Creepy Cunning Cottage: An Excerpt

            The Barry Rivers of Bathurst. Small and quiet. Downtown. Where I reside. Blue skies. Immaculate rainbow. White clouds. Flowers are beaming. The magpies are singing. Everything outside is sunshine. It is peaceful. I spent my day going for a stroll and sightseeing. I am about to finish my walk around the street, I see weeds, crows, and a cloudy sky. Everything around me slowly transforms. The crows sing more sharply. Soon, I arrived at the cottage. It is small, slanted, crooked, white, and black; the house looked horrific. It looked hideous. Heinous.

            I enter my cottage. The inside is dark with red lights. Indigo carpet all around the floor. The carpet massages my feet. My vision grows thin. I feel I am in hell. I look into my mirror in the living room. I’ve grown weary and wrinkled. My hair is turning from brown to grey.  Somehow, I am still going strong. All I hear is loud piano and high-pitched singing.

            “Hi, my darling sweetheart, how are you today?” I greeted. 

            “Hi sweetheart, how was your stroll?” Demine asked.

            “It was delightful,” I replied.

            “I am going to sing my tales and drink Gemicide.” Demine said.

            “Why? You do realize, your singing days are over. You are old, and you need to retire. I can’t stand it when you sing.” I answer.

            “What’s the problem with my singing? I don’t care what you think. I'm going to sing. Whether you like it or not, it doesn’t affect me," she responded.

            “SHUT UP AND DON’T SAY A WORD TO ME!” I screamed. Demine turns her back to me and I walk upstairs angrily.

            “I AM GOING TO BOUNCE UP AND DOWN, I CANNOT CONTAIN MYSELF AND I CANNOT SIT STILL, I AM GOING TO BREAK THE WINDOWS AND DRINK A GLASS OF WINE.” Demine sang.

            My wife, doing her usual routine, sang tales about her head, that I am eventually getting sick of. The day that I met her, she was normal and classy. Now she is sucking the living daylights out of me. She’s a devil in my eyes. Gruesome. I despise every single bit of her. I wanted to strangle her. I feel so miserable with her. All I deal with is her piano. Her piano is her best friend. Her piano connects to her soul. Hyper and miserable. It’s who she told her thoughts to. She’d never had the singing career that she hoped for. She was terrible. She had a little bottle of this yellow drink called Gemicide which, according to her, energized her vocals. Gemicide looks like urine, whilst I drink lemon wine. The Gemicide looked revolting. Absolutely revolting. Extremely revolting.

            I hate her horrendous singing. Nothing else. I don’t look at my wife. Instead, I strut upstairs to the bedroom and lie down. I look up at the ceiling like I am calling home. I’m thinking to myself, ‘Lord, please let me escape from this woman.’ A part of me wants to die, a part of me wants to burn the house down. This house is driving me crazy. There are so many illusions that I can’t comprehend. My wife is pictured on the wall with me, smiling and being happy. I see her eyes in the picture frame turning red and my colours fading away. This irks me, considering what type of person she has become with her bipolar antics. She ticks me off so much. I get sick to my stomach every time I think of her. A small red and black heater was sitting on the bedside table, turned on to maximum and it was boiling. It was given to us from the Gemicide company. The heater was evaporating, and the drink was bubbling. The yellow turned neon, looking as if it were alive. The big bottle was shaking, surface was wobbling. The bubbles were large and small. The drink is brought to life. The drink is singing to me in a deep, vile, and croaked voice.

            “Richard, you are cursed, cursed, cursed, your visions are wearing you out, your visions are wearing you out and tearing you eye to eye.”

            “Your days are going to be haunted, Demine will curse you till the day you die, she will deceive you with her singing tales, and your head will explode into flames, and you’ll end up poisoning her soul, it will haunt you in your sleep and you will not say a peep!”

            The drink starts to simmer, and the colour is still bright but dimmer. The light of the heater turns off. The room is spinning around in circles, my vision is blurry, and the colours are fading away. My vision is grey. My body was anesthetized to the point that I felt possessed. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t walk. The numbness went away as Demine started singing again.

            “I AM FEELING THE BLUES AND MY BODY HAS A LACK OF ENERGY. I AM SAD, I WANT TO CUT OFF MY VEINS, RED AND BLUE AND DIE!”

            All a sudden, I am calm and collected. The atmosphere was quiet and dim. I’m upstairs and she’s downstairs. I can barely hear a peep from her. I look up at the ceiling in despair. I felt like I am not going to escape from this woman any longer. I was trapped like a prisoner. I wanted to run away, but I feel sorry for the woman as we were both mentally unstable. The difference is that I was aware of it, and she wasn’t. Demine was impulsive with her singing and didn’t think about how I felt. I had told her a million times to sing quieter, but she refused to listen.