My solemn study envelopes me in oozy darkness, bringing comfort.
Sinking ever deeper into my throne I survey my domain, growling like a beast
So many voices bleat sheep-like from the monitor, spewing scatty syllables onto the screen.
This night is no different than other nights. Some blather in joy or frustration over competitions they spectated. Some crow on about fictitious situations or give themselves a mass media lobotomy. Unable to find purpose, they mill like lemmings, stirring inedible dust as they choke on the infusion of meaningless drivel.
I roar against the buzzing voices. I intone one word, one question really, one attempt at rationality...why?
My word of power, the only word that separates me from the herd of voices is left in silence...no likes...no comments...unworthy of discussion.
Passed by, I wail in frustration. One of my dogs bark. Still no response.
Perhaps I should leave the internet and allow sweet oblivion to consume my thoughts in death-like slumber. Perhaps I should join the herd and submit.
I perceive beyond the shadows of my vision a figment mirroring my movements, nothing more than a dance of dark molecules unseen in the silvered mirror above my mantle. The telephone rings. Once. Twice. Thrice. I tip-toe toward the terrible tone, intent on strangling the caller. It stops. Again the dog barks, startled at my motions. I raise a finger in silence, not wanting to wake my wife. My unseen canine stops his barking, uninterested in leaving the upstairs bedroom to investigate.
I tiptoe back to my precious internet...back to the sheep, albeit fewer in bleating, back to my throne where I rule the world in silent objection to the pointless prattle. The darkness invigorates me, staving off somnolence.
My screen refreshes with a new meme. THEY WON'T LET ME SAY MERRY CHRISTMAS! Pass this on to all of your friends if you will not be oppressed! It was the beginning of October. My brow furled. Oppressed? Darkness wrapped around my form. I think of a thousand replies and dismiss them one by one.
"The sword is mightier than the pen my friend. Nobody reads. Sure they see your words, but they are consumed by their own reality."
"Who said that," I mutter, but no words escape my throat.
I reach for my coffee, but the cup was drained hours ago. I consider leaving my altar for some hot brew, but something keeps me anchored in place. Sword indeed! If only I had the power to shoot laser beams out of my eyes into the internet and strike down every ignorant statement, every meaningless phrase, every common misconception. If only the sinewy black surrounding me could be pressed through my bright white monitor to crush the burbling, wasted energy of so many millions. If only one person could sheer the woolly shroud of absurdity from their eyes and see.
I used to tell stories. Some of my stories have entertained, most went unnoticed. I never had the balls to publish them. My stories are not found in the drab-sameness, the conformity, but in the exceptional diversity the mind can produce when unfettered. But the unfettered mind is a dangerous place. The need to belong, be accepted, feel a part of something bigger than ourselves ever presses down on the creative force like an anvil. The unfettered mind can lead to madness or perhaps a purer form of sanity, one untainted by the input of a million opinions all converging on the same meaningless conclusions.
I gave up writing for the same reason I gave up painting or doing any pursuits the mind conceives in vain effort to communicate anything transcendent. What is the point of artistic ascension? How many likes is that worth? How many likes will feed my family? It must be really late now. The words on my monitor have not refreshed with new insights in some time. Surly some aboriginal on the other side of the globe has a funny cat picture to share. Nothing. If you peer into the light too long you see nothing. Perhaps that is my objective. I have seen too much.
"You are a quitter."
I peer into the darkness to see my tormentor. Blackness is darker after staring too long into the light. I see nothing. I am about to interrogate my unseen critic when the phone rings. I am outraged someone would be calling at this late hour. My phone is still linked to a brass bell ringer system that was installed soon after the invention of electricity. I was amazed it still worked the first time I heard it ring. Now it can best be described as Hell's bells.
I must be stunned from the late night noise.
The phone stops ringing and voice mail picks up the call. "Hello, I am unable to come to the phone right now, leave a message and I will return your call as soon as possible." There is hesitation as if someone is about to say something of great importance, then a loud dial tone sound as the caller hangs up.
I curse the world for the interruption of my thoughts! Now what was I thinking before the call? I can't recall. I check social media, hoping to remind me. There is a link to boycott food and a meme with someone's lips swollen to the size of a school bus.
Perhaps the reason I have stopped writing is that I have lost the ability to empathize with my fellow human beings. I used to care. I volunteered in the community. I rehabilitated animals. I gave to charity. Now, I sit. I fume. I sit some more. Why? Where did the fire go? It is like I was caught in the gaze of a gorgon and like one of her victims I am stony to my core.
I seem to have lost track of time. I am unsure if it the same night, the same week or year. Time slows to the pace of your thoughts. I check my wall status for the date. Well that can't be right. Some kids must have hacked the social media network again. Where are all my recent posts? There are dozens of condolences. Who died now?
"Don't you know?"
"Who said that? Show yourself! This house is private property. Leave before I call the cops"!
"I have already called the police. I belong here with you".
I rise from my seat in anger and thrust my finger in anger at the shadow. The force of my wrath causes the floorboards to creak and the mantle to shake. There is nothing. It must just be my imagination and my unwillingness to be reasonable and get some sleep that has forced an apparition into my consciousness.
I decide to check the answering machine. On my way from the study to the living room I trip on something and fall on my face. My mouth is full of old fur and cobwebs. I scramble to see what it is. Oily and bleak, the night inhibits my view. If only there were moonlight. I chortle. Turn the lights on idiot! I reach over and flick the switch. The mass I tripped on is my dog. I stare in disbelief. I call out to my wife. There is no answer. This can't be my dog. It is mummified. Poor thing must have died a year ago at least. But how can that be?
I walk over to the phone to check voice mail and push the button. "You have 102 messages. You are out of storage space. Please delete some messages or you will no longer be able to receive new messages. First message. Remember to vote. The election is tomorrow. This message brought to you by Americans for Patriotic Freedoms Incorporated". I delete it. Elections are not for another month anyway...idiots! "Second message. I've had it. All you do is sit in front of that damned computer and stare. What about me? If you ever gave a damn call me back. Oh and feed your damn dog. I'm not doing it any more". It was my wife. The message is almost a year old. How can that be? Someone is playing a joke on me or perhaps I have fallen asleep and am in the middle of a vivid nightmare. I try to wake myself, but all I can hear is the answering machine droning on in some language that has no meaning for me.
I stand there unable to move. The walls seem very tall and I feel like I am falling. The darkness has returned. The phone rings again. I let it go to the answering machine.
"Quitter. Now you've done it. All you had to do was feed your damn dog. Love your damn wife. Get off the social media and live. Now what are you going to do"?
That damn voice! The same one that tormented me in the dark.
"Leave me alone," I shout. The tone has the same menacing quality as the one that has haunted me this dark evening.
There is a knocking at the door...more of a forceful pounding. My heart races. It is the middle of the night. Someone must be trying to break in. I run to get the shotgun, but remember that it is only for show. I do not believe in violence so I do not own any bullets. That sentiment is damn inconvenient right now.
The pounding is more forceful now. I hear sirens. I hope it is the police. I hope they scare off this villain who is trying to force his way in.
I try to yell that the cops are on the way, but my voice fails. In a moment of bravery I rush to the window by the door and look through the stained glass at the figure outside. I can't see any details. Then I hear the door splinter. This villain is using an ax! I look for a place to hide but it is too late. The door shatters and several figures burst through. They are wearing helmeted masks and proceeding into my home with flashlights and caution. One looks like a cop, the other a fireman.
"See if the lights still work. We've had a report of bad odors coming from this place. Be on the look out," said the cop.
"Its probably just a dead cat. People these days abandon their homes and leave the pets behind,"said the fireman.
The fireman flicks the light switch but nothing happens. The policeman points his flashlight at an object on the floor. "Looks like you are right Frankie...dead dog. Still, let's make sure this place is clear. I don't want to go back to the sheriff and tell him the place is clear and then find out some kids are hanging out here or some meth dealer is living in the basement.
The smell is much worse in that next room. The policeman pulls his gun and approaches the study with caution. "Don't move," he shouts again and again.
The fireman gagged. "I got to get some air," he said and then he rushed for the exit to vomit.
The policeman approached the figure staring at the blank monitor with sunken eyes. The floorboard creaked unexpectedly and he bumped the corpse in fear. The skeletal remains flew from the chair, landing in a broken heap at his feet.
When the cop finished swearing he poked the remains with his shoe. "Poor bastard. Must have had a heart attack. Nobody even bothered to check on him".
The ambulance came. Photos were taken. The officer and fireman were interviewed. The body was placed in a bag and taken away. The neighbors went back to their business. I have no idea who the deceased was. Does it really matter? I check my status update and wait for a response.