My Early Night
I was tired so I went to bed. It was midnight. I had blown my nose, turned on the fan and switched off the light. I was having an early night. It would be good.
Ten minutes later, after ten tempestuous minutes of clasping my eyes shut and trying to align my head so the liquid previously cascading down my face would cease, I heard laughter. Two voices. The door creaked open; the light flickered on and off. Whispers:
“Shit, he’s sleeping!”
“It’s OK!”
“Are you sure?”
My roommate Jo. Wonderful. More giggling. I stayed static, not moving a centimetre, eyes glued shut. A rustling of sheets and awkward fumbling sounds were coming from beyond my feet. I was now wide awake. I knew his voice. Luke. They had only met a week ago. I’d liked him. He had seemed fairly amicable. Now I was picturing him unbuttoning Jo’s shirt. His hand slipped in, his tongue on hers, peeking between their lips. His other hand moved up her leg. I hated him.
STOP. It’s OK, I thought. I’ve heard nothing untoward as yet. They could be swapping poetry. Or discussing the escalating situation in North Korea. Whispers are nothing. Go to sleep. I shut my eyes harder and tried to dream of sex with my ex-girlfriend.
That’s when the sucking noises had started. That strange sloppy sound of two lips converging, punctuated with more rustling and awkward bumps. In utter dismay I stayed rooted. I couldn’t move, not now. But why not? This was too far. I am completely in the right. If I got up now and cried, “You inbred sluts fuck the hell out of my fucking bedroom,” they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.
I stayed still. A slither of snot began to run out towards my lip. The fan was blowing my sheet up over my arse. I had to move. If I’d been asleep I probably would have turned over. I didn’t move.
They were talking quietly now. Really quietly. I could only make out the odd word, but I’m sure one of them was my name. Accompanied with more giggling. I’m positive they discussed doing stuff on my bed. Over my bed. Over me. Asleep. Wouldn’t that be funny? Wouldn’t it? WOULDN’T IT BE REALLY FUCKING FUNNY? More giggling. More sucking. Tears were running down my cheeks, which I thought was strange. I must be clasping my eyes too hard.
I could never move now. Even if I feigned waking up they would be suspicious of the wet lines channelling my face. Please let me sleep, someone. This is unfair. This is cruel. I cannot take this. Let it end.
I took an imaginary knife and mercilessly slit both their throats. The pools of blood made pretty patterns on the marble floor. I went to prison but it was worth it. I confessed with a contented smile.
Suddenly they were in my bed, fucking. I could do nothing about it. I was rooted. I could not move. The light was on and I could see everything. I could see me, and them, on the bed. Which I thought was odd.
I opened my damp eyes. The light was off. Two voices were still talking quietly. That can’t have been real. Listen, they’re looking at her photos on the wall. That’s her uncle. That’s her sister. They’re in the Alps. It’s beautiful.
Darren Moss lives in Hyderabad and is not a consistent Shrewsbury Town defender. He blogs here.