pressing the button like the plague.

Three girls in cute little outfits, some oddly ghetto looking dolls and a few little boy dolls. Adam had no idea why -- he couldn't imagine a fan of dolls wanting a dead-eyed looking ginger kid, a wide-eyed boy with some epic dreadlocks or some blonde kid that looked like he'd peed his overalls.

Oh well. Corporate knows best.

The Revolving Door

Kelly looked through at the hotel. The historic Patrick Henry, home to a million and one ghosts, as she was told.

The lump in her throat thickened. She rifled around in her messy purse and sucked down two more cough drops.

It wasn't the ghost stories she minded.

Somewhere in there was her boss.

When Kelly had started her job as a software engineer ten years ago, Mr. DeVille had seemed nice; sickeningly so. After a decade with him, Kelly had decided he was the closest thing to the anti-christ.

She'd been tempted to call up the crazies bashing the President as the almighty Damian and tell them to cast holy water on her pudgy little frog of a boss.

How many anxiety attacks was she up to now? Six hundred and twenty-four, Kelly sighed. The last one had been so bad that she'd honestly been amazed she still had a job. They'd been at another hotel, this one in Phoenix. Mr. DeVille had pulled her aside while she set up her aging laptop for a presentation and blasted her with phlegm as he screamed. Screamed for an entire hour before the group showed up to listen to her present their messy, overpriced pile of shit accounting software.

Halfway through, and she thought she was fine. Then she got a glimpse of him staring her down and burst into tears.

What was it about the software industry that made people act like machines?

The business group had stared blankly at her and shuffled out at Mr. DeVille's urging. He had insisted that she was suffering from the "lady issues" that come after a pregnancy. Never mind that she'd lost her third child. Never mind that her husband had walked out on her his hands thrown in the air at her "neurosis".

Women problems. Sure.

Kelly looked out on the road where it seemed like a perpetual game of Frogger for anyone who dared used the crosswalk. Everyone in a hurry, no time for humanity.

No time for her to eat some cancer sticks. She had to go and give her soul to the DeVille (she almost cracked a smile at the coincidental hilarity. Almost).

Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe some ghost would swallow him whole or trap him in a bedroom, like in The Shining. The thought of a rotting old lady coming after his sallow turkey neck did make her smile.

Oh well. Emotions off. Face blank.

Kelly turned and headed through the revolving door.

Her mind went blank with her face, and she found herself pushing a few times in a complete circle. Maybe if her inner child hadn't died a long time ago, it would have been fun. Now, it just felt hollow. With a sigh, she turned to her stop.

But, instead, she stopped dead in her tracks. The glass had to be playing tricks on her eyesight. Fuck, she did really need glasses -- the doctor hadn't just been trying to line his pockets.

The guests, the staff, every single one of them looked as though their face had melted. Their ribs had opened like butterfly wings escaping a cocoon and their hearts dragged behind them on the floor.

Kelly tried to make a sound, but it only came out a whimper, like when she tried to sleep but saw only the spittle flying out of her bosses face. The door was no longer turning.

The things inside had begun to look up at her. Some of their eyes had rolled down their cheeks. She gaped at them, they gaped back, as though a woman frozen in the revolving door was the weirdest thing about.

Then, she saw Mr. DeVille. Oh God, did she ever see him. 

He practically poured out of the reserved conference room like a gelatinous slug. Kelly was sure he was yelling, but all that came out was the sound of someone drowning beneath a bubbling ooze. His grotesque form slithered her way, waving the tiny limbs she supposed were arms.

When he got close enough, she saw his mouth open and screamed.

It was a gaping maw, not unlike a lamprey. Two pincers on either side of his mouth wildly jerked towards it, as though directing her on where she should jump. He only stopped his beeline for the door when a bag boy got in his path.

The bag boy was sallow, more of a skeletal corpse than a melted mutant. He looked up blankly as Mr. DeVille crammed him in his enormous mouth and swallowed him whole, screaming the entire time. His face was still visible against the translucent gut; he looked unaffected.

"Kelly," he garbled at her. "You fucking idiot, get your ass in here, now!" 

She looked at him and pressed back against the door. It wouldn't move.

She could see the veins in his face as he pressed it to the glass, trying to prod his comical appendage of an arm through to grab her.

Every rant, every curse, every scream he uttered spewed a sickening black ooze over the glass.

Oh, god, it was melting through! 

The dead face of the bag boy stared out at her and Kelly swore that he was mouthing, "Go."

With a wild shriek, she rammed into the door with all of her might. The revolving door spun her around several times until she practically collapsed outside. She glanced back for a brief moment, only in time to see Mr. DeVille flailing his arm around wildly and screaming loudly enough to shake the glass.

Kelly felt the world lift from her shoulders. She lit a cigarette, flipped him off, and hailed a taxi. The historic Patrick Henry could have him. The business group that would have to watch his mealymouthed presentation and how he didn't know how to work a basic projection screen on their own.

It didn't matter to her. She saw some of the horrors inside nod at her, some even smiling a bit.

For the first time in a decade, she smiled back.

The taxi driver was the most handsome slob she'd ever met.  

The Habitat (Finished)

    When he signed the papers for his new home, the stars aligned. A million dollar home staring right out at Palma Sola Bay -- he had argued them down to 950. 

    The house stood at one story, but not for long. John's mind rearranged every inch: arched windows here with custom stained glass, marble counters, a spiral staircase into what would be the upper story. Another million dollars, but what did he care. 

    His promotion at the Able and Perron Law Firm had probably been the closest he had come to great sex since the divorce. The feeling of sitting down at Thanksgiving in front of Aunt Lucille and her meth-stained teeth or his little sister who was repeating her third year in college, for the fifth time, was sinfully delicious. It even made the dry turkey taste like ambrosia. 

    John laughed internally as each of his family tried to show off, tell each other they were off the bottle or had found Christ. They tried to pick at his divorce but he was more than happy to tell them his dearest Sarah was dating an unemployed loser and beloved children had scribbled all over their tiny apartment. "I sure do miss them," he concluded innocently. 

    Oh, he missed them alright. Sure he did. 

    Back in his home, he inhaled the scent of the clean -- it was citrus and superiority. He couldn't wait until his sister visited in a month so he could show off his leather furniture, art from local geniuses and imported wines (no touching). He was split between hoping she would bring Mom and praying that she wouldn't.

    Right on the Bay. Life was good. 

    He ran his hands over the smooth wood that would make his custom bar, euphoric. His bliss was cut short when he felt a sharp pinch on his thumb. 

    "Damnit!" He glanced down, ready to call the workers and scream at them until they sanded the wood properly. Instead, the culprit was a large, black carpenter ant. 

    John scoffed, "Of course. Damned lazy migrant workers kept the door open all day. Of course these little bastards would get in." He folded his arms at the scurrying dot and chided, "Well, there's no food here for you -- because I paid for it." He paused with a wry smirk, "I admire your work ethic, Danny ole' boy, but you're just not keeping up with the times." Danny had worked at the law firm for over twenty years. John had to fire him last week. "We'll have to part ways, Dan. Nothing personal." And with that, he squashed the ant under his thumb and flicked it's corpse into the trash can. 

    He'd get the exterminators to spray the place before his sister came. No big deal. John almost laughed. His mother had always told him that ants had the right idea: no lollygagging, no protests, just working towards a better life. 

   Maybe they did. He didn't get to partner by wasting time or daydreaming. His new surround system was here. No time to ponder worthless insects. 

   The exterminators came and went. He made sure he hired the top rated (and most expensive). You get what you pay for, after all. Before his sister stopped by, several cousins, aunts, uncles and even his ex-wife had stopped by. John could see it in her eyes behind her mumbled pleasantries: it was killing her inside, seeing how she could have had it, and he felt like a kid allowed in a pool full of jello. 

    His kids, Tom and Kelly, ten and eight, were only concerned about the possibility of a game room. Just to stick it to his ex, he put on a sickeningly sweet voice and asked them what happened to all the nice games he had bought them before. They whined that Ronny (their new Daddy) had sold them because they weren't good kids for Santa. 

    I wonder if his dealer is named Santa, John giggled internally while telling them he'd see what he could do.  John was glad Sarah scurried off with their kids after. Their voices had started to grate on his ears, and he had to check on his granite counter tops.

    He almost skipped over when they were gone. The best revenge is living well, after all. He hoped it burned her right to her bleached blonde roots.

    Ants. John stopped and gawked at the line of black dots moving around his counter. He almost instinctively grabbed for his cell phone, ready to put the exterminator on his speed dial shit list. Instead, he took a deep breath and doused them in glass cleaner before sweeping their fallen army off. The timing was good, fortunately, as his sister had arrived.

    “Johnny boy,” Gina called in her usual sing-song tone.

   “Come in, G!” He hollered back.

    Gina let herself in, swaying a bit. How many times would she lose her damned license? He wondered this as they hugged.

    “Cyoar, great place!” She raved. Gina was on a kick of pretending to be British. “Uncle Ron bitched forever about how he had all this same crap in his time and for a better deal.”

   “Fuck Ron,” John muttered. “He still insists he knows Kung Fu. Fat bastard.”

    They laughed together and he offered her some coffee (still no touching on the wines).

    “So, who did you have to sue to get this place?” She gave him a sideways smile. Gina always assumed that his position let him pull some kind of Mafia deals.

    “No one,” he laughed. “The agent told me that there was some issues with loose dirt under the foundation and I told him to make me a deal and I would fix it.”

    “Nice.” She sipped and made a face. “Bleck, no sugar? What, afraid of ants?”

    He bristled. “Sugar isn’t in my diet, G.”

    “Oh yeah, Mum was still calling you her little piggy, eh?” Her smile faded. They shared a small moment of silence. “She didn’t want to come.”

    “God knows she could bear the thought of me making more than Dad ever spoiled her with.” John wanted it to be lighthearted, but it was about as bitter as the coffee.

    Gina sipped in silence and tried to lighten the mood. “Hey, you’ve donned the crown of the dysfunctional heavyweight division – kudos!”

    “Thanks.” His eye had been drawn to the upper corner of the wall. You have to be fucking kidding me.

    She followed his gave and frowned, “Oh damn, Johnny Boy, you’ve got some heavy roommates.”

   He swore at the line of ants. Little fuckers must have popped up under the wallpaper. His custom made wallpaper. “Maybe I’ll sue the damned exterminators.”

    “You could try vinegar,” she tried. “They hate that shit.”

    “So do I!” He snapped, startling them both. In the uncomfortable silence, he murmured, “Sorry, G. Maybe you should go. I gotta take care of this.”

    As soon as she left, he was screaming down his phone, calling every single exterminator he could find. He spent the rest of the day angry. Angry and looking under every nook and cranny.

    The little fuckers were everywhere.

    When he tried to go to sleep that night, his gorgeous home groaned around him. “I know,” he groaned with it. “This is bullshit.” It seemed like the very dirt was rustling. He saw ants in the dark, like a tapestry of writhing soldiers marching across his vision in perfect diagonals.

    The next day, his house was full of poison while he angrily paced about. Each consecutive exterminator was obviously displeased, but he didn’t care. What the fuck was he paying them for?

    Each one marched out with a grunt of affirmation. If anything had been living in his house beside him, it would be dead meat now.

    John went to work and kept his mind off of ants. He had a whole litigation team to lay off and several petty cases and real estate closings. The mind-numbing paperwork soothed his frayed nerves. No more ants. No more rattling dirt in the night. He had spent a fortune to assure it.

    When he came home, he broke his own rule and opened a nice vintage. He didn’t even bother with a glass and sipped straight from the bottle.

    If his table hadn’t cost over five thousand dollars, he would have spit it all over the surface.

    Ants. He was drinking ants.

    John stared at the dark, drowned smudges in the bottle. “How? How did you get in there?! It was sealed!”

   He screamed and threw it against the wall. “I don’t have TIME for this! Don’t you fucking understand that I built this house?! This is MY HOUSE!”

   His raving led him to the kitchen. Everywhere. Marching, pinching little fuckers everywhere. His food, his fridge, the washer – everywhere.

    John didn’t care that it was ten at night. He sprinted to his Benz and roared towards the grocery store, barging past some retail slave trying to close. He didn’t even look.

    Bleach, bug spray, vinegar, garlic; he nabbed it all and practically threw cash in the cashier’s face.

    He left a message as he weaved violently on the road towards his home and told his boss he was calling in the week off he hadn’t taken in all his years at the firm. He didn’t even care if they paid him or not, he was done.

    For five days, all he did was kill ants. Every single one he could find: stomping, drowning them with bleach, scrubbing the walls with vinegar and bug spray.

    Anything.

    By Saturday, he hadn’t showered all week. The shower was full of ants.

    John had run out of bug spray. He had run out of the pads, out of vinegar, out of everything to keep the little bastards at bay. Now, he was crouched down by the ants endless line and squashing them under his thumb, one by one.

   "Damned ants," he muttered each squish. "Ruining my perfect new home!"

    The light from the windows grew dimmer. He faintly heard the dirt shift under the foundation, as though even it was tired of the swarming army.

    "Those are custom made windows, you sons of bitches!" He lamented.

    His beautiful home. The home that had impressed even his family, covered in endlessly marching ants.

    But he would have the last laugh. He swore it.

    John rolled to his side an on to his feet, uncaring of the ants crawling over him. He had laid a crowbar to the side -- it was meant to help him pry off the old wooden eyesores in the walls. Instead, he found himself aiming for the pipes under the sink.

    "Like mother always said. You keep washing until there's no more mess."

    He swung the pipe with a manic grunt, and beat at it until water began to spurt upwards. He knocked holes in every wall and beat at every single pipe that had painstakingly been marked, each with a battle cry of, "Drown!"

    The water took its time, but it didn't take too long before it had near turned black with struggling dots. John sank against a wall with a tired smile. The bliss of feeling the bites fade as he was cleansed was absolutely euphoric.

   He'd let it flood. He could buy new furniture, start over on his dream home. His family would come back and be even more impressed. Maybe he'd put in that god forsaken gaming room for his two snot-nosed little shits. He had the best job in the whole family -- bunch of deadbeats, druggies and whores. Who was going to turn their nose up at him now?

    No one, that's fucking who.

    John shut his eyes and let the water rise. Done. Over. Finally.

    When he could be bothered to open them again, he thought perhaps he hadn't opened them at all. The light had gone completely.

    "I'm just too tired to open my eyes," he assured and forced them open with his fingers.

    Darkness.

    He looked instinctively towards his beautiful, custom arched windows. Brown? How could they be brown?

    Then he realized that the water wasn't the only noise. The very foundation of the home had been dragged down and loose dirt crinkled all around him in surround sound. The real deal, not that cheap shit the guy at the store had tried to sell him.

    John stumbled to his feet and waded in a frenzy to the kitchen to grab his flashlight. He turned it on with a muffled sob.

    His beautiful home had been buried. What once had been a million dollar view out on the bay had becoming nothing but dirt and buried dog shit.

    For a long moment, all he could do was watch the ants crawling in the thousands on his windows. They would get in soon. He looked to his food: covered in ants. His clothes, covered. Everything was nothing but a squirming black horde.

    His mind went back to his mother's ant farm. How he used to stare as they moved around like the undead, following the call of a matriarchal tyrant. He wondered if ant queens ever told her ants that they didn't collect the right sugar, or sent them off to their deaths for amusement.

    They were beginning to swim on him. The stubborn bastards used their own comrades bodies as little boats.

    Smart fuckers.

    His flashlight, filled with water, gracefully took its death.

    The water was still rising.