American Idol
Every person you let into your life takes away a part of your soul. Occasionally you get it back; mostly it is consumed, feeding the beast we raise and nurture, spiritual forerunner of the Alsatians that will eat our flesh when we die alone in a damp house that smells of smoke and shit.
Alvin King sat on the crusty sofa in the dark and felt the eyes watching him; millions and millions of pairs, sucking at his soul. He could feel their malevolent presence lurking behind the dead television screen that stood on the floorboards against the far wall as he fumbled for another cigarette from his shirt pocket. His hands wouldn’t work properly and he cast frantic glances down at the small cylinder clenched in his shaking grip, steering the flame of the lighter towards it. He knew he stank of smoke; hell, he probably stank of shit as well. Not that he could remember the last time he had squeezed any out of his emaciated bowels.
He dragged in a breath, quickly sucking the rank, unfiltered smoke deep into his lungs, feeling his shoulders sag as some of the tension which gave his body structure was released. Time slowed down and could have stopped altogether if it hadn’t been for the incessant tick of the electricity meter from the dark void that led to the hallway and the rest of the flat. He wasn’t sure when he last left the room—it hadn’t been in the last hour, it might have been in the last week. The oppressive waves continued to wash over him, fuelled by the endless hunger of the millions of soul-eaters behind his television, although at that moment they seemed weaker, about as weak as they ever got these days. They must be distracted, Alvin thought, a juicier, fresher self-sacrifice on offer, no doubt.
He started to take in his surroundings, the bare room grotesque in shades of grey as objects blended with shadow cast by the light that strained through the shutters to his left. He didn’t like to think about the window, so he looked away. Why was everything so grey? He was sure he could remember when things had colour—deep, dark colours that slunk around the corners of rooms or filled up the welcoming void of night. That diversity was gone now, his world a monochrome blur that jumped at him from every angle and perspective, following him through the day, filling his dreams at night. A single colour, a million lurid shades.
His heartbeat had started to slow as his mind wandered, eyelids starting to flicker, when with no warning light flashed through the window. Alvin lurched, a harsh sound squeezed from his lungs and he slumped onto his side, screwing his eyes shut and pressing his hands to his ears. He instinctively brought his knees up to his chest, although he knew it would do no good. A whimper escaped his lips and was swallowed, the spotlight was back on him now and he was cruelly exposed—he could feel their attention drowning him, and he hated every last one of them. What did they want? Hadn’t he given them everything? Couldn’t they just let him be?
Seconds passed, possibly hours. Slowly Alvin opened one eye and appraised the room—the greyness had lightened, mixed with a spattering of white, the flicker of a screen through the gauze of his shutters from the adjacent apartment. Gradually, he released the pressure on his ears and heard the hollow report of shoes on a hard floor through the wall. He sat up, his whole body shaking violently, then at once he was on his feet and propelling himself towards the doorway on unsteady legs, grasping at the frame as he stumbled into the hallway, only coming to a halt as something crunched loudly under his foot. It took him a second to remember where he was. He reached out to touch a vague shape on the wall, a smooth oblong with straight corners. What was it? Pain sliced his hand and he stumbled again, shards of smashed mirror slipping under his feet. Of course, how could he forget? He gathered himself and moved on.
Once in the kitchen he tried to think. Some of the panic was gone and its trigger was now only a hazy memory. Instead, another feeling infiltrated his brain, a deep, dull hurt that started in the core of his body and spread outwards. When was the last time he had eaten? He explored the fridge, bracing himself for what he might find. A bright light and an empty pizza box were as bad as it got. He picked up the box, deciding, on reflection, it was probably not edible. He scanned the rest of the room in the light of the open fridge—salt, old cooking oil, something growing in the sink. He assessed them not edible either.
Could he do it? Now that hunger was on his mind he felt it keenly, twisting his guts and filling up his stomach with noxious gases. But to go outside? Caught in painful limbo, mind and body held fast by competing evils, the corner of his mouth twitched as a solution came to him. Then he remembered the twisted knot of wires that protruded from the wall where the phone used to be.
There was no other option. But could he do it?
The fever of the idea was in his mind and he scrabbled frantically around the kitchen. What would he need? A carving knife went into the waistband of his trousers, his keys were on the sideboard, slowly building small ramparts of rust to protect themselves from the cockroaches that charged backwards and forwards as they multiplied furiously.
What else? What else?
Of course, he remembered, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt and jamming a cap down on top of it, keeping the peak low.
But he had forgotten why he had left his living room in the first place—the sound of a television, only slightly muffled by the intervening wall, filled the room. His mind stopped, then his body, then his heart, all his energy channelled to the glands which pumped pungent fear out of his body into the already rancid air.
They were here, they had found him.
He bolted for the front door, over the shattered mirror, as fast as his bony, sagging legs would carry him, all other fears erased. Out in the corridor instinct took over and the next thing he knew he was at the bottom of a stairwell, his hand raised to push open the door that led into the street.
Outside.
He didn’t pause, they were still close on his tail, their beady, boring, laughing, judging eyes hungry for another slice of his soul. He opened the door, stepped through, and froze.
A figure walked quickly along the pavement on the other side of the street. It was heading away, but it was one of them, he knew—they all were. It hadn’t always been that way. Somewhere in the sludge of memories that constituted the past he remembered being close to people—physically close, but something else as well—there had been more to them than just the eyes, he had known them, known about them, taken something from them.
No, that was wrong, he had not taken, they had given willingly. Their presence had filled him up, not drained him. He gave of himself and they gave back. But that was a long time ago, before anything had even started, before he made it. Those people didn’t exit any more, now they were all the same, now they only wanted one thing.
He pulled his cap further down, tucked his chin against his chest and hurried off along the damp pavement. Rotting cardboard boxes and piles of even less pleasant substances scattered his path. He avoided some of them, not others; what did he care? A large drip of some kind of liquid bounced off his cap, jettisoned by a protruding ledge from one of the tall, ramshackle buildings which leant in around the street as they strained to follow his progress, merging together into a continuous black tunnel of slime-covered brick. Ahead of him he could make out the neon glow of the pizza shop as it fizzled and died in the heavy, damp air; his pace slowed, his legs taught like rusted springs and his breathing fast and shallow.
Act normal, he told himself. Keep your head low and act normal. Medium pepperoni please, medium pepperoni please, medium pepperoni please.
He reached the door and his vision started to skew, the rush of hyperventilation decoupling his senses from his brain as he walked across the empty shop to the desk.
What was he doing? Serving his head on a plate to them, that was what, standing there waiting for them just to come and get him. Come on down. Look what prize you’ve won today.
A noise in front of him.
‘What can I get you?’
Pepperoni please, pepperoni please, pepperoni please. Nothing came out of his mouth. He stared at his feet, feeling the eyes burrowing through the peak of his cap.
‘Hey buddy, what do you want?’
‘Pepperoni,’ he stammered, voice little more than a whisper.
‘Large? You want stuffed crust with that?’
‘Yeah,’ Alvin replied, fumbling in his pocket
‘That’s twenty-five dollars.’
Alvin raised a fifty in a shaking hand that he snatched back as soon as the money was on the countertop. The till rang.
‘Hey, you want to take your change or not?’
Alvin didn’t answer, didn’t look up.
‘Man, what’s your problem?’
He winced at the words and the noise of the change being slapped down in front of him. Footsteps receded. Time flowed like glue, the smallest sound became the front door opening, more than once he almost fled, but the disorientation which spurred him on also held him back.
‘There you go.’
He’d made it. His senses seemed to clear as he stepped forward, grabbed the cardboard box and turned for the door, but his elation had made him sloppy. He allowed his head to rise just as the front door opened and three men jostled through, their jovial faces and loose limbs infused with alcohol. Alvin was not fooled, though—they had the eyes, and before he could twist or duck they had fixed him with empty stares that made his knees buckle as the remnants of his grey, decaying life were sucked from him. Alvin braced.
But then, somehow, they washed past him towards the counter. In a flash he was at the door, almost away.
‘Hey! Hey, you know who that was?’
Too late.
‘What?’ came the confused reply.
‘You know who that was, don’t you? Whatsisname. That guy there!’
It was Alvin’s last chance, the alcohol had given him the split second he needed to escape. His feet were stuck to the floor.
‘Hey, you’re whatisname, aren’t you?’ The first voice was nearer now.
‘Leave him alone.’
‘No, it is. You used to be on TV.’
Alvin sank to his knees and his shoulders shuddered with a dry sob. Something sharp pricked his back and a spark lit within him. Fuck them, fuck them all. If they were going to finish him here, so be it, but he wouldn’t go out without a fight. For all the pain and fear and humiliation they’d put him through, for all the judgement they’d laid on him, for all the selfish, self-satisfied pleasure they’d taken from him—he may not get them all, but he could start here.
The touch of a hand on his shoulder and turned to see a face looking down, perplexed, as he knelt by the door. He stood, reaching for the knife in the back of his trousers, driving it into the soft, shocked mass in front of him. A strange barking sound escaped his lungs, a spark of life returning.
Thought you could keep that, did you? Thought you could suck my soul dry you fucking bastards with your remote controls and telephone phone-ins. Now I’m taking it all back.
The other two hadn’t moved, the shock that froze them in place making them no match for Alvin King. He felt alive for the first time in years.
Finally.
The fear of being found lifted and he almost cried with happiness, blinking back the strange film from his eyes. He twisted, high and low, looking for more of them, but all three were already slumped in scarlet, spreading pools. Not grey—scarlet—how beautiful that was. He crashed his way outside, hand raised and at the ready. He may not get them all, but by God he would try.