Abstraction
Spec Fic/Literary. A story about a man's spiral into insanity at the hands of a toaster.
Abstraction
It started with a toaster, a small white two slicer with a red stain the size of a cats paw on its left side. The toaster itself wasn't malicious, but what it represented to Dave was. He stood in the kitchen staring at the offensive device. It mocked him with its fully functional, slightly used self. The red stain of when he had tried to paint on canvas accused him, taunted him. The small white toaster was a beaming assault on his sensibility. It was an utter affront to his reality. Problem was, Dave had no clue where the toaster had come from. One morning his previous black toaster had quit working, and the next this monstrosity had appeared.
At first, Dave thought that maybe his wife, Sara, had bought it. He hadn't even paid attention to it until a week later when he complimented her on buying it, since she never ate toast. The surprised look on her face when she had told him she didn't, that he had, months ago, is when his reality had begun to change. The argument that ensued was only solved when she had turned the toaster around to showcase the red stain. A stain that he remembered, but should have had no recollection of. He abhorred art. He remembered that clearly. But, he also remembered making the stain on a toaster he didn't remember buying, or having existed at all.
"Morning honey," Sara said entering the kitchen with her wet hair in a bun.
"Is it?" Dave mumbled never allowing his eyes to leave the accusatory stain as he sat in the chair furthest from it.
"What?" She poured herself a cup of coffee, two sugars and a teaspoon of creamer.
Dave shook his head and forced a smile at her, "Nothing. Just a long night is all." Sara was his one safety net in this world that was gradually slipping through his fingers.
Leaning down, she kissed his forehead. "Dont forget you've got to show that house in an hour."
He glanced at the time, "Better hop in the shower." With a sideways glance at the demon he gave her ample rear a playful slap, that she giggled to, and went upstairs. His soap was in the same position, shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush.... He wondered if he had moved the handtowel or if Sara had. He was angry, wanted to yell at Sara for moving the rag, but he knew she didn't deserve it. She had no idea what was happening, and he was afraid she would think he was crazy, or worse, change herself if he even dared to mention it.
Socks were the same, shirts hung, pants second drawer, wallet and keys on the dresser. He kissed Sara on the cheek, "I'll see you this evening."
"Good luck!" She called out after him as he left the house.
The more he looked the more he noticed how different everything was each day. Just small things at first, a bush, a birdhouse, a treelimb. A worn park bench appearing overnight had been the first time it had affected something big. He didn't know what was doing it, or even if it was an it, but he could tell it was getting stronger. Same mailbox, same driveway, same porch, same door...
"Morning Mr. And Mrs. Wright," he said with a smile stepping out of the car.
They had arrived early eager to look at the house. Mr. Wright shook his hand, "Morning Dave!"
"Morning!" His wife echoed.
"I see someone's a bit eager. Now don't go doing my job for me. At least let me pretend I'm convincing you to buy the house!" Dave laughed with them at his own joke. Same entryway, same key holder, same living room, same hallway. "Let me show you guys the kitchen. To me the kitchen is always the foundation of a home." Same marble counters, same oven, same fridge. "As you can see this is all modern, the newest technology, but still maintains a modest aesthetic. This kitchen can go with any decoration scheme you want." He explained every aspect of the kitchen, every aspect he ascertained was still the same. His confidence grew with each word, his world feeling a little more stable.
"Oh dear!" Mrs. Wright squealed with delight. "Look at this honey." She was standing at the sliding glass doors staring into the wide backyard.
"Yes," Dave said. "The backyard is probably the best part of this house. Fenced in yard, with lots of room for dogs and kids to play and--"
"And a swimming pool!" Mr. Wright said with a wide smile. "You never mentioned this house had a swimming pool."
Dave stopped, the blue mass of his own hysteria mocking him through the glass doors. "I guess," he whispered, "I forgot..."
***
His ceiling was the same, he was sure of that. Or was that a new waterstain? He hadn't slept much at all, imagining he could hear the rip of reality as it changed around him. He was sure the only things that stayed the same anymore were what changed. If it could make a pool appear what else could it do? His house? His wife? Himself? Was he even him anymore?
Alarm went off at the same time, with the same sound, his wife murmured "ten more minutes" just like she did every morning. Same covers, same lumpy pillow, same hardwood... Had he put his slippers over there? Same dresser, same shoe rack hanging from the same bedroom door. It was all the same, yet somehow he felt like a stranger. Down the stairs, double testing the third stair to make sure it made the same creak and he was face to face with the snarling beast. He couldn't remember where the painting had gone. He remembered painting and making the stain, but where was he going with the canvas?
"Morning sweetie!" His wife entered the room, he had contemplated the toaster for the last hour. "Oh my," she walked toward him and grabbed his head between her hands. "You look awful! Did you sleep at all last night?" He grunted in response, nuzzling into the safety of her hands. "Did the house not sale yesterday."
A twitch of pain struck his eye. "No it sold. Its in escrow now."
"Yay!" She kissed his forehead, the smell of her lavender shampoo flooding his nose. "I knew you would do it!"
He smiled, she always had faith in him no matter what. He grabbed her hands in his, warm small hands, "You're my number one fan!"
"Of course I am!" She said with a wink, and twirled around, the hem of her pink nightie showing the bottom curves of her ass. She made coffee filling him in on the neighborly gossip he had missed. It was nice to settle into a routine, nice to have familiarity.
"Babe," he spoke up amid her ramblings, broken by the beep of the coffee maker.
"Oh sorry," she giggled getting up from the table. "I just haven't had a morning with you in awhile, I got carried away."
He smiled, watching her pour her coffee, two sugars and a teaspoon of creamer like she always did. "Its fine." He took a deep breath, he had to tell her, she was the only constant in his life anymore. "I have to tell you something."
"Well," she said grabbing the loaf of bread and untying it. "As long as its not about my anniversary gift!"
He chuckled, "That's not for six more months."
She shrugged with a wicked smile, reaching in the bag. "A girl can always expect though right?"
"Right!" Same old Sara. That thought made him happy. "Seriously though, there's something I need to tell you."
"Okay, okay. No more jokes from me." She put two slices in the toaster and pressed the lever down, "What is it sweetie?"
"Oh, I don't want any toast this morning." He took another breath preparing to disclose his own insanity.
"Psssshhhh," she scoffed. "This is for my breakfast!"
Nitrogen consumed his body, "But," he watched her grab the butter from the fridge. "You don't eat toast..."
She arched her eyebrow, closing the fridge door with her hip, "I eat toast every day." The red stain on the toaster seemed to laugh maniacally at him. He could almost see it shift from side to side taunting him. The world disappeared, the only thing that remained was the smug smear of red. The pop of the toast shooting out of the appliance made him jump, and realize Sara had been talking to him. "Dave! Are you okay?" He swallowed, nodding painfully. She grabbed her toast and placed it on a saucer he hadn't seen her grab. "What did you want to tell me?"
"That..." He grasped for something. A forced smile bolted onto his face, "I got a new house to sell!"
"Yay! Way to go sweetie," she said excitedly smearing butter on her toast. He lost himself in the red stain, it ridiculed his own sanity.
Dave took the day off from work, perusing the library, scouring the local bookstore, sifting through various websites on his phone at the local McDonalds while he ate lunch. Unless he wanted to cast a love spell or astrally project during dreams any occult manuals were useless. The occult, religion, mythos they all failed to unveil what it was. Google led him down various paths that all led to psychosis, but he knew he wasn't crazy. If he were crazy he wouldn't be searching for an answer.
A strained dinner and nightly routine greeted him when he came home. He pretended to smile, to have gone to work, and to be interested in the conversation the imposter supplied. He kissed those fake lips, even had sex with her false corpse and waited for her to go to sleep. She breathed like she should, but she wasn't her. Silently he crept into the dining room, to their bookshelf. He sifted through each photo album, searching for something different. Same childhood, hers and his, same dating photos, same wedding pictures, same vacation photographs. Flipping back and forth he sought something that wasn't there. Whatever it was, was smart. A malignant sentience that strove for his destruction.
"Morning darling," the imposter trailed into the kitchen. He had her coffee waiting, this time three sugars and two teaspoons of creamer. She took a sip, "Mmmm, perfect darling." He let her give him the gossip, watched her make toast and grab the jam from the fridge. He couldn't remember the last time he slept, but she didn't comment on that. She divulged how Terry left Taylor, how Gwen was having Hank's baby without Stan's knowledge... So on and so forth until he could excuse himself for work.
He wasn't looking for what was different anymore, he had already accepted the inevitable. Did he always take a left here, was there always a light there, did that bench move? It all no longer concerned him. He was no longer himself anymore, a drone, hands on his wheel, making his way to the same routine that he knew would change. He just wasn't sure when. He made his way across town, down a road he didn't remember and across a brown bridge he could have sworn used to be grey.
No radio, no AC, traffic jam and an over abundance of sweat. He cracked the windows. The salty smell of the bay engulfed him. The door opening, the honk of the cars, the "fuck you" and "what are you doing" crashing on his deaf ears. The cold of the cable, the sharpness of the rail, the rush of wind. Before the blackness consumed him with the promise of icy water, he remembered her. The her that had been, the one who had always been his rock. The one that had been his constant as it tried to destroy him...
***
Two months was a lot of time for Sara to learn she had to move on, but not enough to accept it. Tears were her only constant companion amidst the turmoil of packing. She never realized how many things she had, how much stuff they had, until she had to move. She wanted to take it all, everything he ever touched, but knew she couldn't. With a deep breath she reminded herself to take what she needed first and then what she wanted after. It was among packing the kitchen appliances that she ran out of boxes and resolve, collapsing to the tile floor in tears.
"Knock, knock," Terry, the neighbor, said as he leaned into the kitchen unobtrusively.
"Sorry," she wiped her tears away frantically and forced a smile. "Hey Terry!"
His smile was just as forced, "Thought you could use some help."
"You don't have to."
He held up a hand, "I know, but I also know what its like... To... Uhhh..." He trailed off and looked at the kitchen in disarray, "So, where can I help?"
She flashed him a genuine smile, "I guess we need more boxes."
"Okay, I can go down to Wal-Mart and get some."
She shook her head, "There should be some in the attic."
"On it," he said disappearing. Her eyes drifted to the dampness on her hands and he reappeared, "You know... Its okay to feel that way. I felt pretty bad before, and that wasn't even close to what you have to go through." She was sure it was meant as a way to make her feel better but it didn't. He disappeared again and she turned back to her quivering hands. Wondering if she had done something wrong, if it had been her fault. She wanted to collapse into a ball of despair, but knew she couldn't.
The sound of hollow cardboard hitting tile made her look up. Terry appeared, arms laden with boxes and a rectangular object. "I found a bunch of boxes, even the box for the toaster." He kicked forward the small white box smeared with blue paint. "I also found this ghastly thing." He turned the canvas around, "Where did you get such a disgusting piece?"
She stared at the black background of the art, a blue diamond centered the piece seeming as if it were bleeding, the paint almost looked fresh. Out of the diamond was a clawed hand that shimmered when the light hit it, like it was constantly moving. It took her breath away and with that her tears. "I thought it was red," she whispered.