Stolen
The city of Chennai has touched below 5 before but not in summer. As far as cold days went, it wasn’t as agonizing. Although, it still managed to turn the heat down in Iqbal’s special places. The cemented stairs made a crunching noise as he shifted his weight from one to the other reaching for the door of his apartment. His teeth were chattering like a driller working on a particularly hard spot in the road but there was no one to hear them. The door opposite his own, had angry voices spewing from within. The husband and wife who constantly bickered. Typical he thought. His hands looked around to feel the cold metal of his keys in the many pockets of his jacket.
‘Shit!’ He hissed reminding himself to someday assign a pocket for his keys. He knew he was in danger of losing his fingers. He finally found it and soon heard the sweet sound of the lock turn.
In that instant, the whole world turned green. The door opened for him with a spray of dust. A sort of wetness hung in the air like it hadn’t been opened in ages. He saw the carpet, the sofa set, the TV and his favourite red couch that reclined, all covered in milky-white sheets. He looked closer and realised they were thick cobwebs.
He stepped in, his mind unable to comprehend this strange version of the house. The house he had always lived in. He couldn’t fathom the incredibly dusty floor that muffled his footsteps and he was almost choking from the damp air.
On his left was his room and right next to it was the tiny kitchen all fit snuggly next to the living room. A low rumble sounded from the other end of the house which could only be reached through a claustrophobic corridor. There were two rooms and it seemed to be coming from the one on the left. The growl now sounded larger and angrier and it was rushing towards him.
A stench that would fit the romantic night for a couple of slugs and frogs toasting each other with a cup of feces, reached him first and his nose crinkled on cue. He doubled over holding his nose protecting the remaining of his olfactory receptors which were still fighting to work.
A splashing noise now took over the growl and a large wave of water was rushing towards him from the end of the house. The water was green. Not that it mattered here, but the wave grew larger and larger and the stench was not going any easier on his nose.
The wave loomed above him, higher than the roof somehow, it didn’t make sense to watch the roof get higher and higher, while the wave got higher than that.
And the wave came crashing down.
Iqbal woke with a start. He didn’t scream nor did he sit up. His eyelids had snapped open while his heart began sprinting to a finish line that wasn’t due for many years.
It was the same dream again. His eyes took a few seconds to figure out where he was. It was his bedroom. Not the one from his dream — which was his home at least 15 years ago — Iqbal calmed down as he checked the clock, it was 3:20 AM. Typical he thought. The dream ended at exactly the same time each time.
It sucked his mind dry though. It kicked him into his anxiety attacks and left him there until he learnt how to breathe again which unfortunately was a painfully long time. He gasped and was almost calm, his eyes adjusting well in the darkness. He felt a prick on his arm and found nothing and then out of the corner of his eye, in the dark room, he saw a figure rise from his chair. The figure was at least 8 feet tall. Black and shiny with thin, rotting hands, which he noticed gagging, was missing flesh and a little finger on the left.
It walked towards him. No, it glided towards him slowly, the black cloak moving against the air, not touching the floor. Turning the room colder and colder until it reminded him of his dream. He choked. His breathing became difficult again. He could not sit up for fear had frozen his body much like the room.
His eyes snapped open once more. The stone felt cold on his cheek. He sat up to find himself in the park, it was almost sun rise. Quiet mist hung in the air like cobwebs, only the light from the tall lamps gave them away for what they truly were. Chillness rushed to take his place and chased away the remnant heat on the bench. And then the stone bench began to liquefy under him.
He was being sucked in and he gasped. The stone felt him struggle but held firmly. As firmly as a liquid stone could. The cold air struck his wind pipe like silver knives on fresh meat. He sensed blood. Within seconds, his torso was the only thing left as he screamed and screamed until the stone began to fill his mouth, his nose and finally his eyes.
His eyes snapped open once more.
‘Is it ready yet?’ Groaned the youngest one. ‘I’m hungry!’
The father adjusted the tube ending with a needle that was deep inside Iqbal’s forearm, watching him writhe quietly, inside the chamber. The green liquid he floated in made sure he didn’t die. He will live forever unless of course his heart gives out in one of the extractions.
The many tubes that came from Iqbal’s body — forearms, nipples, penis, testicles, thighs, shins, and the big one from the brain — glistened with fresh blood drenched in adrenaline. Except for the brain tube which being pumped with a smelly yellow liquid that went inside his head.
The Father carried the large flask swollen with Iqbal’s blood and poured generously for the five seated at dinner.
The youngest one smacked his lips at the taste and showed his goblet to the Father, his pink eyes pleading and his lips threatening an oncoming bawl.
The Father sighed, stood up taking the flask. As he walked towards the chamber, he hoped this one didn’t die as well. It’s been only two centuries since the last one.
