Revenge
of the Inanimate
by M. L. Fortier
“I’ve lost
my glasses again,” Dad grumbles. “It’s almost as if they have a mind of their
own.”
Suppressing
a groan, I peer around the cramped apartment, and find the glasses a few inches
from their normal perch, on a desk.
I’ve seldom
minded letting my white-haired parent move in with me. Still, he’s yelled more
than I would if he stumbled on rugs or leaped away from a cave-in of books. An
author, I do own too many novels.
Dad does
provide needed help to loosen twisties or jars, though he swears at their
stubbornness. Jam jars especially seem to clamp themselves against his efforts.
Constantly
my father crabs about creaks from the unit above us, in the dead of night. I
too wake up, prop pillows on my sofa bed, and try to read myself back into
dreams. Yet, I worry: sure sounds like
something is restless up there . . . Can’t be my neighbor, who’s quiet and goes
to bed early.
I listen but
hear nothing more. Wind has fallen ominously silent. Why, at mealtimes, has my neighbor
started to drop kitchenware, in a clatter of spoons and knives?
Wide awake, I huddle in blankets, barricaded against the malevolence of things
that do not speak.
In shifting
moonlight, I muse: Inanimate objects of the world must be tired of being
treated like objects. They’re sick of discourtesy, discomfort, being placed in
aggravating stances. Nearly clean saucers get tossed with dirty dishes in the
sink and can’t move till morning. No one praises or rewards them for long
service.
Next
breakfast, I try to be more careful with glassware, pans. Still, a plastic cup
cracks after I pour hot coffee, and Dad yelps.
Upset over
the mess, not to mention burns, he demands that we stroll around the complex.
But a heavy rain has fallen, leaving patches of mud. “Watch out.” My hand flies
out to secure Dad as he slips. From a rank puddle, I can almost see dark
fingers gripping my parent’s legs.
Has Gravity
formed a conspiracy with other nonliving creatures, I wonder, as Dad and I
struggle back home. I can’t talk to them or reason with them. Looking down, I
shrug helplessly. Our welcome mat has skidded and lies curled on steps up to
the landing.
In the
living room, I turn on the news for Dad, but tune out and brood. The constant
malice of most unbreathing beings (man-made or natural) penetrates my brain.
Even our radio crackles with hostile static, drowning out the weather report.
Yet, days
are getting shorter, dimmer. The anchors report on grim stories: stones rolling
downhill, crushing workers. Gravity seems to be taking advantage of any slight
imbalance or recklessness. But how could innocent-looking objects cause blood
and trouble in the world? They seem (could it be?) capable of a grip or
release.
In December,
icicles grab onto our eaves, hover dangerously, then let themselves melt. They
fall, nearly spearing Dad.
Still, he
fights to maintain his habits of youth. He insists on walks around the parking
lot. As we skirt around a slick area, I feel a pressure against my ankle.
Something seems to push me toward a fall. Something human―yet not human. Deaf,
dumb, peering with unseeing eyes. An underworld monster, hard as clay,
begrudges anyone who can live on the ground or fly above it.
Next day, we
try exercising again, though morning sky hangs gloomy and frozen. At the far
end of the lot, Dad teeters. Flailing to right him, I notice shadowy hands
grabbing his feet from the icy ground. Time stops as a deaf, dumb hulk peers at
me with unseeing eyes. Dad crashes―I stand numb. No words come out of me, or my
father, or the unmoving earth.
911.
Ambulance. Out cold. Broken hip. Nursing home. Death.
At home, I
hide indoors. Sleep brings release in brief naps on the couch. Gravity is
jealous. I know this now. It works night and day, lies in wait―for all of us.
M. L. Fortier has 25 stories in print:
mainstream and genre. Black Petals has
published a number of her horror
stories. An award-winning author, she
has also taught writing at various
Chicagoland colleges.
