Something Walks Whistling Past My House Every Morning: Difference between revisions
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At night I heard the mice between the walls.
They scurried back and forth with a staccato pitter-patter as if to say,
Two blocks away, at the metro, smoke belched from howling, hooting railcars. The faint yellow smog coated me in a faint diesel perfume that permeated the thick of my leather jockstrap. It was mesmerizing. Delicious. And through the rattling walls, as the traincar rushed by, underneath the white-plaster rain of cracked wallpaper, I found belonging.
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But every morning I heard a different tune. A melody that raised me from my lumpy mattress as it raised the hair on the nape of my neck. This sound was melodic, layered, something ancient and powerful and unquestionably oriental. A whistle.
My apartment checklist on move-in day had a list of seven rules.
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#Fire extinguishers shall be inspected on a bi-monthly basis.
#All permanent fixtures shall receive prior approval from management before installation
#If you hear whistling in the morning. IGNORE IT. Do not look for it. Do not think about it. Do not check the window. If you do check the window,
For the first week, I followed the instructions dutifully. My pet Capybara, Shep, was overjoyed to finally find a welcoming home in the inner city. I rubbed the nape of his neck and hand-fed him a fresh clipping of grass.
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When the walls shake, I held him close.
It was a lie we both needed to hear.
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But still, the strange whispers haunt my waking dreams, every morning.
Shep runs and cowers near the belching refrigerator.
I rock in my bed with my head with my knees tucked to my chest.
My eyes flit to the blackout-tape on the window and through the starlight gaps, I smell something sizzling. I cover my ears. Still, I hear the gentle melody in my mind, undiminished.
I ball my fists and pound the side of my skull, screaming,
Shep barks and rushes towards me, forcing his head against mine, his muzzle blocking my ears and interceding. I pause. My fists are shaking but I
He
I think we understand eachother, me, and Shep. Both of us want a life of significance, but that is impossible. Nothing can fix what was mauled unmendably. Nothing can bring it back.
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The whistling calls me from my bed.
I stand and walk, entranced, towards the window. Shep sits on the bed and wrinkles his whiskered muzzle and does not understand. How could he understand?
The blackout cloth is rough in my hands as I tip it from the window. Light floods with the static hum of streetlight fluorescents; dawnlight blazes through smog-shattered horizons. I feel the lights embrace and bask in the warmth. Yellow tickles the pale of my skin and finds the creases of the bags underneath my eyes. I drink the light and adjust my eyes.
I swallow hard and take one last look back at the Capybara who has been there through everything.
I hold my breath and look out the window. I look across the street. And I consciously, willingly, submit to the thought of kung-pao chicken.
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He is there, and he sees me, and he stares at me and gazes into my soul.
He smiles and cocks his head and I see the hunger in his eyes. He needs meat. He requires meat. He shall find it for the hungry mouths to feed. He mouths the words,
A chill of terror rushes through me, the trance broken, and I throw myself screaming on the carpet.
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I re-apply the blackout cloth to the window and vow never again to gaze out at the man who woks whistling. But I fear in my heart it is too late. The changes are already beginning. I see in the mirror the faint black outline of a mustache; through I shave, it returns within hours.
When I work in the kitchen my hands are drawn inexorably to the
Whimpering, I begin to chop.
I cock my head and smile at the stove.
I snap out of the trance, but it might be too late for me. Sesame oil sizzles on the cat-iron frying pan. From the fry, the smell of kung-pao chicken. I recoil and drop the knife, clattering on the linoleum.
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Another day passes.
I find a letter in my mailbox. It is from the Health Department. They have approved my application for a food-truck and are pleased to inform me it has received an
I burn the letter; I
Another day passes.
My mustache is thick and curled on the edges.
I stutter the whistle through sobs,
I rise the morning of the third day with a smug grin on my face. My movements are mechanical, planned carefully am becoming something greater, something with purpose, and for the first time in many long years, I embrace who I am. And I am not afraid.
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I walk in the kitchen, knife trembling in hand. I know my purpose. I stare down at my capybara friend and know what I must do. I will be greater. I must cut free the chains that bind my past and embrace the light. I must be greater!
And I start to whistle as I work.
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