Tales Of The Gurrier

‘What’s that on your leg?’

‘My leg? Nothing, just a mole.’

‘It looks like letters, did you get a tattoo?’

‘What! Christ no.’

I stumbled into the bathroom to take a look. Fuck, she was right. There it was staring at me in the mirror ‘Fi’ it said. What the hell did it mean? No wait ‘If’, if what?

‘You have to leave.’

‘But I’ve only just got here.’

‘Leave, now please.’

‘You said there would be toast.’

‘There’s no toast for whores! Get out, GET OUT!’

That told her, she was gone in an instant. Cursing me for a crazy drunk. I think she stole my lighter. Bitch! The hell with her I thought and went back to the bathroom to look at it again. Christ it’s huge. What the hell is it? Maybe it’s cancer. God knows what I’ve done to myself, all those late nights spent poring over the pages of musty tomes. It’s not like I had any choice, the researches, the volumes of literature and medical journals dumped in piles about the house. They’ve warped my insides, I can feel it. I’ve developed some literate pathology, some violent dermatological reaction to the proximity of all those words.

I rang the office. They weren’t best pleased.

‘What did you say to Bethany you twisted pervert!’

“What? Oh her, nothing. Look I’m not well.’

‘I don’t bloody care if you’re shitting out your intestines you smug bastard, I want that manuscript finished’

‘You don’t understand, I have a..a…growth..something’s gone wrong inside.’

‘Shut up. Bethany says you’re fine, just drunk again, or high on paint thinners, and you can tattoo your cock with singing bluebirds for all I care. The point is she’s quit again and she’s not coming back this time you spineless little shit and I’m not hiring you another research assistant. Now I want a draft on my desk by Friday morning or I’m sending the medical journal people around for your kidneys.’

‘No, no you don’t understand, she was demanding toast and dismissed my growth. Look if I could just have one more month’

The line went dead.

Bastards! That harridan of an editor is responsible for this. She had me poisoned in my sleep, like that poor Russian sod. Radioactive isotopes slipped between the covers of my research volumes. Nubile research assistants sent with the express instruction that I should not live to see the work finished, or spend the advance. Who knew.

I returned to the mirror. ‘Does this look bigger to you?’ I said to no one, before I realized I sent her away. I took a picture with my phone and sent it to my psychiatrist to be certain. ‘if’ it said, but there was more, a dark pregnant smear lurked beneath the pasty skin. My growth had more to say, but then again, I never knew when to shut up either.

‘If,’ if what? Maybe it’s postmodern cancer. That would be just my luck, I fucking hate post modernism. I need to start drinking again. Maybe this will go away, like my ex wife. She went away, all it took was ten years drinking. I don’t know if I had another ten years drinking in me, but I had to make a start.

At eleven I looked in the mirror again. I think it’s going, thank Christ, or maybe the gin’s made me blind. By twelve I was out of gin and it was back, but now it had friends. There was an ‘r’ now and perhaps the beginnings of a ‘t’. I hope there’s no punctuation, I’m useless at punctuation.

I called my psychiatrist.

‘It’s got punctuation now!’

‘Is that you Dave?’

‘Didn’t you hear me, it’s got punctuation!’

‘Dave was that you who sent me that photo of yourself naked?’

‘Of course it was me you fool. Does it look like punctuation or not.’

‘Now Dave, we have discussed inappropriate behaviour before, haven’t we.’

‘Shut up and listen man, did you see the growth, did you see it? Is that a colon or a semi colon?’

‘Dave I’m going to hang up now and we can discuss this at our regular session on Friday morning.’

‘I can’t wait until Friday you fool, they’re coming for my kidneys on Friday!’

He hung up on me too.

Bastards! You’re all bastards! I have a growth, I may be a medical miracle. I went back to the mirror.

‘if r t,’ it said now. I was crestfallen, an illiterate cancer could not be as interesting as a literate one. I was just another freak now, like those ladies who find a picture of Jesus in a potato or the popes face in a lump of birdcrap on their windscreen.

There was no choice now, I had to call a doctor. They knew me in the clinic.

‘No, Mr. Davis. I’m sorry, but you can’t have an appointment. The restraining order bars you from approaching within a hundred yards of the clinic.’

‘What? Oh yes that, well it doesn’t matter I only want to talk to the doctor.’

‘We’re under strict instructions not to let you speak to the doctor. He’s a very busy man.’

‘Look, I have a growth, I promise you. It’s serious, I need to speak to a physician. There may be punctuation.’

‘You have a puncture wound?’

‘No, punctuation, a colon, maybe a semi colon I’m not sure. That’s why I need to speak to the doctor.’

‘Mr. Davis if you have, or believe you have, a puncture wound in your colon I suggest you call the emergency services straight away and get them to take you to hospital.’

‘No I don’t have time, I need to protect my kidneys too.’

She hung up.

I went back to the mirror. ‘Christ on bike!’ It was massive now, snaking across my chest and stomach. ‘i f e r n t’ it said, in dark inky letters. I fern t, now it’s gone surreal. First post modernism, now surrealism, it was more than I could take.

The phone rang. It was my ex wife.

‘If you bother Nigel again on his day off you spineless cocksucker I’ll gut you like a fish!’

‘Hello Marjorie.’

‘Don’t ‘Hello Marjorie’ me you creep. Nigel might be fond of his bloody doctor patient privilege but I couldn’t give a toss. The next time you bother us out of hours I will call social services and tell them you keep pictures of dogs fucking taped to the ceiling and you’ll never see Janice again.’

‘How is Janice?’

‘All the better for not seeing her washed up, wanker of a father.’

‘I have a growth. Marjorie. I think it may be a message of some kind.’

‘Well here’s my message. Stay away from Nigel and stay away from me, you shitheel.’

She hung up.

I went back to the mirror. This time I brought the Thesaurus. ‘ i f f e r n t’ it said and I smiled, uttering a great sigh of relief.

By the teatime it confirmed what I had known all along.

I was different.

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This weeks Flickr Fiction is horribly late, but it was such a lovely idea it wouldn’t leave the me alone and I finally relented and let it out.

The photo for this week is from Flickr user Miss Hagg and a very unusual project. Other Flickr Fiction by our members can be found at our new home Ficktion.

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 14th, 2007 at 12:11 am and is filed under Bloggery, Ficktion, Flickr Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.