The Knock


All I had asked for from the manager was a typewriter. All I wanted to do was write. And write I did. But there was always that knock on my door. Every night a knock on my door. Ever since that man knocked on my door. When no one knocked on my door. Ever since I put pen to his paper. But now, there were too many knocks on my door.

It was deafening.

I used to love it. I used to jump up from my desk-chair with a smile, sweat, and excitement. Not knowing who it might be, or what they might want. But now, the knocks are all too regular. And it doesn’t matter where I am or where I go. The knocks keep following – the knocks keep coming. Ever since that damn man came knocking. And with that devilish smile. That damn man had hellfire in his eyes. Sure as day. Hellfire. In those twisted eyes.

He promised me everything. I never asked for what I wanted, but I got it anyway. Like he was reading my mind. Like an unspoken agreement -between strangers, not friends.

In my line of work, you meet a lot of people. Most of them assholes. Some of them genuine. He was both. And I never saw it until it was too late, shutting that door as he turned back shooting me a smile that was all jaws. I stay in various places: hotels, motels, trailer parks, rented out rooms, and dusty apartments, you know, just a place to rest my head.

So people come and go, neighbours, landlords, guests, visitors, Jehovah Witnesses, local priests & reverends, girl scouts with cookies, travelling salesmen. He was the most latter. Wasn’t quite sure what he was selling, he sounded like some foul snake oil peddler. Looked like he belonged on Wall Street. Snakelike, smooth, confident, charming, and clearly a psychopath of some sort. He offered various deals, said he sold experiences, memories, emotions, events – past & present. Total nut bag. A real freak. I wasn’t quite listening to him and ended up signing some crap just to get him to leave, told him I’d take whatever.

When I think back on it now. It wasn’t what he was offering it was what I wanted to be offered. I don’t remember anything about what he said, just his shiny shoes, prim suit, and tie. A pearly toothed smile, and those eyes that glared and were almost engorged with self-pleasure. At the time I was tired and got him out of my sight fairly quick. I was lonely, lonely for a long time. The road had taken its toll on me. I’d been a free-lance ghost-writer for about eight years and just floated from town to town with no friends, no family, no girl, wife, lovers, or kids. Not even a dog or cat to speak of. And on that fateful page is what I signed away to that man that came knocking. Not what I had said, but what my eyes had said. Loneliness.

Bitter. Loneliness.

And ever since that night, and all the nights that may yet still come. A knock – knocks on my door. And I open it like the fool I am. And someone walks on through. They have no idea why. They think… They think they know but it’s just a lie. These women – these girls, they don’t love me, I bet some of them aren’t even attracted to me. But they keep coming. Night and day. Morning and evening. There’s no escape.

I’m drowning in company.

It’s sapping my spirit away, slowly but surely, and I’m dying, I know it. I’m even lonelier than ever. And the lust has left me, there’s no more love, lust, or happiness, only… madness.

And I keep going on, keep typing, keep forging my smile as they weave their way across my heart, and I cleave theirs straight out of their chest. Holding their life hood out in front of them and stomp it into the dirt.

They mean nothing to me.

And I mean everything to them.

It fills me with rage. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Another one pulls up her skirt and leaves my room, begging for a chance to see me again. But all I see is that damn contract across the room, sitting comfortably in the suitcase.

That contract with my blood smothered on its pages.

And then comes another knock.


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