The Wine Cellar

From the onset of my adolescence, I have come to terms with the reality that I am doomed to live in a prison preconceived by the misfortune of my genetic predispositions. The initial diagnosis was met with denial and animosity, but from the first instance of skin-to-skin contact with another of my classmates it became apparent that the contagiousness of my curse was absolute.

Unable to cope with the skin deformity and rancid pustules, the parents of the girl gave her up for adoption, and she is now living in Croatia with a nice blind couple that often wonders why the house smells of rodents. Alas, this is my life, and in a feeble attempt to protect anyone else from the fate of living with blind Croatian caretakers I have chosen a life of complete isolation in the confines of my small apartment.

The disease, while progressive, is dormant for the time being, but one cannot be too cautious and so I continue to wrap all exposed surfaces of my skin on the days in which my food is delivered so as not to repeat the mishaps of my youth. It is this appearance which has earned me a place of legend amongst the local children who claim the “wrapped man” will eat them in their sleep if they misbehave. This is of course, a complete and utter fallacy, and the only consumption of hearts I wish to perform is on those of well cooked artichokes.

Nevertheless, they see me from the window, which I admit, has become my only connection to the outside world where I can pretend I am partaking in the jovial gallivanting of the fair skinned folk outside. My latest hobbies include reading to escape my current predicament and attempting to learn every instrument on god’s green earth. Unfortunately for one in my position this has proven difficult due to my lack of concentration and general interest for time spans exceeded 10 minutes.

I tried my slimy hand at romance once. She was kind, and in some ways, I felt she understood me on a level that no one else ever could have. We spoke of everything, no subject was off limits and given my isolation, we had nothing but time to talk with one another. Unfortunately, the combined strain on my wrist from my poor form on the guitar and the rising cost of postage prices to Croatia led me to end things, and by end things I mean I just stopped responding. What is she going to do? Rappel off the roof of my building into my open window? I should be so lucky, although I do often wonder how physical intimacy might unfold for people like us with almost no benchmark on physical interaction. I may very well have a better chance at procreating with a spatula.

It is in this way that I find myself in my current plight. As the ever-watchful eye of the village, I have a clear view of most things that others may not have the time or desire to look for. All that to say, there is nobody in this godforsaken place so bored with their own existence that their only form of pleasure is to watch the lives of others unfold.

Let’s start with the latest gossip, the fighting between the teenage boy across the street and his mother has reached it’s zenith with all forms of profanities spewing like the green puss from my own arms at his poor widowed mother. This is what the neighbors might see, but as for me I understand why her husband left in the first place. She is unruly, crass, and when (so she thinks) nobody is looking likes to plant a firm backhand across the face of the unsuspecting child. His behavior is nothing more than a grasp at power from a woman who has verifiably stolen his childhood through overbearing tendencies and physical abuse.

Then there is the plumber, who despite my best efforts will not wave back to me from my perch on my sill. I do not know how I have wronged him. He spends almost every waking moment working on an obnoxious old yellow car that, despite hours of effort, never appears to be improved in any way. Although, judging by the yelling from his wife that comes from within and her fondness of chocolate cake, I can guess that “fixing the car” may very well be a way to seek isolation rather than improve the vehicle. I have come to pity him and have taken to saluting him like a fellow soldier in arms.

The old woman across from me is kind enough, but like myself, always finds herself on her porch overlooking the neighborhood. It very much annoys me that one with the freedom to leave chooses not to. At times I am tempted to lick her doorknobs in the dead of night so that she may know the true meaning of mandated isolation. I jest. I jest.

It is the newcomer that bothers me. The small house on the edge of the wood was somewhat dilapidated before the new owner decided to grace us with his presence. As far as I can tell he lives alone. The boy and his mother are asleep by 11 PM, the plumber and his ogre are out by midnight, and the old woman (if it is even worth mentioning) is asleep at 6 PM right after her favorite gameshow is over.

The lights in the old wine cellar of the stranger’s house do not go off. Using binoculars, I am able to just see the top of his head through the window at the bottom of the main wall. I can also detect shadows at times, the likes of which make me wonder if I am even truly awake. I see him sawing. This is not unique, he may enjoy making his own furniture or attempting to fix things long broken.

However, he is frequently not alone, or so I think. I can sometimes discern two to three figures through the small port, and then the sawing, and then. I don’t know. The morning after one of these particular events I watched as he carried a large bag over his shoulder and struggled to lift it into the dumpster before the crows could fight him for the contents of whatever was inside. The birds seems particularly interested in the haul.

This has happened at least three times now, and despite my better judgement I have decided to see what I may do to prevent this monster from continuing what I perceive to be the dismemberment of unsuspecting victims. The light is on tonight. I have decided to forego the wrappings, if for nothing else, so that a glimpse of my bare flesh may make the man question his own sanity long enough for me to lodge a bullet in his chest. The night air is cooler on my skin than I remember, and as I come closer to the light emanating from the chamber below, I draw my pistol in anticipation. If I should fall tonight, mail my dismembered remains to a woman in Croatia.