First Impressions

It's not a whiff, but a stench. It seeps through the cracks in the wood, through the slight gap between the frame and the door, through the rusted keyhole. I wretch as I step onto the frail porch, the wood is sodden and bends beneath my foot. I cover my mouth with my hand, trying my best to hold down the contents of my stomach as I realise something inside is dead and rotting.

I hope it's not Mr. Williams in there. Flashes of a decaying corpse flicker through my mind. I imagine him there, sunken into a coffee-stained armchair, a daytime soap opera blaring in the background. Nobody would even know if he was dead.

The other neighbourhood watch mums fear Mr. Williams. They hide it through snide remarks about the state of his overgrown lawn and cruel rumours as to how he ended up all alone in that big old house. But they're just like school children deep down. The thought of someone who couldn't give two shits about them, and even less their children, is unbearable. Of course, I didn't want to be the one to finally see what lay behind that wooden door. I had no desire to discover how Mr. Williams lived. I was almost certain the answer to all my questions would depress me. I also grew up with the horror stories surrounding this house. 

I know it's not him; I keep repeating to myself that it wasn't him. But a voice at the back of mind still whispers: "What if that smell is the little boy who went missing all those years ago?"

I swallow the spit gathering in my throat and push my intrusive thoughts back to where I had hidden them all those years. It takes him a while to reach the door after ringing the bell, but I can hear his footsteps creek along the floorboards.

The rancid odour hits me again as the door swings open, but the sight of a living Mr. Williams relieves me so much, I don't care.

"You must be my new social worker. I've been waiting for you!" It takes me a few seconds to decipher the words he mumbles. Before I can correct him, more noise spouts from the gap between his wiry beard. "That neighbourhood watch is pissing me off! Come in, and I'll tell you everything."

Mr. Williams turns around and leads me inside. As I make my way through the hallway, I consider telling him the truth. I am the neighbourhood watch. I could just tell him right now, and he'd make me leave. I could go home and tell everyone he wouldn't speak to me. I could pour myself a glass of Cabernet, and run a hot bath, wash away the smell that is clinging to my skin. But I was already inside now, and I'd made it to the living room. There are no photos or ornaments, no remnants of family of friendship. Everything he owns seems to serve a purpose. He invites me to sit on a damp cushion placed upon a wooden chair. I perch on the edge and kindly accept his offer of a tea, though upon drinking it, I notice it's lukewarm, and the milk is ever so slightly spoiled. My eye twitches as I gulp down the tea, Mr. Williams grunts as if to say: "Posh bitch."

The array of sticky liquids entangled in Mr. Williams's beard repulses me at first. Almost everything about him repulses me. Although I try not to stare, I can't help but fixate on his yellow-stained toenail peeking through his tartan slippers. But as I look into his sunken eyes, I feel a stab of pain. He must be around the same age as my father, though who could tell such a weathered soul's age?

I suddenly realize, as the care worker imposter, it is my duty to ask Mr. Williams some questions. I start simple, or so I thought.

"So, you live alone, Mr. Williams?"

"I guess you could say that," he replies. I smile nervously as my eyes flicker around the room, maybe that missing boy is here after all.

"And you're not married?" 

"Idiot!" I repeat to myself. If he lives alone, he's not going to be married. Or maybe he's one of those creepy old men who orders Thai brides off the internet. No, I'm pretty sure Mr. Williams doesn't know how to use the internet.

"Do you think anyone would ever love someone like me?" He responds. I place my teacup on the table beside me. Perhaps I should have used a placemat, but then I clocked the assortment of stained mugs littered around the room.

"Why would you say such a thing Mr. Williams, you seem like a pleasant man to me."

Mr. Williams sighs and leans over. He pulls up his trouser leg a little, just enough to think that I wasn't distracted by it, and begins to scratch. The skin is red raw; it's been opened several times before. I will him to leave it alone and let it heal. The tips of his fingernails are brown, where blood and skin has gathered and been left. It unbearable to watch, but just as hard to pull myself away.

"I ain't got no friends, I ain't got no family, I lost my sex drive years ago when I realised it was a useless heap of shit. I didn't much like the care worker before, and I don't suppose she much liked me either. And I don't blame her."

I chose to block out the use of the word sex as soon as it left his lips. I can't stomach that image. I'm not much of a romantic myself, but I feel as though, for the first time in my life, I'm meeting someone devoid of any form of love. Not plutonic, nor passionate, neither playful not practical. Mr. Williams loves nobody, not even himself.

I think of how I might lighten the mood. I peer over to the television out the side of my eye. A slender woman smiles unconvincingly, exhibiting some tacky bracelet whose price is displayed beneath her. I hope that Mr. Williams doesn't buy into these awful sales shows. Maybe he just likes to watch the scantily clad women.

"She's not too bad, is she?" I tilt my head ever so slightly towards the TV and raise my eyebrows with a cheeky smile.

Mr. Williams takes a deep breath. "It is an absolute certainty that no one can know his own beauty or perceive a sense of his own worth until it has been reflected back to him in the mirror of another loving, caring being."

I lean back into the wooden chair, momentarily forgetting about the wet patch beneath me. "Another loving, caring, human being," I state. 

"Hmm?" grunts Mr. Williams. 

"That's from John Joseph Powell, but it's another loving caring, human being. You missed out a word."

He shakes his head, his eyes disappearing into the deep crevices of his face, underneath his bushy eyebrows.

"More tea?" He utters as he stands up from his chair.

"Uh, yes, thank you," I reply, keen for more information, not keen for more weak, milky, cold tea.

Time seems to pass slower than I had ever known it to. The clock's ticking echoes throughout the room, taunting me. It as if the clock wants me to investigate, to discover, to uncover the secrets hidden between the cracks of the floorboards.

What was that foul stench lingering throughout the house? What earned Mr. Williams the title of 'local wierdo'? Was he really a man devoid of love, or had it been stolen from him? I had so many questions, and every inch of this house screamed at me like some kind of cryptic puzzle, waiting to be solved.

Then comes a screech. The unmistakable sound of two feet skidding across slippery tiles. I hear his torso hit the floor, a thud. The sound of his skull smacking the ground turns my stomach, but the silence that follows is the most painful of all. It takes me several minutes to muster up the courage to go into the kitchen and investigate. 

I find him there; his body splayed out on the floor, legs twisted like two intertwined vines, a small pool of blood expands around his head, creating a halo, his eyes, while open, twitch before becoming still, open and bloodshot. I have no doubt that he is dead. This is the first time I've ever seen a dead body. My heart starts racing, panic sweeps over me, and the blood rushes to my head. I don't know the protocol. Should I be doing CPR? Will anybody think I'm to blame? I faked being a social worker. My breathing intensifies, and my legs begin to wobble, losing their anchoring to this tiled floor. 

I look for an answer, anything in the room that might relieve some of this unbearable anxiety when I spot a peculiar object hidden in the darkness of the kitchen's pantry. A hoop, a rusted steel ring, just begging to be tugged at. I knew that my questions would be answered by opening the hatch. Despite the dead body lying beside me and the certainty that what lay beneath would not be pretty, I made the choice I could and lifted open the hatch. 

I relived the smell, for the third time now. This time stronger than ever before. Even the hairs inside my nose trembled, knowing this was only the beginning. 

The hatch revealed a staircase, and my first footstep alone was greeted by a screech from below. Though my head whirled and my stomach tensed, I proceeded into the darkness.

The screeching continued, piercing my ears with its pitch. I desperately felt around for a light; I tried not to prematurely imagine what I might find. My fingers felt a thin rope, and with but a split-second pause, I pull, filling the room with light.

The screeches were squarks, pain-filled screams from birds I had never wished to see up close.

I can't count the number of birds trapped inside the cages, each one isolated from the next, almost filling their enclosure. The rusted metal bars had been gnawed at and even bent out of shape; each bird wanted out so desperately.

I covered my ears to try to silence the screams coming from the hoard of birds in front of me. Slowly, I moved closer to a blue and yellow macaw gripping onto the cage bars with his feet, throwing seed from a bowl across the entire basement. 

As I approach, he calms down, but his breathing is still heavy and stressed. He opens up his wings to me, revealing his golden feathers. He looks at me. His eyes are still, and their darkness reflects what he sees back at me. "How could anyone encage such a creature?" The screeching subsides, and each bird begins to peer at me. They are all so beautiful. There are macaws and cockatoos, some of them have feathers protruding from their heads like little Mohicans, others are lily-white all over.

"Why would anyone do this to these birds?"

"Why?"

He wasn't mistreating them. The rotting smell that reeked from the house was the decaying insects and worms he'd been feeding them. Their cages were clean, and each bird looked healthy. 

Could it be that he just wanted to be surrounded by their beauty? That by filling his basement with tropical colours from docile beings, he felt the love he had never received from people. By keeping them caged, did he finally feel that he had something perfect that belonged to him and him alone? When he looked into their eyes, did he see that loving being that cared for him just as he cared for them?