The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

I write weird, typo-filled things occasionally.


just knocked on the door. The sound, my knuckles felt against the staunch oak, slinked slightly down the hallway nearly disappearing into the carpet. Did anyone hear that? Could anyone hear that? It was weak and I, by extension and in comparison, as well. I could only think that this was hardly a proper knock for a first impression and coinciding with my thought to buck up and try again the sound of metal molesting metal dazzled my ears. Tumblers clicking, the door resentfully shoved aside to reveal a short man - jarringly short - light faintly by the light of a television recessed into the otherwise pitch on the other side of the door. The light flickered and teased. I could discern only gross detail in his face before the light would dance away leaving me unfulfilled, wanting. Vaguely now - he looked wisened and crooked with age, creased as if a family bible had become human and walked out of the house before all the leaves had withered to dust, nearly to dust. I felt older just gazing at the man. His shirt, seemingly grey in the dim, held stains like badges to its age. Mustard. Sweat. All sour things either by nature or slowly turned such by will and time. It, the shirt, hung forlornly from his shoulders and out-lined his hunched shoulders, exaggerating his horrid posture, until catching taut on a spherical belly Buddha would envy. His pants, linen, were worn but unstained apparently saved so by the shelving contained, barely, by the shirt above; threadbare at the knee, I could see flaked skin mottled by the dancing TV lights. He sickened me. I wish to talk, sir, I said as hushedly as my knock became against the door. He had to hear me, he had to hear my heart racing, if he heard that knock. He stepped aside and nigh imperceptibly nodded his head sideways into the darkness. I stepped in and he shut the door silently behind me. He locked the door; a monstrosity, the lock seemsto be made of steel and granite with a single, large key that he turned. That grinding sound, far amplified on this side of the oak, surprises me. How thick is that door and how could this wrinkle of a man so easily turn it? Were I to dwell on it, perhaps I'd be rightfully scared, but I hadn't the time as he turns and walks towards the light. Lest I be swallowed alone in the entry way, I follow the man into his living room. The darkness has a way of clinging to the surfaces preventing me from perceiving but the vaguest shapes. Books. Paintings. Shelves. The odd assortment of knicknacks likely older than dirt, as old as he. The TV illuminates a plain wooden chair that appears as if to have grown directly out of the wood floor upon which it rests. It bends slightly forward in the legs and one arm leans gingerly outward from its moorings toward me. It looks to be melting into the floor, pulled ever downward by the shadows that pool below it It has no cushion to speak of, only the stain worn light where he rests his haunches and elbows when he sits. He gently lowers himself into it and both he and the chair wince and moan with mutual disdain and reconciliation. He mutes the set with a remote he produces from his pocket and, as quickly, returns it. He watches me. I grow cold now that I could see him clearly in the twisted television illumination. His brow sets severely over dark eyes rimmed with red. His cheeks are deep with scars, veiny and pink with malformed healing tissue. His lip is cleft at a severe angle which forces his lips into a derisive sneer. The teeth visible through his menace are sickly, chipped and threaten to butcher anything brought near them. His chin juts out and is covered with jagged, mottled hair which continues down his withered neck and, thankfully, disappears into the stained, perhaps white a decade ago, shirt. Stupor. A vein in his forehead twitches. My heart stops for a second and I think I would be pleased to die rather than speak and, perhaps, hear this grizzled husk of a human chortle anything near me. It would burn like fire. I reach into my pocket to retrieve my journal and peruse my notes, to buy time that is otherwise inching me slower and slower towards escaping this terror. I can't read my writing in the darkness and turn towards the television for help. His eyes follow and I just they wouldn't. I take a single deep breath and urge my heart to slow. I begin carefully: Sir, I am here for
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