THE ROOM

Preface from the author:

This is some really trippy stuff. I imagine this as the story to go with Tool’s Schism. (suggest you try hearing that while listening.)

http://www.mp3raid.com/search/download-mp3/639308/tool_schism.html

THE ROOM

The meal was huge at the party, and he was no exception to gluttony. The booze was now getting to his head, and he wanted his sleep. Appointments and job can’t be skipped, nor can sleep or parties be skipped either. It’s just that when you have too much of everything at one go, it bubbles out and explodes.

He went straight to the car and drove home.

Eyes red and sagging, he swallowed a bitter taste in his mouth as he clutched the steering wheel.

“Damn, I haven’t even had a hangover and my head aches already. Thank god I can see the world straight though. I’ve had enough.”

He was thinking about getting home as soon as possible and withdraw himself from the cacophony that party nights are into sweet slumber.

There was no need to bother about closing gates on returning home; there was always someone who’d do it anyway. He didn’t care a smidgen bit for the car he blocked at the place he parked, for they weren’t going to be up to go drive at this ungodly hour.

Fumbling hurriedly, his keys weren’t co-operating with him for the sudden velocity that had emerged out of impatience; the doorknob clicked open and he slammed it shut, throwing a boot in the air as he lunged for that small compartment of solitude.

The bathroom/lavatory/whatever fancy name you give it.

It is silly of people to mock this, laugh, snort or snigger. When the need is urgent, you tend to lose this wry sense of humour and the pretense that you never cared.

He was relieved (mind the pun), and by then the noxious chemicals had saturated themselves in his blood, numbing his brain, freezing him in that posture for what seemed like perpetuity.

“Son of a bitch…” he swore in a slurred voice. His mind was indistinctly trying to count the number of pegs he had downed.

It didn’t seem like much. He had only just a full glass. Tomorrow’s day was important to him and he was careful enough about his appearance when he woke up the next morning. He didn’t want to look like some haggard, gaunt looking drug abuser.

“What is wrong with me? I’m an old timer, had 5 mugs the week before, and here I am all boozy with one on this auspicious day…”

Propitious indeed.

His vision was blacking out. The bulb on the ceiling glowed a brown-red as it faded to a sooty black. The dimly lit room was now plunged in darkness.

“What the fuck man…Power cuts at 12.30 in the midnight (or early morning whatever, said the indistinct brain).”

He fished the mobile phone out of his pocket. He couldn’t see the light from it. It was like he had gone blind.

The panic was setting in. He rose from his seat.

“What?!? What is going on?!?” he said confusedly, smacking his mobile assuming it was not functioning.

His hands were searching for the door handle. He walked forward making assumptions, out of pure deduction. After all, he knew his house and how the bathroom was like.

The handle was mysteriously absent.

He screamed in rage, frustration and a desperation to go retire to bed. The door, the knob all seemed missing. It was as though he were in a cement cube.

Unsuccessful in getting out of there, he looked to get back to his seat. He was moving, but couldn’t grasp anything. There were no walls, no pipe, nothing but the floor.

Overwrought, he yelled once again out of anxiety with a tired mind. This time, amazingly, he couldn’t hear his own voice.

He tried screaming again, but was hit by a wall of deathly silence.

The mind had lost all of its perceptions. Limbs started thrashing around, trying to grope anything if possible. None to avail.

He felt sweat come down his forehead, and it burned his skin. It felt like as though hot oil had seared through the skin. The silent scream fell on deaf ears.

Dread gripped his insides. He was beginning to feel lost, losing hope, faith, sanity. None of the things that generally seem important to you exist that moment. It is one impulsive second of brutish, bestial behaviour.

Voices started to emerge from nowhere, his own being drowned in the dissonance. The pitch black vision turned to violent apparitions. He was in an illusion, life was this delusion.

His throat was parched, dry from all the hoarse screams and aching from grinding too long.

His fingers started to feel sand out of nowhere, and realized that his hands were now stuck to the floor in some sort of colloid he couldn’t make out.

The brain was unable to work for him, all pre-existing senses were now a dysfunction. It was a mock of our perception of life, love et al. What remained in this madness? The psychosis is the biggest crippler of man, he thought, sudden truth staring at him from nowhere in that precise moment.

A distant image of a door appeared, only to fade away. He was throwing his body towards the direction, only to find the image everywhere he looked at. It was an apparition beyond geometry, beyond being just a distortion in the surroundings.

The blackness returned, and engulfed him. Only this time, it was permanent.

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(he wakes up next morning to find himself in a pool of vomit and blood. Scrawled on the wall are the letters “LSD”)

So the next time you get into that confined space called the toilet, make sure you’re not one bit claustrophobic, that your senses are in order, and that you can reach to your bathroom door.

THE END>>>WHATEVER.