Eaten up with Indifference

Eaten up with Indifference

I wake to the sound of gnawing, or possibly the sensation of my leg being pulled, it’s impossible to know exactly what stirs me, and I’m not even sure if ‘waking’ is the right term anyway.

Am I awake?

I am lying on my back, looking up at a single strip light on an otherwise unsurprisingly white ceiling. There seems no possibility that I might move my eyes to see why my leg feels so odd. No more can I move any other part of my body, not even my tongue. This, a feeling that should induce panic, and yet it doesn’t.

Thinking about it more, there’s no particular need to move my tongue and I don’t really know why I’ve become fixated with the challenge, but I am and spend what I should imagine is around one to two minutes trying to poke it out.

There is tapping from the corner of the room and an occasional stifled cough, and I assume, from what I can see and hear, that I am in a small, mostly white office space occupied by a lady who types on an old-fashioned typewriter.

‘Hello?’ I imagine, unable as I am to move my lips, mouth or my diaphragm to produce any sound.

The secretary-as I’m now sure she is- carries on with her task and I hear a faint ‘ting’ announcing the completion of a line, followed by a thoroughly satisfying ratcheting noise as she starts the next.

‘Tap-tap-tappety-tap…’

The pleasant sensation of being in a room with a hard-working, old fashioned, typist is marred a bit by the chewing, slobbering sound of whatever, or whoever, is gnawing my leg off. Oddly, it doesn’t hurt-being eaten -if that is what is happening, and I find it puzzling as to why I feel no pain.

I make a monumental effort to object, but nothing at all happens so I decide to stick with the peculiar feeling of relaxed easiness that is the sound of the diligent office assistant.

“Do you want tea Derek?”

The gnawing stops and my leg settles.

“Yes, that would be lovely Diane.” Derek sounds very much as if he might still have a large portion of my lower calf in his mouth. It seems I’m being consumed by another human, a human with a very out of date name. I hope he will stand up, pop into my eye line so I can get a look at the fellow and try to communicate my displeasure at what he is-presumably-doing to me.

Nothing happens as I try to move- nothing at all, so I stop trying and lie still. There really is no other option open to me.

The typewriter noises cease, and I hear the sounds of water filling a kettle.

Ah, now that rings a bell. Yes, I am here to fix a dripping tap…

“Is the tap working now Di?” Derek says, confirming my recently revived memory.

“Seems fine, the plumber fixed the drip, and it turns off properly now.”

Apparently, I’ve done the job already, I do remember now…

I hear water splash as she confirms her findings, but judging by the tugging sensation Derek had lost interest and is back at his meal again.

I am aggrieved at being referred to as ‘the plumber’, not because I’m not or that I would prefer the use of my actual name, but more that I am being talked about as if I’m not present, in the room. Well, Diana, that’s not true and it’s actually rather rude to talk about me as if I’m not here.

‘Hello, I’m here,’ I can’t say.

I conclude that the secretary is so used to her boss (if he is such) eating tradesmen that she herself sees them as little more than snacks, like those sandwiches people buy from vans mid-morning. This brings me on to two further thoughts.

Firstly, I should be hungry. I’ve not had my morning meal and distinctly remember thinking that I would have something in the van once the tap was fixed.

Secondly, Diana hasn’t offered me a cup of tea.

Both remembrances lead onto their own chain of smaller thoughts, concerning the parking on yellow lines of my van, and the suspicion that Diana is deliberately ignoring me.

The kettle boils to the accompaniment of that lovely crockery chinking sound and spoon in cup noise that make me wholeheartedly wish I too could have a nice cup of tea.

It isn’t thirst, possibly not even a desire to savour the taste; it is a need to be included as someone rather than something- the ‘something’ being a meal.

“There you go love.”

“Thanks Di, lovely.”

I imagine the scene, having only their conversation to work with, Di handing a nice hot mug of tea to Derek. He in turn has now stopped chewing at my calf and is reaching around, taking his tea and pursing his lips for that first utterly pointless ‘too hot’ sip.

Can’t see it though, only the ceiling.

Why do we try and taste the first mouthful of freshly made tea when it is quite blatantly and obviously going to be too hot?

That is unanswerable and annoying that I have no opportunity to practice the futility myself.

“Oh, hot!” Shouts Derek.

 I feel my leg being pushed, though without sensation, presumably to make space for the cup.

I am little more than a dish being nudged aside for the beverage and I do find that particularly unkind. Being eaten is one thing, at least I am wanted and a part of things when that is happening, unpleasant as it so horribly is.

Or at least should be. Why don’t I mind?

A chair scrapes and the sound of something being unwrapped followed by a commentary from the freshly seated Di.

“Lovely, cheese and pickle.”

Derek doesn’t feel the need to comment. I get the impression that the secretary is perfectly happy with the position of denial (that I have allocated her) regarding my presence. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense that she should be eating ploughman’s sandwiches with crisps-crunch,crunch-in the same room as a man devouring another human.

So, Diana is in denial.

Are the secretary’s name and ‘denial’ anagrams? I never was good at that sort of thing and eventually give up with a vague feeling of a leftover ‘e’, but no certainty at all. Why isn’t other stuff more prevalent in my head? The question of being unable to move, what it is that has happened to cause my current perilous predicament and how might it end?

 I’m not really bothered though, I just feel sort of relaxed, with a vague uneasiness at being ignored by Di.

It dawns on me that I am now discussing events in real time with myself, but that’s fair enough, given the circumstances. I do hope I’m not going mad though, or have I already done so and this is all just a part of that?

 It isn’t, it’s definitely real.

A sudden vigorous tugging at my outer thigh causes me to rock slightly and the ceiling to dance in a slightly dizzying fashion. Whilst I can’t pinpoint the exact location of the peculiar, numb pulling, I reckon Derek is gnawing hard at a portion of muscle just above my knee.

It stops and I listen as he chews, then feel slightly nauseated when he takes a large sip of tea. I’ve never liked that, watching people with mouthfuls of food taking a drink.

Still, it would be nice to watch anything now, other than the ceiling which is devoid of entertainment since a large house fly disappeared a while ago.

“Lovely tea, Di, is it Yorkshire?”

“Yes, nothing but the best, you know I always look after you dear.”

After some time and a bit more leg pulling the typing recommences and I feel very glad of the happy clackety-clack, ringing bell and satisfying ratchet noise. Time means nothing to me, and I don’t feel that it is either dragging or speeding past, it just is.

 I must have been in a reverie of a sort, because at some point Derek has moved on to my other leg, starting at my foot and I barely noticed the change. I feel hypnotically relaxed, uncaring and unconcerned; I wish I could think of the word.

Catatonic? Undoubtedly, but I think there is a better phrase that indicates something more than physical inability. Whatever it is, it shouldn’t apply. What is happening to me should be alarming but somehow, I’m not as bothered as I most certainly should be.

The lights go out after that, and I enter an entirely unknown passage of time before they flicker on again. However, many hours passed-and I’m guessing around twelve, I still can’t think of the word. It isn’t euphoric, not at all.

I hear someone taking their coat off, filling and then switching on the kettle and assume it to be Di, fortifying herself for another day at the office.

I can’t see anything but the ceiling and the fly, which has reappeared and is now as motionless as I am.

It’s Friday. There has only been one period of darkness since I arrived to sort out the tap on the Thursday morning. I must certainly have a ticket on my van by now and know that my family are starting to wonder why I’m not home. But Mum won’t be bothered-not yet.

‘He’s probably stayed over at someone’s after going to the pub,’ I imagine her saying to my father, who wouldn’t have cared less.

A bit like me really. Still, I feel no emotion at all, not about mum, dad or even Nicole, who I am supposed to be taking for a curry-tonight. Odd that, not worrying about my loved ones, but not as strange as the very slight but growing resentment that Diana is deliberately ignoring me.

That feeling-the one of being irritated at being ignored- is actually the only strong one left, all others apparently crushed by that overwhelming lack of concern that still hasn’t got a name.

Derek’s just arrived and has wasted no time at all tucking into my right upper thigh. He’s barely spoken to his secretary and is actually paying me all his attention, even if only to consume my leg. As for Diana, surely, she could at least have bent over and looked at me when she came in?

Rude, that’s what it is, but even this emotion is pretty subdued, and I forgive her once the happy tappety-tap, clackety-clack dinging starts-it’s all very soporific.

Good word that, but not the one I’m searching for.

My mind wanders a bit as the day progresses, a day of ham and lettuce sandwiches for Di and a large portion of my groin for her boss.

I remember arriving, on Thursday and finding the address of a run of the mill Victorian terrace office with a brass plaque on the door. I’d parked on a double yellow, on a back street that was less busy, safe in the knowledge I’d be back pretty quickly if it was just a tap washer job.

“Plumber’s here Derek,” Diana had said, introducing me by trade rather than name to her boss who’d barely looked up from his desk, choosing to acknowledge me with little more than a wave.

After that, I’m not sure what happened.

I’m jolted from my reminiscences by the sudden ringing of a phone, another relic of the past I decide, given its distinct ring-ring, rather than a modern electronic noise.

How nice.

It hadn’t rung at all on Thursday, perhaps they weren’t that busy.

“Hallo, D and D Accountants.” Says Di, cheerily.

Ah yes, D and D Accountancy, I remember. Di isn’t just a secretary at all and she had referred to Derek as her husband at one point-I’d forgotten that.

“Derek’s a bit busy right now; I’m his partner can I help?”

A bit busy chomping through some inner part of me!

The feeling of tugging is much less pronounced today and I notice that my sense of hearing is slightly muffled; my vision not quite so acute, the strip light is very slightly blurred.

I can still hear well enough though and the phone conversation should be providing some light relief to the ongoing tedium of immobility and lack of control. But no, I simply listen because it is happening, not for any other reason.

“Yes, we can certainly take on your business Mr Court, let me take down some details.”

I don’t get bored of the half conversation, I just listen. In the end I stop doing that too and lie in my state of indifference as Derek slowly munches through my midriff.

Eventually the light goes off.

Another amount of time passes, presumably an entire weekend.

On Monday it’s more of the same; clackety clack and tuna salad on brown. The highlight of Monday, (not that I measure events or grade them these days), is when Derek pulls violently on my left arm, and I roll slightly to one side.

I’m treated to a slightly blurred image of Di eating a chocolate biscuit and reading from a lovely old leather-bound diary before Derek pushes me back to a more prone position.

It dawns on me in that briefest of moments, that Diana doesn’t own a computer. I find that most peculiar but decide not to dwell on it too long.

It’s a lot harder to hear now, the phone rings twice but I can’t really hear the conversation. My sense of smell is still okay, and I recognised the metallic odour of what must be me. Alongside myself, I detect Di’s perfume and the furniture wax polish that has been used on the beautiful, antique oak and leather topped desk I recall being in the centre of the office.

I’m on that desk now, or at least some of me is.

On Tuesday there’s a delivery. I can’t really hear much now and my vision is so poor that there is either darkness or light, little else, so I don’t know who has rung the barely audible buzzer or what it is that Di had gone to the front door to collect.

Tappety-tap, but only just- I miss the ratchet sound and barely hear the ding.

A week has passed, more or less, I realise that there is little more of me left than a head, and possibly a small bit of neck. Derek, it seems, is quite greedy.

The very last thing I am aware of is the light flickering, on-off-on-off. It doesn’t usually do that, having to date been a fairly decisive piece of electronics.

A very muffled voice, Di I think,

“Lights on the blink, we’d better call an electrician.”

“Yes,” I hear Derek mumble through a mouthful of something, “I’m about ready.”

Clackety-clack and one last ‘ding’.

Apathy! That’s the word I was looking for.

I wake to the sound of gnawing, or is it the sensation of someone or something pulling at me? In the confusing half second, that exists in that time between consciousness and otherwise, it is very difficult to know what’s real, and what isn’t.