Frost and Other Stories, Page 2
Michelle Browne
The Room by Michelle Browne
When he wakes up, it is cold. He creaks a little, his back sore, and wonders why he slept at such a strange angle. He blinks and gets to his feet, and immediately slips. Ass over teakettle, the red footie longjohns he slept in skid and slide over the surface of the floor. He staggers to his feet again, hands bracing against the walls.
They’re curved, as is the floor; it explains why he was so off-balance at first. He blinks and looks at the walls, then down at the floor. Blinks again. His heart skips and shudders in his chest.
He can see right through it. It’s distorted, but it is transparent. He’s always had a thing with heights, skirting around the sky-walks and anything involving a glass floor, avoiding elevators when possible. This is worse. Something is wrong, and he’s very high up. That’s all he knows.
Last night, curled up next to his wife in bed, nothing seemed safer. But now, the angles around him are wrong, and strange. He claws for a grip against the slippery walls, his palms filmed with sweat.
He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. After a minute, he opens his eyes and glances around, looking everywhere but down. The world has a slight tint to it, a faint touch of green, and everything in front of him is distorted. There are fine silvery supports around him, spaced evenly, and they come to a point beneath his feet. They’re outside the walls, though, so he can’t feel them. They look painted on, though, not metallic. He wondered about it, but there’s a chip on one side, a scratch in the bar, that couldn’t exist on a solid metal chunk.
He squints and looks up. The ceiling is curved, too. At the top, a sort of chandelier without lights attached hangs down. He reaches up and can just touch one of the metal rods. It looks to be made of brass, and it’s bent in the middle, just like its twin; the two rods face away from each other, and rest around a sort of edge in the ceiling, above which he can see the golden chandelier’s attachment. He leans against the wall and reaches up for the metal rod, trying not to slip.
The room shakes, and he falls down on his ass again. This time, he doesn’t bother to get up, but he looks through the transparent walls.
The adrenalin has cleared his head a little; the world behind him is dark green, and has a strangely thick, woody look. Without his glasses, it’s hard to make out details. He can’t really smell anything inside the room, except his own feet and the tang of something primal. To the periphery and in front of him, he sees bright colours—traffic lights, possibly. The world is incredibly distorted, and outsized.
He wonders whether he is dreaming. It seems eminently possible, but the smell of his own sweat and the pounding of his heart argue against it. He presses a hand against the wall again. Glass. It’s made of glass. He looks behind himself, then at the traffic lights around him, behind the glass. His heart pounds and he tries to rise to a crouch, but the world is too slippery.
Without warning, a wall of blackness, razor curved scythes, and pink meat swipes at his room.
He screams, and the acrid smell of his own piss fills the room. He crouches on the curved floor again.
From beneath him, rising like a nightmare over the edge of the bed, he sees a pair of vast, glass-green eyes.
“Watch the cat!”
The glass globe, wrenched from the branch, plummets towards the floor.
When he wakes up, it is cold. He creaks a little, his back sore, and wonders why he slept at such a strange angle. He blinks and gets to his feet, and immediately slips. Ass over teakettle, the red footie longjohns he slept in skid and slide over the surface of the floor. He staggers to his feet again, hands bracing against the walls.
They’re curved, as is the floor; it explains why he was so off-balance at first. He blinks and looks at the walls, then down at the floor. Blinks again. His heart skips and shudders in his chest.
He can see right through it. It’s distorted, but it is transparent. He’s always had a thing with heights, skirting around the sky-walks and anything involving a glass floor, avoiding elevators when possible. This is worse. Something is wrong, and he’s very high up. That’s all he knows.
Last night, curled up next to his wife in bed, nothing seemed safer. But now, the angles around him are wrong, and strange. He claws for a grip against the slippery walls, his palms filmed with sweat.
He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. After a minute, he opens his eyes and glances around, looking everywhere but down. The world has a slight tint to it, a faint touch of green, and everything in front of him is distorted. There are fine silvery supports around him, spaced evenly, and they come to a point beneath his feet. They’re outside the walls, though, so he can’t feel them. They look painted on, though, not metallic. He wondered about it, but there’s a chip on one side, a scratch in the bar, that couldn’t exist on a solid metal chunk.
He squints and looks up. The ceiling is curved, too. At the top, a sort of chandelier without lights attached hangs down. He reaches up and can just touch one of the metal rods. It looks to be made of brass, and it’s bent in the middle, just like its twin; the two rods face away from each other, and rest around a sort of edge in the ceiling, above which he can see the golden chandelier’s attachment. He leans against the wall and reaches up for the metal rod, trying not to slip.
The room shakes, and he falls down on his ass again. This time, he doesn’t bother to get up, but he looks through the transparent walls.
The adrenalin has cleared his head a little; the world behind him is dark green, and has a strangely thick, woody look. Without his glasses, it’s hard to make out details. He can’t really smell anything inside the room, except his own feet and the tang of something primal. To the periphery and in front of him, he sees bright colours—traffic lights, possibly. The world is incredibly distorted, and outsized.
He wonders whether he is dreaming. It seems eminently possible, but the smell of his own sweat and the pounding of his heart argue against it. He presses a hand against the wall again. Glass. It’s made of glass. He looks behind himself, then at the traffic lights around him, behind the glass. His heart pounds and he tries to rise to a crouch, but the world is too slippery.
Without warning, a wall of blackness, razor curved scythes, and pink meat swipes at his room.
He screams, and the acrid smell of his own piss fills the room. He crouches on the curved floor again.
From beneath him, rising like a nightmare over the edge of the bed, he sees a pair of vast, glass-green eyes.
“Watch the cat!”
The glass globe, wrenched from the branch, plummets towards the floor.
