Rag Doll Wolf

Go outside. For a walk. For a playground or some riverside park. But not too long now. There’s the one-metre rule and the bugs in the air and the kids will be fine as long as they’re back inside within the hour.

The world outside shimmers as the sun sets in the window, sweating from carbon exhaust until it glistens in the pane, orange radiation bleeding all over the crossword puzzle on his table. Number seven across is Winston’s obsession, dropping hints of a celestial blue marble wrapped in saran wrap, preyed upon by dirty memories of miscreants dealing to him in a back alley. He stocked up for the week. No. Better make it next couple of weeks. It sounds worse than it is. It’s not a habit but he needs to make sure there’s enough when the clock strikes four: medication time.

On the second day he tried to make the most of a prison sentence in a home of his own making. A little comfy condo bought out from foreclosure. A little claustrophobic but that’s the price of prosperity. Rubbing alcohol burns the bugs. He did well to stock up on the organic kind this time with a little paper towel on the side, stacked up in a closet alongside beans, bread and a carton of cigarettes. The clock’s ticking and little bodies running and little cork sticks fuming and every room is reeking already.

That’s what the window’s for. Don’t you dare step on the porch. Dealing in the world isn’t just illegal now. It’s a threat. Everything can kill you, living most of all, at least that’s how the telly feels. Insomnia is best spent slumped on a couch, slopping up tales of elderly versus heat waves and week-old hangings and rough men creeping up the alleyway. The fluorescent blue sticks to the eyes like glue and rightfully so: newsfeed knows all about what you need to watch out for.

On the third day Winston couldn’t sleep so he had another crack at the puzzles on the table. When stuck on number seven life is only half as bad as a can of beans over factory bread. As long as there’s butter there’s a reason to walk around the flat, do the rounds. Door’s locked. Windows whole. Water dripping out of sunken metal. It’s the little things that make the teacup spill over. When the water’s too hot and the kettle squeals and all he wants is for the crosswords to make sense, any sense at all, it’s medication time.

Once a day keeps the doctor away. A couple more times here and there can’t hurt. Can’t hurt to be preventive. Be cautious, conscientious, especially looking outside. There’s always a rough man doing the rounds and the paddy wagon’s taking its sweet time, couldn’t give a single blue and two unless there’s candy waiting and red lights burning. If a copper shows you better hide the butter. You never open to chimps, you never look the peephole in the eye no matter who’s nick or treating. With all the bruise marks of a failed shut-in Winston’s got everything he needs and it’s always what someone else is looking for.

Rough man’s been looking back at him lately. This is what curtains are for. The sun was heating up so much that it shrivelled into a black star. Winston’s all alone with clocks ticking and faucets dripping and baked beans are only half as bad as no more factory bread. Haven’t heard the newspaper drop in a while, have you Winston? Still trying out the crosswords, trying to make sense, indistinguishable and unintelligible day after day with no answers in sight: medication time.

Winston marches up and down the hallway, ears full of red, thoughts mixing, inbreeding, hanging in the stillborn stench of bull and anorexic laps. He’s looking out for brood and chasing salivation, falling short of licking the knob and sniffing beneath doors. Is it clean, though? Mantelpiece needs dusting. Here’s the ultimate tragedy: no matter how much you wipe it down the particles keep coming back. It’s like the bugs outside and the neighbour’s dog yapping, yapping, yapping around the ticking clock and faucet drops and Winston needs the creepy crawling around curtains, not for long though. The rough man’s doing the rounds. There’s always something to look out for.

“Something’s not right” popped in Winston’s head like a nail gun shooting up a coffin.

Is there room left for thinking when you live in a graveyard? The only good thing in a cemetery is buried six feet under. That’s what the medication’s for, thrice daily now, can’t hurt somehow. It just keeps on giving, the mantelpiece captivating and capsizing over and over. Too much, it’s too much, like a bucket on a sinking dinghy and why is it always rain drops that make the ocean spill over? Sink is taking a piss on the ceramic floor and beans only taste half as good as they did before and wasn’t he the one answering a call?

Angst is shooting red eyeballs at the clock staining the kitchen wall like a giant throbbing emergency dial: medication time.

They kept him waiting for so long, why is this dolt asking all the questions?

“Sir?”

“Yeah. What?”

“Fire brigade, sir. Can I help?”

Winston seethed in between dry coughing, virgin blisters and finger tweaking: “Well can you?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Feels like the whole world’s burning,” Winston mused, smoke sneaking out of his nostrils. “You know?”

“Sir, capacity is very limited at this time, I need an answer: is there a fire?”

Winston lost track of his words, the clock swallowing every ounce of attention. There were puzzles in the second hand movements. He couldn’t get across number 7…

“Sir!”

“Kids been in bed for a week now. Should I wake them?”