by Chad Inglis
grinning at him, madly.
I take the number 7 bus as far as Cove Street and get off, walking numbly, the street unfolding in front of me like a petrified spinal column; I can't remember ever being this tired. Since that dream I don't think I've slept more than two or three hours in a single night, and then it's always the same, nightmares and fevered images that dissolve into a haze of dull anxiety as soon as I open my eyes. The dreams might take any form, but there is almost always pain, the peeling of my skin or evisceration of my flesh, and beneath them the hole. Waking, the days are a fall of gray static that gives way to the night, and then it starts again, lying awake and listening to the voices, or the silence, or else drinking to quiet them both. The thought comes: I can't go on like this, but I don't know how to leave.
The share house appears out of the darkness, much sooner than I expected, as if I've been sleep walking. A pair of dim figures are sitting on the porch. As I look, a small orange dot passes from one to the other, the lit end of a cigarette I think, or a joint.
"Hey," says one of them. "You the guy who lives downstairs?"
"Yeah," I answer.
"Comin home from work?"
"That's right."
I lean on the railing for support.
"Come hang with us," say the other one. The brief circle of light is passed again.
"I'm pretty tired," I tell him.
"Just for a minute. Let us get a look at you."
I climb the stairs. The porch is dark, and I can't see their faces. One of them leans forward to hand me something that turns out to be a bong.
"Don't smoke," I say.
"Come on," he insists, and I shrug, taking it from him. Maybe it'll help me sleep. I take a brief hit, tasting the weed, but also a tang of iron. That, and something else, both organic and somehow rotten.
"When did you move in?" asks one of them.
"Last week," I say. He nods, and takes the bong from me.
"Feels longer," I add.
"Time is a bitch," says the other, in a bored voice, and hands the bong to his friend. The smoke congeals in the air above them in a shape like a mass of clotted hair. I peer at their faces, seeing nothing, as if I'm staring at them from the end of a long tunnel. I'm aware of the bong coming to me, the glowing eye in the bowl. I inhale deeply. My throat burns, and I cough; one of the men is laughing. They look like statues carved from a single block of stone.
"You seen any cracks upstairs?" I hear myself saying.
"Cracks?" comes a voice. A different voice, not one of theirs, muffled, and sounding from a far distance.
"In the walls, or the ceiling? From an earthquake."
"No. Nothing like that."
"There's one downstairs. Recently it's been bleeding."
"Hey, you alright?"
"The blood is orange."
A sound like the roaring of waves. The porch is the inside of a gaping mouth.
Maybe I touched it. Maybe I did, earlier, before I went to sleep (except that I can't sleep, haven't slept in days.) But let's say I did touch it, while I was putting away the dishes, or even earlier, when I got back from work. It must have happened accidentally. I wouldn't have done it on purpose. So it was an accident. But why can't I remember it? Everything else is clear, the bus, and work, the snow on the ground. Walking. It's possible that I forgot about it. It's possible to experience the effects without remembering the cause. Of course that's possible. Similarly, I don't remember going to sleep. But I must have, because if I didn't it means that I'm awake, and I really am in the kitchen. I'm here, standing in front of the crack, and it's really there in front of me, oozing moisture. It means this is truly my hand, reaching out to touch it. But that's ok. I tell myself it's ok. Because this is only a dream.
My fingers graze the edge of the damp bricks. I shudder, closing my eyes, and my hand slips down. I find the hole with the tip of my index finger. It enters easily, the bricks giving way and falling in loose clumps to the floor. I push, and my hand sinks in to the wrist. It is cool inside the hole, and wet. Now my arm is submerged to the elbow. I lean forward until my face is only an inch from the crack. I can smell it, the mould and decay, the bite of metal. It fills my nose, settles into my lungs. I open my eyes and enter the wall.
All around me are the sound of voices, crying.
The landlord stood leaning against the doorframe as the girl moved through the apartment.
"It's bigger than I thought," she said.
"It's a good size," the landlord agreed. She returned to the kitchen and frowned at the crack in the wall.
"How long has that been there?" she asked him.
"Not long. It might leak a bit in the spring, but it's no problem now."
"I see."
She entered the bathroom, poking around without much enthusiasm.
"Well," she said. "I'll let you know."
He led the way out of the apartment and up the stairs to the street. Two young men were seated on the porch.
"Hey," said one of them. "You showing the basement?"
The landlord nodded.
"Did that other guy move out?"
"That's right," he said, and turned to the girl.
"It's a very good deal," he told her. "You won't find much better for this price."
"Well I'm going up to Northside today to look at some other apartments. I'll let you know."
One of the two men on the porch called out to her.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Camelia," answered the girl.
"We'd love to have you here Camelia!"
She laughed, and started down the street behind the landlord.
"Actually, the last tenant just took off," he said. "The bastard still owes me rent."
"Yes," the girl replied. "There's a lot in flux lately."