Things to do today:

by Chris Killen

Nothing.

Things keep going in my eye. It was the third thing that had gone in his eye. Three things in one day. First a wisp of smoke from his cigarette – coiling up and directly in, enough to make it squint shut and water. Second, shampoo – not running down his face, but from the lid as he’d flicked it open. Third, washing powder – jumping out of the machine drawer when he closed it.

Each time the same eye, the right one. It doesn’t make much sense.

A couple of things have come out of the eye, too – a bit of hard crust, and later some water. But that was more normal; that was not three things going into someone’s eye in one morning; it was nothing at all.

The eye is red.

It is twelve o’ clock in the afternoon. What will go into my eye the rest of today?

Simon wears glasses. The glasses do not make him feel any safer. He imagines curling things: coat-hanger hooks or fingers, and wet things: paint and spit. The spit is acidy, like drains and pigeons. He needs safety goggles.

Where is Kate?

Kate is not here.

Simon goes in and out of some rooms. I am not hiding. I could go out. I could walk around the city and sit in the square. A man giving out free papers could poke one in my eye, through the glass of my glasses. A pigeon could shit into the bloody mess.

Simon’s mum played badminton.

There is no food left in the cupboards. There is tins. There is three slices of bread. There is no margarine. There is the sound of someone screaming at someone. There is three of Kate’s hairs, too, still on my pillow. I will not move them. They will crawl into my eye when I go to sleep. 

Simon stands by the door of the flat for a long time.

Someone swung their racquet back suddenly and Simon’s mum was standing right behind them and the glass of her glasses shattered and went into her eye.

I love my parents, Simon thinks. He has not spoken to them in two weeks. Sometimes he has been standing next to the phone when it rings.

Kate is fucking him. Kate is staying in bed and fucking him right now. Daytime fucking. It sounds dramatic, ridiculous. Simon is still by the door. Kate has convinced him to take the day off work. They have a lot of ‘catching up to do’. Kate is fucking her no-longer-ex-boyfriend. So will Kate be attracted to Simon again, too, now he is her new ex-boyfriend? Call in sick, she’s saying. Let’s fuck.

Inverted commas.

‘Fuck’.

Kate does not swear.

Sqirshh, sqirshh, sqirshh, said Simon’s mum. It was the sound of the doctor scraping the pieces of glass out of her eye. She made the sound of it for him. He loves her.

Simon has gone back down the hall. The screaming person is in the street. A girl. TURN AROUND AND WALK AWAY, she screams. Simon turns around and walks to his room. Kate is not in the bed. She is fucking. I will call her. I will interrupt them.

Simon does not say that kind of fucking out loud either. He says ‘sleeping with’ or ‘slept’, past-tense. Slept.

Don’t call her, Simon’s flatmate told him one night.

But Simon wants to prove he’s okay.

Don’t call her until you’re okay then, Simon’s flatmate told him.

Simon presses ‘call’. Her phone is not switched off, like sometimes. It rings. I am okay. Kate. Hello? Nothing. Kate does not pick up. No voicemail.

Apple juice, salt, a can of baked beans, six eggs, sausages. Simon is lying on his bed and imagining food they don’t have going into his eye; a painful, squinting breakfast. Simon remembers her clitoris. It was nice.

His mum picked him up after school wearing a white bandage over one eye. He felt scared of her. He didn’t know. He loved her.

Simon goes back into the kitchen. The screaming person is gone from the street now. There is a cat. Clothes spilling out of the bin. A smashed WKD bottle. Nothing.

Simon takes the kitchen roll off the windowsill and rolls it around his hand until there is a wad.

He folds the wad to make a square.
He finds some sellotape from somewhere.
He takes off his glasses.
He puts the square of kitchen roll over his right eye.
He winds the tape around his head.
He listens to the sound of it winding; a miniature cat being put through a pencil sharpener.

Then he puts his glasses back on.

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~ This piece was posted on Wednesday, July 4th, 2007 and was filed under Blog, Writing, Short Story, Featured. You can make comments on it below. ~