Fiend

By Cornelius Coe

If you lost your mind, how do you know you'd miss it?

We're all pinned to the floor, underfoot, by our sanity; not Floyd.

Ascending through a world of metaphor, mania, and a mental ward, Floyd's escape from that which binds us steers him unsteadily through unrequited love, vigilante delusions, and incarceration amidst the lost and mindless.

Keep your feet on the floor and your tongue in your mouth as you swerve through this fevered, fiendish dream.

Cornelius Coe's third novella. A departure from neo-noir onto terrain less traveled

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sludge City
• Release date: Aug 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386337034

Book preview

 ... ’cause you’re playin’ with fire

The letter is on the side. I know who it’s from; the lipstick gives her away. I click my neck in response, cough like a bark.

Fucking bitch.

I told her to keep away, and I meant all the way; don’t come near me, mind, body and soul. My Mum shouts, ‘There’s a letter for ... ,’ and more anger burns my face.

Fucking bitch.

I take myself, the letter, and my dog (Golden Retriever) out to the garden. I stand on the paving slabs with my bare feet, not fully conscious of the cold, take a cigarette from my dressing gown pocket and light it with the right; before letting the flame die, I put it to the letter and hold it aloft with the left. I watch it burn and try not let any of the words get registered by my mind ... 

 ... I do note, however, how lovely her handwriting is ... 

Fucking bitch.

I wait for it to burn my calloused finger and thumb very slightly before dropping it to the ground. The pages blacken, curl, scorch the floor. I blink, once, twice, thrice. I watch it burn, look up to the clear, cloudless night, the half crescent moon that shines brighter than it should. I watch my smoke drift, and I grin.

Fucking bitch.

Schism

The green of the countryside rushes by, unbeknownst to me. Oblivious, trapped in oblivion, unknowing, unseeing; an office job will drive you to this; drive you into a wall, no seatbelts, and unlike a dummy, when my head splits, brains will leak out ... 

Much mush brain.

Too young to have gone past insane.

But that’s what I’ve done ... that’s what I did. I have learned, and now, supposedly, I am better.

The old man, my father, is similarly oblivious, only, his ignorance isn’t aimed at the urban greenage dashing past the window; it is levelled squarely at his son’s cerebral activity; his son’s lack of ingestion of the pill that is supposedly keeping him sane.

It is not long now until my parents make their trip abroad, and I, alone, will bring my World into sharp focus, or bring it all crashing down around me, burning, curling, shattered and torn.

My moment is coming ... 

I bide my time and wait ... 

I feel a vibration in my pocket.

It’s her.

It has always been her.

Immediately, I am thinking about our future. What will it hold? Does she feel as I feel? I hope so. I need her to. I need her. It is simple. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, yet I have scarce touched her. She denies me this. I have had her, in my bed, laid out, looking into her deep brown eyes, smiling, closed mouth, large pupils moistened by tears, but she has spurned my advances, telling me, it is too much, too soon ... 

All this rushes through my mush brain. I breathe in, sigh.

‘Everything all right?’

I tell him, yes ... yes it is. And the orange/red setting sun lets me know, hope is on the horizon ... 

*

I use my swipe card, walk through the door, say thank you to the security guard who uses my name, push my way through the revolving door, out to freedom, and hopefully, to her ... 

She said she’d be here. I deliberately haven’t tested, deliberately haven’t questioned; if she is ... I will pursue my dream with all that I have; if she isn’t, I will write it off and accept, it was never meant to be. I snigger as I light a ciggy; who could blame her for not being here? My intensity knows no bounds. My external arrogance that almost all buy into is frail with her. She renders me slack mouthed, useless ... 

And then I tell my monologue, shut up. This negativity will get me nowhere.

Just approach it logically.

I sit at a bench, under the moon, pull out my phone, push my thumb against her name.

Almost immediately, ‘Bonjour?’

I smile. ‘Hello. I can’t see you anywhere ... ’

‘I’ve got a little lost ... ’

I feel my body relax. She is here, for me; she has kept her end of the bargain, and I can only take this as it is surely intended; our last two encounters have been ... memorable. I have made clear my intent. I have told her that I want more. I have always wanted more. I know about him, and I don’t care. We are meant to be, but I haven’t been stupid enough to out-pour to this extent; I have simply said that she knows what I want, and her look to the floor, grin on her face, hand through her hair, has let me know that she knows what I’m saying; we’ve always had this connection.

I realise, my thoughts need correction. I need to calm and I ... fuck it, I am delighted.

Delighted.

After directing her, I push the red end button, breathe in through my nostrils, flick away my cigarette. I wink at the moon, lift my hood, slowly amble forward. I cross the roundabout, walking over the island in the middle, make out headlights heading toward me.

It’s her.

It has always been her.

I walk down the other side of the island, beam at her. She reaches over and unlocks the door. I step in, pull my hood down, want to kiss her, don’t. I am relaxed. I am composed.

Without my medication ... I am a new man.

I am ready for her.

Ready to have what I am meant to have.

She smiles that beautiful smile, shifts the gear stick, gets us going. I sit, feeling better than I ever have, trying to contain myself. Her physical beauty is matched by her mind; she is artistic, troubled and contagious.

Get into my head.

I am ready.

I am ready.

We talk. She smokes. I can’t stop thinking about what she’ll look like in her underwear.

‘So what do you want to do tonight?’ she says.

I know what I want to do, but saying it now, would not be right. She takes a left.

‘I’ll get you a bottle of wine, me a bottle of Jack, and see what happens.’

She shifts the gear stick again. Our eyes meet. We both grin.

‘Okay’.

The car vibrates, purrs. I chill, she talks. As is always the way, I listen, content; her relaxed nature, her manner, makes me feel ... something ... something I’ve never felt before.

Everything about her; I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my twenty five years (I recall adolescent crushes that masqueraded as love, laugh at their folly). What she says doesn’t matter greatly; it’s the way she says it. Her left hand gestures. She watches the road, calm, composed, occasionally looks to me. The light in her eyes has to be reflected in mine. I can tell by the way she smiles, she sees that something; an external manifestation of my feelings for her.

I look for the moon as I listen. The night and I are in sync. The trees do not move. The World looks still, beautiful, and I am in the presence of the greatest beauty I have ever known. I cannot believe that after the last three years of my life, this might finally be everything I’ve worked toward, bearing fruit. I think about the peach next to me and the fact that, this night, I may finally get to sink my teeth into it.

I grin.

We pull in to the shops where I used to work; I’m looking forward to walking in and showing her off, showing the drunkard behind the counter that life isn’t the same for everyone; we’re not all corrupted, corrupting, bitter, and torn.

Some of us are just better.

We step out, smile at each other, and I lead her in, ducking the door.

I gesture toward the wine and watch her ass as she walks over, finger to her mouth, trying to pick one out. My eyes meet Drunkards. I closed mouth grin. Look at me now, you dishevelled old fuck. She decides, hands me the bottle. I nod and smile at her, walk up to the counter, feeling her close to me.

‘I’ll have a bottle of Jack please,’ I tell Drunkard.

I can see him looking at her, stealing glances as he punches in the prices. Look all you want, you old cunt.

Look and see what I’ve become.

‘Don’t let him drink too much, or he’ll start crying,’ he dares to say, his veined face reddening. I let it slide. He slides me the bag. I clench it, smile at him, look at her. She pulls wide eyes and a downward grin. We laugh as we walk out, two tall, beautiful, youthful artists; hate us if you must, but remember ... 

 ... we do not care.

We step back into the car. The conversation is non-existent, but this is the definition of a comfortable silence. I watch the barely illuminated bungalows roll by the window as her little Clio starts the climb to my house on the hill.

All the suffering, all the hatred, all the ... unknowing, may finally disperse ... I blink, keep my eyes shut, open them again, breathe, tell myself, no. Don’t get carried away.

She is carrying me away ... 

 ... get into my head.

She brings us to a stop, beams at me.

‘Thank you.’

We step out. The view outside my house affords the best view of the town I know; the lights look clear, crystal, and the night almost matches her beauty.

I unlock the door, lead her in. I flick the switch, turn on the kitchen light. My dog comes bounding up to her. She bends down, ditches her bag, showers Millie with affection. I look at her ass, grin.

Jesus

I lean on the counter, she stands, closed mouth smiles, turns one foot.

‘So what now?’

I look her in the eye.

Pause

‘We eat.’

‘I’m not hungry, but you go ahead.’ She smiles, runs a hand through her hair.

I ditch my cardigan, lift my collar. I turn the grill on, get the meat out of the fridge, place it on the tray, put it under the grill. I can feel her watching me as she opens her wine. I like it.

I stretch, lifting my arms above my head, fingers interlocked, screw up my face, groan. I can see it in her face; she knows I have finally come through whatever it was that made me afraid before; I am here now, for her, and she feels it, and as she sips, looks through her brow, her eyes tell me she likes it.

I smile at her, feeling the version of me I like wearing my face.

‘You seem ... different,’ she says.

I scrunch my nose, tilt my head.

‘Different?’

She exhale/laughs. ‘Yeah. Different.’ She puts down her glass. Radiates a something I try not misinterpret. ‘I like it.’

I check on the meat, fight to stop my face from splitting, turn to her, rotate my shoulders.

‘I feel different. Better. Since I’ve stopped taking those fucking meds ... and everything else ... I’ve just ... I don’t know ... I just feel more ... like me. But ... a me I’ve never been before ... it’s like ... it’s like ... beyond ... anything I’ve been before.’

Our eyes are locked and I can tell her breath is held.

I grin with one side of my mouth.

‘You know what I mean?’

She nods, exaggeratedly.

‘Definitely.’

I take charge, as is what I’ve come to accept she wants; she sends me songs, and maybe I read too much into them, but one was written by a bohemian female, like her, whose failures have been made all too public, and it suggested that perhaps the up-and-coming generation of the fairer sex are more old school than the bra-burners that dominate academia that came before them; they want their man to be stronger.

I scratch my head, stretch my shoulders.

‘You asked me, in that poem ... remember?’

She nods, sipping from her glass, eyes shining, appraising me.

‘You asked, am I strong? At the time, it threw me ... but now ... ’ I turn to her, fold my arms, the right side of my mouth still raised, ‘ ... now, I definitely am. ’

She lowers her glass, raises her head slightly, eyes narrowing.

‘I’m stronger than I think you can understand.’

Her smile grows from her mouth, consumes her eyes.

‘I understand.’

I get close to her, holding her eye, bend before her heavenly figure, open the cupboard and get out the beans. My face is in line with her crotch and I’m thinking red blooded. I stand, tin in hand, and our grins almost swallow our faces. I don’t need to say anything; I have her, locked. I know, she does understand; of this, I have no doubt. My physical form alone shows her that I have improved; I have become what I am supposed to be, and she knows, from what I have told her before, she is what I am meant to have.

The doubts that would normally circle, like vultures, are dead on the floor, my confidence, feeding off their cadavers, arched back, sharp teeth, growing, growing ... 

She places her glass down with a clink, slinks toward me, holds my eye. The meat sizzles as she talks. I chuck the beans in a bowl, put them in the microwave. I listen to her, but at the same time, to my own monologue; I have been carried away and now the idea, the ideal, I hold in my head of who I am, has brought me back, brushed me off, and leaves me before her, ready, composed and in control.

‘ ... you know what I mean?’

I beam, getting the meat out from under the grill, catch her eye.

‘I mean ... yeah, I would just love to be proposed to in that way.’

Her coquettish smirk arouses me. Again, I know a nod is enough.

I plate up, look to her, tilt my head toward the door; follow me.

I sit at the table, feeling massive, a mass, more masculine than I ever have. I breathe in through my nostrils, smile as she sits at the end of the table, leans on her hand, dreamily drinks me in.

She talks and I hear the words, but I’m not listening, nor am I tuned in to my own thoughts; I am simply glowing, devouring the aesthetic, loving what I see and what I feel. I nod when appropriate, not contrived, simply doing enough to keep her voice in my ears. Her pupils are dilated. I grin as I carefully chew.

‘I think it’s brilliant, you doing what you’ve done.’

I swallow, place down my cutlery, lean back, interlock my fingers behind my head, flex the muscles in my arms, look to her. She exudes this ... this thing that I understand but is beyond words. She shines. She shifts slightly under the weight of my greedy gaze.

‘I mean, you really deserve it. After what you’ve been through ... to finally be on the other side of it? I’m so happy for you. Really, I am.’

She leans across the table, touches my hand.

‘Well ... it’s like they say; you can’t keep a good man down.’

She laughs, takes away her hand, bunches up her hair, leans back, eyes stuck on mine.

I stand, breathe in through my nostrils, plate in hand, tilt my head toward the door; follow me.

I place the plate in the sink, rinse it, listen to her pour the drinks, look out through the window at the darkness, smile at it. I feel as if I’m being watched by everyone I’ve ever been, and they’re all cheering me on,