Seven Day Friends

The next day he created Shelia. With pencil lead he outlined her, giving her only what was important, head, dress, nose, mouth, eyes, limbs and hair. He made her life-size, and on lined paper drew life into her. He wasn't terribly good at hair, and it came out like springs jumping out of her perfectly circular head (he used a kitchen plate and drew around it). Flowers resembling fried eggs decorated her triangular dress, while a limp smile complemented her mismatched eyes.

Her eyes were also slanted and dots were her pupils. He found it rather disconcerting that they followed him around like a wolf trailing sheep.

There was no color in Shelia, as he had none to give her. However, she didn't really mind, and to compensate, he drew two circles on her cheeks, in an effort to make her look rosy. It didn't work, and she was left with two ugly gray splotches on her face.

Using pins and a wall, he made her stand. They then conversed for hours, about cold autumn sunshine and the unpleasant plaster lumps in his wall. About green sheets and cracked window panes. And himself. Oh, how did they talk about himself. On and on, until he was worried that he was boring her. Her smile remained, but she was less animated than she had been in the morning, more distant and quiet. He put it down to lack of sleep, and after a meal of baked beans (she wasn't hungry, so he ate her portion), he bade her goodnight.

The following morning, Shelia's mood hadn't improved. She was as sullen as she had been last night, and worse, all she could talk about was the rats she'd seen while he'd slept. Rats held no interest with him, as he thought them vile creatures, and her talk of furry gray bodies and long tails disgusted him. He soon left her alone in the room, and went to munch on canned pears. He could still hear her, as she was now speaking to herself. As he ate, he pondered.

He realized that the problem was that Shelia was rather dull, and on top of that, becoming quite mad. He wondered if the problem was not due to her sex, as he had heard that men proved better companions for other men. He couldn't exactly remember where this information had come from, but he decided to act on it. He would create a man, who would be a better companion, and would be named James.

James was taller than Shelia, and like her, his flesh was only paper. His head resembled an upside down tombstone, while his hair looked like slanted nails in a row. His limbs were horribly mismatched, each limb being longer than the other, and he had no feet. His smile was supposed to be a straight line, but his creator did not possess a steady hand (nor an eraser), so the smile was diagonal and slightly wobbly.

However, his creator couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction when he looked down at his creation. James, he thought, would be perfect.

Yet, when he pinned James up, he found James to be worse than Shelia. While he tried to tell James of the satisfying crunch that dead leaves made under his feet, or the taste of newspaper in one's mouth, James could only moan and wail at his deformities, his lack of feet and his lopsided limbs. Try as he might, he could not help him, and when James realized that the man in front of him was actually his creator, the cause of all his misery, he began to rant and rave, cursing with such foul words, that his creator had to retreat to another room, James' threats following. The howls would continue throughout the night.

The day after that, when James' voice had grown hoarse, his creator wondered what he had done to make his friends hate him so. Shelia barely spoke a word to him, and when she did it was still about the rats, while he didn't dare approach James, for fear of the verbal bombardment.

After much thought, he decided to try again, for maybe it was still possible for him to create that perfect companion, the one who could be friendly and nice, who could listen to his thoughts without complaint. It would have to be another girl, as he learned to distrust men after James.

He began as he always did, with a name. That, really, was all they needed: a name. All the rest was extra, something for you to look at, something that they could claim as their own, while in reality all they really possessed was their name.

Her name would be Rosy, for the hope that the name would bring her all the qualities James and Shelia lacked: kindness, compassion and love. Sanity would be nice too, but it wasn't essential.

Rosy's eyes were round (drawn from teacups) and innocent, while her hair untangled like matted string from her oval head. Her body was the shape of a bottle, while her slender arms and legs were like brittle twigs. And as his pencil was poised to draw her mouth, he hesitated, realizing that should she talk, she could be as horrid as her predecessors, her creation another thorn in his heart of misery. So, with a whispered “Sorry.”, he left her mute.

She was perfect. As he spoke of closed doors and the faceless men who tormented him with questions, she would dumbly agree. With her he could forget James' curses and Shelia's rats, their cries dwindling in the face of Rosy's speechless composure.

And that night, he slept easy, no longer blocking his ears to tune out the sounds of his creations.

His pleasant mood did not vanish in the morning. Humming long forgotten lullabies, he ventured from his bed and bade Rosy good morning. She hadn't changed, not one bit, and he was overjoyed at this lack of transformation. He then went into the other room were James and Shelia still hung. Both held in him in silent contempt, aping Rosy's speechlessness. However, he saw this as an improvement, and left them to their silence.

As he wandered his silent house, he suddenly felt the pang of loneliness. He hated that the sounds of his own footsteps were the only noises in the house. For second he considered giving Rosy a mouth, as perhaps her voice would be a pleasant murmur in the bottom of his ear. However, he soon banished this thought, as he was too terrified of the possibility of her voice lashing out, slicing him to shreds with accusations, whines and pleas. No, she was better mute, but still he felt that company would be appreciated.

The idea was gradual, which was an oddity, since most of his ideas came to him without notice, flashing their wares and within seconds he would be captivated by this newfound thought. However, this particular thought came slowly, gradually becoming clearer until it dazzled him with its brilliance.

He decided to have a party.

He couldn't really remember what a party was like, as it had been so long since he had been to one. He knew the drill however, and spent the morning gathering supplies, rummaging around his rooms for anything festive. He found colored paper, and hung them around without any particular scheme. He found a smashed light bulb and attached it to a string, which he tied to a rusty hook on the ceiling. Perhaps he'd use it for a game, he thought excitedly, caught up in the breathless throes that accompany party preparation. Once he deemed the place festive enough, with all the refreshments in place, he started to work on the guest list.

On a piece of green paper, he began to scribble down names, one after another, making them up as he went along. Frank, Lucy, Dennis, John and others were brought to life. Bodiless, they drifted around their creator, who was too busy creating more to notice their presence.

After the guest list was completed (his pencil broke its stub, and by the time he sharpened it, he had lost interest with the guest list), he started on the guests. Using the list, he began to create; the first guests were well detailed, with each detail shaping their personalities. However soon he began to tire and his creations suffered for it. Their bodies became misshapen, their clothes a scrawl. Their faces were losing features, and their personalities were left for them to figure out by themselves. He fell asleep drawing one of them, not knowing which, or for that matter whether it was male or female. He slept, using the asexual body as a pillow

He awoke to the sound of mirth. The sounds of laughter were so foreign and strange to his ears that it was a full minute before he could identify them. A minute more for him to rise and fully absorb what was happening.

The party was in full swing.

His guests were everywhere, on the floor, walls, between the floorboards. An open window had scattered them, and even now the wind made them sway and move, making them seem lively and jovial. Even the deformed and mute, products from an unsteady hand, seemed to be exultant while the wind picked them up and made their bodies flow and twirl.

He walked among this mess, this storm, exchanging words with his guests, joking and laughing. He bantered with James (who was in quite high spirits), their banter then turning into a match of wits, a fast repartee of nonsense, interspersed with quotes from forgotten authors. He showered Sheila with compliments and promises until her white lined cheeks were a dark crimson hue of red.

He was the perfect host, attending to the needs of every guest. He moved across the room, the wind sending him guests from every direction, each one he praised, showering them with his attentions. He sought each one, no matter how small or disembodied. The ones lacking bodies, who hung around him with naught but a name, they he attended to, promising them bodies and more meaningful lives.

And as he talked and laughed, danced and mingled, he noticed his guests seemed stronger, their movements seemed more controlled, no longer determined by the wind. They flocked about him, surrounding and herding him. He allowed himself to be herded into the next room, and he suddenly knew where he was being led. He was going to see the one guest he had yet to see… the belle of the ball.

As he approached her, the crowd behind him, he saw that she too seemed stronger, more alive and real. She had become detached from the pins that held her to the wall, yet she was standing on her feet, poised and ready for him. By God, she was beautiful, her hair dark and silky, from under which peered a pair of enormous, gorgeous and tearful eyes. And under her badly detailed nose, was nothing, just a patch of white translucent skin that slowly turned into her chin. The tears trickled down, one after the other, the curves of her face forcing them down diagonally, until they merged with one another at the point where her mouth should be, before making their wet journey to the floor.

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, she began to sing. He heard the ghostly sounds in his ears, and it made him sink to his knees. She could not form words, but just murmurs, incredibly sad and beautiful murmurs. As the formless words reached his ears, he felt a poignancy enter his heart and make his mouth taste bitter. She continued this mournful song, every word slicing him deeper and deeper, until he was a wreck, wordlessly trying to make her stop, to apologize, to throw himself prostrate before her. And at long last she stopped, the murmurs forming indistinct echoes within his mind.

Yet the song was unfinished, and as he began to speak, to defend himself, the chorus began. It was perfect symphony of chaos, as every one of his guests began to cry out, their voices in the same rhythm to the one just heard, their complaints and misery turning into a maelstrom of song which surrounded him, throwing him back to his knees. Only Rosy did not sing, she had done her part, and now watched as he stuttered and stumbled, the words so close and near, yet he could not utter a phrase. Eventually, he found strength to crawl away, nothing more. His guests still sang their awful song and attempted to slow him, but being only pieces of paper, there was little they could do to stop him.

He found his sanctuary in the broom closet. Once he shut the door, blocking them out, he curled himself into ball and attempted to talk. The words still eluded him, only whimpers escaped his lips, which were sealed shut. Outside he could still hear the song, although diminished, and he wanted to scream, just to drone out the sounds. Finally, exhaustion sent to sleep and, for the first time in his life, dreams did not trouble him.

He awoke with a terrible taste in his mouth. This was because, he found out when he opened his eyes, he had been sucking on the mop during the night. He stood up, wondering hazily what he was doing in his broom closet. His hand was on the doorknob, about to turn, when the events of the previous day came rushing towards him. He jerked his hand back from the doorknob, as if it had bitten him. He stood erect, his brows furled, as he came up with the Plan.

He found that his voice still eluded him, the words were still so close, yet he was unable to use them. He sighed, the Plan formulated. He closed his eyes and readied himself. In his hand he held a dull pair of rusty scissors.

He opened the door.

It was over.

He sat in the centre of the room, around him the wind billowed thousands and thousands tiny pieces of paper. He just sat there, remembering the past half hour, shuddering occasionally.

He had rushed out of the closet, the scissors held high above his head, his eyes gleaming with a fiery desperation. They hadn't been ready for him and he pounced on the first one he saw, Fred. Fred had been one of his better designed guests, as he possessed almost every Human feature, mostly in good proportion too. He grabbed Fred, and thrust the scissors, blades open, down on his creation's neck.

Unfortunately, the scissors were exceptionally dull, and they failed completely to decapitate his guest. The other guests, who had been in a state of floating aimlessly around, now turned, and with one voice, mobbed him.

He barely felt their blows, yet their voices, the same voices which had reduced him to such impotency last night, now drove him into a state of blind rage. The scissors dropped to the floor, being completely useless compared to his hands and teeth. He ripped, shredded, crumpled and tore.

The surviving guests gave up the fight, and began to flee with the wind. A beast, he tore after them, shredding them to oblivion. James had his mismatched limbs ripped off, followed by his head. Shelia was crumpled into a ball and thrown out the window. The others were reduced to confetti.

Only one remained.

She was standing unsupported in the centre of the other room, gracefully watching the papery carnage. The moment he saw her, all the blind rage disappeared, and he stumbled towards her, his body aching from hundreds of paper cuts.

Each stood speechless, as one lacked the means; the other, the ability. Although silence reigned between them, a mountain of meaning passed between their eyes.

Then he clumsily approached her and held her in his arms. He laid her down gently on the floor, tears rushing out of his eyes, turning parts of her transparent where they landed. In one hand he held her head, the other grasped her shoulder. He moved to plant a kiss on the patch of paper where her mouth should have been, and as he did so, his hands violently moved of their own volition, in opposite directions.

He had ripped her mute head off her thin body and, as his lips were about to brush against her skin for that final kiss, a gust of wind blew the head out of his hands, escaping to the outside world.

Now he sat, his arms cradling that headless paper doll. The wind still blew the paper, the pieces of what had been his friends. He sat in stillness, listening to silence, noting how much it disturbed him. The past few days had been so full of noise, he had forgotten what silence really felt like. The oppressive silence that just gives way to more silence, the silence that made seconds feel like hours, yet time flew by faster, for when he lifted his head, it was already night. He fed himself whatever he could find and, the silence growing more and more oppressive, went to bed alone.

 

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