Instructions

It was loud again that morning.

Mr. Bill grumbled curses. Every morning was the same noise and nonsense bothering his peace. He could barely enjoy a moment of silence without hearing its ravenous screeches as it charged throughout the house. His thoughts were so often disconnected and loose in his old age, and he knew that it was to blame.

Mr. Bill sighed, clenched his fingers, and stared down the cup of coffee. But the noise continued. Notes sharp enough to cut the air and bleed his ears. He tightened his mouth and tried to focus his thoughts. The screeching was soon coupled with banging. Sporadic rhythms shook the whole house and nearly drove Mr. Bill to a headache. He sighed again, and he fought back the impatience and rage—yet it was all for naught as he felt his mood grow hotter. The sounds grew louder, more excited, and fervent, and try as best as he could to retain his composure, Mr. Bill had enough.

He slammed a hand down on the table and yelled, “Are you going to actually do anything about that goddamn kid, Chris?”

From his peripheral vision, Chris looked in the direction of the older man, but not at him directly. The hairs of his beard tickled him in an annoying way as he frowned. The air that cycled through his lungs grew heavier. The muscles of his temples began to jump and twitch as Chris found himself fighting off anger and rage similar to his breakfast companion's.

Meanwhile, it only grew louder.

“You’re fucking pathetic, Chris, you know that!” Mr. Bill screamed. He felt the grip on his temper loosening, but he didn’t care.

He leaned in towards Chris, closer than either man would have ever allowed anyone to get. Mr. Bill could smell the cheap, chemical after-shave on Chris’s skin. He could see his own reflection in the shiny, mahogany surface of Chris’s neck. Any closer, and he’d have been able to taste the man, as revolting a thought that was to him. Being so close to Chris disgusted him and would have churned his stomach in his younger days, but Mr. Bill was determined to be heard and not ignored yet again.

“Look at it, you bastard. Look at that thing over there!”

Chris turned his attention towards it. It was covered in grape jelly and crumbs, holding markers and a cheap, tattered blanket. Its eyes were wide and deranged, showing no sign of complex or mature thought. Its mouth was perpetually open, so lubricated by its own saliva that its maw always shone with an almost blood-like pink. The wild mongrel that had taken up residence in Chris’s kitchen had been a source of agitation for quite some time, and Chris was wearing thin.

“Ayodele!” Chris snapped, incurring its name in hopes that might stop it in its tracks.

It didn’t cease. It continued to screech and stomp, crashing into barriers and slamming doors and cabinets as part of its own twisted game.

Chris felt his hand begin to twitch. He allowed another heavy breath in and felt his face soften as his brain grew intoxicated with the new air. He released his breath, sipped his coffee, and let his eye wander back to the newspaper in his hand.

Mr. Bill shook his head, “Pathetic. You’re letting that animal run around and control your life! Tell me, when exactly was it that you were castrated, Chris?”

Chris’s pulse quickened. He began to grind his teeth, unconcerned about the damage it would cause. The pressure and pain gave his mind something solid to focus on as he bided his time.

It started to sing. The song was a cacophony of nonsense syllables and demonic tongues that couldn’t be translated. The pitch from its throat began low but soon grew higher and higher, reaching unnatural frequencies that shook the coffee in Chris’s cup.

Mr. Bill couldn’t take it. He whipped his head towards it and shouted, “Shut up! Just shut up and sit quietly you stupid bitch!”

It didn’t listen. It continued its noisy and chaotic game as it slammed its hands against walls and furniture to create more and more noise.

Chris released an angry exhale as his eyes again darted in Mr. Bill’s direction. Still, he refused to look at him directly and did his best to ignore him.

“How can you stand that?” Mr. Bill said, gesturing towards it. “That thing is so irritating! Why is it always screaming like that? What’s wrong with it? And what’s wrong with you for not doing anything about it?”

Again, Chris called out to it, “Ayodele! I am not playing with you! Do you want me to—”

Chris didn’t finish the thought. His blood turned to magma beneath his flesh. He hated himself for even fixing his mouth to say those words. He took a sip of his coffee, attempting to swallow his shame but managing only to make himself hotter.

Mr. Bill leaned in close again, “Finish it. Finish your thought! Go ahead, tell it that Daddy’s too weak to handle his own business and he has to have his woman discipline a fucking baby!”

“Ayodele,” Chris began. His voice, this time, was softer and quiet. Almost like a plea, but not quite. His head thundering in intense pain, sweat beginning to fall into his eyes from his brow, Chris felt the last of himself break once more.

“Ayodele, shut up!” He shouted, his voice finally—finally—breaking through the noise. With lion-like strength and speed, Chris rose from the table, unfastened his fine, alligator belt, and marched towards it, shouting curses and commands to it to never disrespect him ever again.

It grew noisy once more. The screeches were different. They were rough and wet, and oddly harmonious. Each yelp matching the rhythm of leather swinging in the air.

“Shut up, boy!” Mr. Bill yelled.

It fell quiet and looked around, confused, for the source of the strange voice.

END.