Bloom

Home 1: Refusing to Look

You approached your house. It stood tall in midst of the field, like a menacing fortress, seemingly brushing the blood-red sky and its crimson clouds.
It was times like this when ignoring home’s sharp set of teeth was subconscious. You turned to it in need of comfort, open armed. You sought solace here.
You went up the porch and came to the door. You reached out for the doorknob. It was then that you noticed the grazes and seeping cuts that populated your arm; then that you noticed the bloody, battered, red mess of your hands, and remembered running through the forest and being assaulted by the sharp branches. The more you thought about it, the further it sored.
*Click* And it glided open, making way to the shadowed halls. You walked in. You tried letting out a sigh, but your body wouldn't let you.

You shuffled off your sparkly pink shoes and placed them inside the shoe box. Your socks tapped across the wooden floor of the hallway, dress flowing as you went up the carpet stairs, past the framed pictures – Don’t look – and to your room.
The scratchy, white door was already ajar. You grabbed the handle and pulled it open, sending the sign – hanging by tattered string and a nail to the door – swinging. Don’t look.
Your room, all pink and sweet. You slammed the door behind you and scanned it all, standing still for just a moment, searching for something you just didn’t quite know what.
And so you get dressed for bed, grabbing whatever you first saw in the wardrobe drawer and fitting yourself with it. This time, a frilly pink-rose patterned set of pyjamas that felt just an inch too tight. You began to think a thought about the size of them, but stopped as you shut the drawer.
A pyjama vest top, some pyjama shorts, socks and a dress on the floor. You shut the curtains and clambered into bed, pulling up the covers and staring deeply up at the ceiling, cosy as could be.

Except it wasn’t. You couldn’t sleep. The more you stared at the ceiling, noticing its intricate yet subtle floral patterns, the more it stared back at you. You couldn’t sleep. A ray of crimson bled through the crack in the curtains. The room was red. You couldn’t sleep. So you climbed out from your covers and closed the curtains. Except it wasn’t good enough. You were tired, but you couldn’t sleep.
You needed to use the bathroom and opened your bedroom door. Before you was the hall, the same usual hall, long and empty. But it glowed red as the night-sky light hummed through the window at one end.
You crept slowly and silently, ninja-like and confident, through the hall to the bathroom door. You lowered the handle with a careful push, and it opened, creakingly. You slipped into the bathroom. With a *Click!*, the light flickered, but then failed to work, it never did, and it the room remained glum, illuminated only by whatever managed to get in through the blurred window.
It was dark, but just about light enough to make out the room.
You went over to the toilet, looking sickly into the bowl. A bowl never really cleaned, stained by the rotting stenches of the substances stuck to it; some smelled erotic. You stepped back and tried to gag, your face damping with sweat.
You tumbled to the sink, assaulting the taps with urgency, scratching your face with water. You tried breathing, but looked up in the mirror to see that you couldn’t.
You glared, wide-eyed, at yourself through the reflection, but to unspeakable horror, saw your mouth shut with gashed and bloody sewing.
You tried screaming, tried ripping open your lungs, tried splitting open your mouth. But nothing came out. Your tears remained silent, and so they remained yours.
Tried breathing, tried huffing and puffing, trying to get your lungs going. You tried breathing through your noise but that just wasn’t going to work. You fell to the floor and pulled viciously at your hair.
Help me.

You shut the bathroom door and tip-toed back to your room. *Tippity-tap! Tippity-tap! Tippity-tap!* You remembered to be careful with the door as you went in.
You dug yourself into your bed sheets and pressed your face deep within your pillow. You kicked and punched and thrashed your body about, abusing your bed below you. You tried screaming while doing so, but nothing would come out. You tried screaming louder… silence. It hurt.
You cried.

You were staring at the ceiling, again.
Every now and then, you would look over at that faulty pink clock on your wall. The dinky minute hand hadn’t ticked since god knows how long.
You couldn’t sleep. You weren’t allowed. Your body kept you from falling to slumber, despite how much you wished for it.
It’s not true. You thought. Maybe, just maybe, if you thought really hard, then it wouldn’t be. If you just let it go. If it just… didn’t exist.
This is all just a dream. And maybe it was. Maybe there was no need to worry.
None of this is real. You told yourself, staring sharply at the crimson light-stained ceiling.




‘…’

‘…I’m still awake, aren’t I?...”

You carefully got out of bed. Your bare feet against the bristly sensation of the carpet. You walked over to the desk, to the window, where you pulled open your curtains. A beam of bright red light shone in, illuminating the room in death.
You pondered down at your red self, looking down at your red hands, at your red pyjamas. And then you shut them tight. The room was a dark purple-pink.
You gave yourself to the floor, crossing your legs and pulling out your ponies from a box beneath your bed.
You played with your ponies.
You didn’t enjoy playing with your ponies, but you did it anyway; you just did.
You put away your ponies.
You lay on the floor, looking up at the ceiling, more. There wasn’t anything there to be fascinated by anymore. It was in the way of the stars.

You stood up again, and then sat down on your flimsy white chair and searched the drawers of your desk. You eventually found an assortment of your own drawings, covered by a few crayons. The one on top was of you and Jen, holding hands under the tree in the flower field. There were butterflies and bees and clouds. Cute.
You stared at the doodle a little longer. You couldn’t tell if you wanted to smile or frown but regardless, it wouldn’t matter. You kicked shut the drawer, gently.
And then kicked it in, again, and again, and again. You kicked it and slammed the desk. You slammed the desk and then bashed your head against it. You bashed and you bashed. And it hurt. And it hurt. And you wanted to scream and shout.
You cried again.

You tried going to sleep again.
You closed your eyes and… black, almost black. Red-black. No. Black. It was dark. Dark enough for you to fall to sleep.
And you did fall.
You fell. You dreamt you stumbled backwards off a cliff, and you fell. Why? I think someone pushed you. There was a girl. In a dress, a bright pink one – bloodied by the red of the sunset sky of the setting sun. The girl had long, straight, dark brown – almost black – hair, sat upon a scalp of dark skin. Down was her face, blank, yet her sharp blue eyes were cast upon you as you fell further.
You plunged deep into the sunset-shimmering sea. Waves churning back and forth hard, crashing into you. You tried to gasp for air… but failed. Water entered your lungs. You flailed about, not knowing how to swim. You bobbed above water, and then were thrown completely under to face the wrath of the unforgiving tide. You were hauled into the cliff-face, scraped for scars. It hurt.
You couldn’t hold onto yourself for any longer.

You lunged forward, breathing as heavily as you could through the slits in your nose. *Huff* You breathed. *Puff* You breathed.
That’s it. You decided; you’d had enough. You were going for a wander.

You left your bed.
And shifted into the hallway.
And you crept down the stairs.
And made sure to be quiet as you went down the steps.
And shifted into the hallway.
Refusing to look at the pictures.
Because those framed pictures. They…
Our feet touched the wooden flooring of the downstairs. The front door looked enticing, yet deterring, still. The silent dark blue of the hall grew redder as it approached the door.
You followed along the hallway past the corridor to the front door. Down here it was almost so silent you could hear a pin-drop or even a shadow move.
*Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.* You moved, fighting against the creaking of the floorboards, trying not to make noise; trying not to wake anyone up.
The corridor, regardless of whether or not it was dark, was a somewhat creepy thing. Unlived air between wallpaperless walls, and doors that led to nowhere – it felt sad. As though wallpaper was only there to put a cover on the face of the real walls beneath. But maybe a cover is just what’s needed. Nobody likes sad or boring, nobody takes a liking to what’s beneath.
*Step* You came to the door and turned the handle, and glided it open, gently. You were hit with a cloud of puff and muck, and the repeated flickering and static buzz of the TV. And a raspy, hurting snore.
The living room was the sort of room that was lived in, lack of wallpaper aside. The paint on the walls was chipping and cracking, the carpet was stained and spoiled from residue, and littered by bottles and shards of glass, cigarettes and mouldy clumps of food.
Furthermore, the smallish coffee table was covered with an array of items, you noticed as you stepped further into the room. There was a small cardboard box, damp and hardly keeping itself together, filled with ash. Three glass bottles or something. Alcohol. You presumed. Then you noticed the needle.

NoNoNoNoNo…
NO. NO. NO!
NOT NOW…
It’s not real.
It isn’t…
It’s not.
It’s…
Not.

It’s not what it looks like. You decided, and went to leave. You began backwards. But then stumbled and rolled backwards on a leaky bottle, launching alcohol all over your top and in your hair. And rolling the bottle across the carpet.
You were sent back into the door, slamming it shut with an enormous *Thud!* followed by an alarming *Click!*
The ill snoring grew into groaning, and then violent noises that sounded intent on stringing together words. “Eight. Is… someone…? Damien?” The voice was raspy and lifeless. You heard the gross of the sofa squelch as weight lifted from it.
The static buzzed, as did your body shake.
The screen flickered, as did your heart throb.
You tried breathing through your nose as silently as possible. You began shifting closer and closer down the side of the couch, as to hide.
*Cough… cough…* There were steps, or rather shuffles, along the floor. Coming from the voice. It didn’t make it far before came the sound of wet and throaty dispense stuck to floor. And a new smell was added to the rotting mix.
The shuffling came closer. “Urrrghhhh.” We began to cry. “R- Rufus, boy…? Stupid dog…” And closer, behind the coffee table. “…you- need feeding?” *COUGH COUGH!* The static sound of the TV was driving you insane, and the flickering made you feel sick, made it hard to see.
She was coming.
You could see the looming silhouette of her stature, across the room, between the edge of the coffee table and the television. Looking right in your direction. *Cough…* Any moment now she would…
You reached up behind you, onto the arm of the sofa, trying to remain slow and steady but ultimately being overrun by your shaky desperateness. You grabbed and groped around, with each failing grasp leading closer to…
But you grabbed it. You swiped the TV remote and held it close, trying to get a look for the buttons through the flickers and shadows. You held it out to the TV and surely pressed something because now, instead of displaying hazy static,  the screen was bright with colour. It looked like a children’s show. And it was blaringly loud.
She turned to behold the programme of giggling and many moving colours, and stood in place, dazed by the confusion. There was a prolonged groan, and before you risked anything else, you dashed out of the room, remembering to carefully close the door without a slam nor a click.
You finally breathed again, but failed to breathe comfortably. You felt dizzy.

That didn’t happen.