Sunday, February 12, 2006
Dear Douggie
Doug stabbed the key at the lock repeatedly. He cursed as it missed the hole and scraped the metal. The icy December wind rattled fence panels and showered the area with the towns discarded litter. Doug thought about the warmth of the Hammer and Pincers he had left behind.
With one final lurch the key stumbled its way into the lock and the door swung open violently, propelled by the howling gale. After a short but hectic battle with the key Doug heaved his ample body against the back of the door and stubbornly barricaded it shut.
The dark hallway was comfortingly calm. Doug could feel the beer warm inside him and longed to return to the pub. He stumbled, struggling to kick off his worn out, battered working boots. Leaning against the wall he released a gut-wrenchingly gastronomic roar (swearing illegibly under his breath) as he strained down, one leg raised unsteadily, to untie the boot. Doug battled but the boot remained stubborn. With one almighty heave the boot relented and fired like a cannon ball against the door, disappearing into the gloomy darkness. Doug sprawled helplessly against the stairs on his back. The light blue fabric of his jeans turning an ominously familiar dark shade of blue around the legs.
"Fucking cunt!"
Doug clawed himself up the wall indignantly, searching blindly for the light switch, his spare hand slapping desperately about the wall until, click, and the hall was illuminated.
"Sandra! Oi Sandra, You'll never guess where Danny and his missus ended up last night!"
No reply. The living room led straight off the hallway. Opening the door all was strangely cold, dark and quiet.
"Sandra! Where the fuck are you?"
The kitchen too showed no signs of life or more notably no signs of prepared food. Doug yanked the fridge door open angrily and stooped unsteadily to explore his options. The light from inside flooded out onto the linoleum floor. Discovering a sausage roll clinging onto its eat-by-date by the skin of its reconstituted teeth and a tin of lager, tea was served. Doug swung a leg at the fridge door and cracked open the can.
"Fuckin useless cow!"
It frothed uncontrollably until Doug clamped his mouth on it to stem the eruption.
Flopping down onto the sofa with a mouthful of pastry and lager he reached absent-mindedly for the remote control. It was then that Doug saw the note.
The message was short and written in an unsteady hand, but the message was clear.
Springing from the sofa the can bounced across the carpet towards the fire, leaving a jet stream of foam in its wake.
"Sandra! Sandra!" Doug yelled desperately.
Up the stairs in what felt like two strides Doug stumbled over the top step and tripped heavily into the bedroom on his hands and knees. Frantically he pulled at the cream white wardrobes, Sandra had chosen before they were married, and was greeted by a vacuum of empty coat hangers swaying gently on their silver rail.
Doug slumped forlornly to his knees. Resting the half eaten sausage roll on the floor he clasped his head in his hands and, for the first time in years, wept.
Doug stabbed the key at the lock repeatedly. He cursed as it missed the hole and scraped the metal. The icy December wind rattled fence panels and showered the area with the towns discarded litter. Doug thought about the warmth of the Hammer and Pincers he had left behind.
With one final lurch the key stumbled its way into the lock and the door swung open violently, propelled by the howling gale. After a short but hectic battle with the key Doug heaved his ample body against the back of the door and stubbornly barricaded it shut.
The dark hallway was comfortingly calm. Doug could feel the beer warm inside him and longed to return to the pub. He stumbled, struggling to kick off his worn out, battered working boots. Leaning against the wall he released a gut-wrenchingly gastronomic roar (swearing illegibly under his breath) as he strained down, one leg raised unsteadily, to untie the boot. Doug battled but the boot remained stubborn. With one almighty heave the boot relented and fired like a cannon ball against the door, disappearing into the gloomy darkness. Doug sprawled helplessly against the stairs on his back. The light blue fabric of his jeans turning an ominously familiar dark shade of blue around the legs.
"Fucking cunt!"
Doug clawed himself up the wall indignantly, searching blindly for the light switch, his spare hand slapping desperately about the wall until, click, and the hall was illuminated.
"Sandra! Oi Sandra, You'll never guess where Danny and his missus ended up last night!"
No reply. The living room led straight off the hallway. Opening the door all was strangely cold, dark and quiet.
"Sandra! Where the fuck are you?"
The kitchen too showed no signs of life or more notably no signs of prepared food. Doug yanked the fridge door open angrily and stooped unsteadily to explore his options. The light from inside flooded out onto the linoleum floor. Discovering a sausage roll clinging onto its eat-by-date by the skin of its reconstituted teeth and a tin of lager, tea was served. Doug swung a leg at the fridge door and cracked open the can.
"Fuckin useless cow!"
It frothed uncontrollably until Doug clamped his mouth on it to stem the eruption.
Flopping down onto the sofa with a mouthful of pastry and lager he reached absent-mindedly for the remote control. It was then that Doug saw the note.
The message was short and written in an unsteady hand, but the message was clear.
Springing from the sofa the can bounced across the carpet towards the fire, leaving a jet stream of foam in its wake.
"Sandra! Sandra!" Doug yelled desperately.
Up the stairs in what felt like two strides Doug stumbled over the top step and tripped heavily into the bedroom on his hands and knees. Frantically he pulled at the cream white wardrobes, Sandra had chosen before they were married, and was greeted by a vacuum of empty coat hangers swaying gently on their silver rail.
Doug slumped forlornly to his knees. Resting the half eaten sausage roll on the floor he clasped his head in his hands and, for the first time in years, wept.
# posted by aworthlessexistence @ 8:29 AM 
