Flick

There is a popcorn ceiling above my head. It’s all I see now. I cannot look forward, the light hurts my eyes, and the flickering is nauseating to my stomach. Yet, I cannot tell if this sickness in my gut is from the flicker or merely the fact that I can’t remember a thing. How did I get here? Where is here? And, perhaps most probing, who am I?
There are vague memories in my head. Take this place, for instance. It feels so familiar, like I’ve been here before—a thousand times, maybe. And that flicker. It’s like going to the cinema with Pop all over again. I can still smell the popcorn and the buttery stains that littered his shirt after every flick. That is why I called him Pop, after all.
It smells in here, too. It’s not good either. It’s probably the ceiling. Popcorn ceilings have asbestos in them. And asbestos gives you cancer. I lost Pop to cancer—an infection.
I can still remember that.
They used asbestos as the snow in The Wizard of Oz. I always hated that flick. Pop did too. Funny. I can still remember that, but I can’t even remember who I am. What’s my name, even? Why haven’t I left this room?
I can’t, that’s why. I’m glued to this seat—sunken into it, forced to watch the flicker on the wall. It’s so bright that it looks like a window—the sunlight, the outside, just on the other side.
But I cannot move. My eyes have adjusted to the flicker, now. The room is dim around me, aside from the wall. It feels so empty.
Am I alone?
“Hello?” I call out. It echoes eternally behind me, but I cannot turn around to see. I guess I’ll take my own word for it. I am alone in here. Wherever here may be.
There is something on the wall now. An image. A kitchen. It is quaint and tall and wide. The floor is checkered. I am looking up. There’s a popcorn ceiling in there, too. And now, there is a face.
It is a rugged face—unkempt and unshaven—a man’s. His eyes bulge out as he approaches like he’s underneath a magnifying glass. He’s looking down at me, yet somehow looking through.
“Hello!” I cry out again. I am not asking this time. He smiles, but he doesn’t hear me. I can only hear myself.
“I got the little bastard,” he says. It, too, echoes infinitely behind me. How many seats are in this theater?
He lifts me up and then everything goes black. It is completely silent. I cannot hear myself breathe. I feel like gagging. Am I gagging? I cannot tell.
“You might be allergic,” Pop used to say. I think. “Damn ceiling. We’ll have to replace it,” he coughed. I coughed too.
“It’s probably just a bug,” another voice might’ve said. This one sounded different. I think I called her Ma. Where are Ma and Pop now? Are they outside? Are they behind me? I cannot turn around to see.
“Ma?” I yell. “Pop?”
I am still alone. I think.
The flicker starts up again. I hate seeing that light. I still cannot move. The popcorn ceiling is still overhead. It still smells. And not like the buttery smell of real popcorn. But, instead, like wet mildew.
The flicker slows down, and my eyes adjust to its new image. It’s the man again. His face is contorted and angry; his tongue is wedged between his teeth. There is a shiny spray bottle in his hand.
“I hate these damn little pricks,” he says. The sound of his voice reverberates off of the walls and the popcorn ceiling absorbs it. He sprays something from the bottle onto me, and then everything goes black again.
In the blackness, I see his face. It is angry and sad. I feel the same. I miss Ma and Pop.
“Listen here,” I can hear Pop cough, “you’re gonna do great things, kiddo.”
I sniffle. I know I sniffled.
“Don’t cry,” he says, “I’ll be watching over you. I’ll always be with you.”
He wipes a tear from my eye. I can almost feel his hand, even now. It is cold.
This room is cold. Or maybe that’s just me.
The wall flashes again. I stare up at the popcorn ceiling. I feel sick.
“Pop would’ve been so proud of you,” Ma’s voice says. It absorbs into the ceiling. I look down. Ma has flickered onto the wall, sitting across from the man with a sad expression. He is lying in a bed, in a hospital. Who is this man?
“No, he wouldn’t’ve,” the man cries. Ma reaches out and grips his hand. I can feel it.
The man is me. Or, at least, was.
“Your Pop was not a prestigious man,” she says. “All he wanted was for you to be happy.”
“I’m not, Ma,” I say. Truly, I am not.
Ma looks sad. She squeezes my hand a bit tighter. It’s warm, now.
“Sometimes, I think you were trying so hard to live for Pop that you forgot to live for yourself,” she smiled. It’s not a happy smile.
I begin to move. Rather, the image I see does. It scurries along the floor. Both Ma and I notice.
“Kill it!” I yell. My voice is weak. Even so, the sound is endless in here. And loud.
“Why?” Ma asks. Her voice is soft and strong.
“Because it- “ I begin to say. I choke up.
“Because…?” Ma echoes.
“Because of…Pop.”
“Because Pop was sick?” she asks. I nod. “Because Pop was sick, you wanna kill those lil’ critters?” I nod again.
“They carry it, Ma.”
“So, is,” she starts, choking up herself, “is that why you became an ‘xterminator?”
I nod. She begins to cry. Everything then goes dark. I can no longer feel the warmness of her hand.
The wall flickers once more. It hurts to look at. But I look anyway. The image is of me. I am looking up at myself in the bed. I look sicker. I notice my stare, and flick myself away, onto the floor. I grin down from the bed.
There is a box beneath it. It reads, “ROACH MOTEL.”
It’s opened.
I smell something sweet, now. Like candy. My antennae twitch in excitement, and I watch as I follow the smell. I enter a small, dark room with one window. The floor is sticky. I sink into it.
I cannot move.
I am there for a long time. The flicker does not change. And, after a while, I begin to hear a long, endless, beep.
And then everything goes dark. And the darkness echoes behind me eternally.
Category:Liminal Spaces 2022
Category:MakRalston
Category:Animals
Category:Weird