The End of the World

CHAPTER SEVEN



Diana Ross



Being described as dull and boring by Hank was difficult enough to take, but Mrs. Anna’s assessment of me as dead was simply unacceptable. True, I may not have the most electrifying personality in the world, and I would certainly never describe myself as particularly perky or bubbly, but I’d always considered myself as someone possessing a certain low-key charm with an understated, almost indefinable animal magnetism. Clearly this was not a view shared by all.

“Mrs. Anna,” I said, firmly. “I don’t think that’s entirely fair of you and I resent being described in such a way.”

“Oh, so sorry. Perhaps your sensitive soul prefers it if I say ‘the dearly deceased,’” she said, with mocking concern.

“What are you talking about?”

“What – your penny hasn’t dropped the other foot yet?”

“What penny? You’re not making any sense. You’re talking rubbish.”

“Look, you don’t exist anymore – is that plain enough? You’re dead…like the doornail.”

“I most certainly am not,” I said, with a nervous laugh.

“You say you’re not, I say you are. Either way you’re dead,” she shrugged.

“Of course I’m not dead. Are you mad?”

“Or at least, dead in relation to the idea of what you thought you were when you were alive,” she added.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s all relative in a cosmic sense…more or less. Anyway, that’s what I’m supposed to tell you, according to the guidebook.”

What guidebook? Why was she suddenly talking nonsense to me? I considered the possibility that she was simply having a bad day, and on such occasions found some sort of unhealthy gratification in tormenting her guests with insults and gibberish. However, I wasn’t about to take the bait.

“Mrs. Anna, look at me…I am very much alive. Here I am. I’m living proof of me. I just…am,” I said, calmly.

“No offence,” she jeered, “but have you looked in the mirror lately?

“That’s another thing I meant to bring to your attention. There aren’t any – not even in the bathroom.”

“So, then pinch yourself.”

“What?”

“Pinch yourself. Remind yourself of who you are.”

This was getting sillier by the minute. “No,” I said, flatly.

“Why not?”

Her confident insistence was beginning to get to me. She spoke with an air of tired authority that gave me the distinct feeling that whatever I said was already irrelevant in her eyes. However, rather than confess to the unease that had begun to sneak up behind me, I decided to give her the best excuse I could come up with as to precisely why I should not pinch myself. “Because…it hurts,” I said, utterly lamely.

“Ah, but such a small pain for such a big affirmation,” she said, with just the slightest hint of a smile – the type that a gambler might have when laying down a winning card.

“I don’t need to,” I whinged, sounding more pathetic with each utterance that stumbled unconvincingly from my lips.

“Don’t need to or afraid to?”

“Don’t need to. I’m alive. Look at me – I’m here now.”

“Are you?”

“Of course – look at me.”

“I’m looking.”

“And what do you see?”

“An image of you.”

“There you are.”

“Images lie.”

“Oh, what nonsense. All right, I’ll prove it,” I said. At this point I’d had enough. I felt rattled and unnerved and realised the only way I could bring an end to both this ridiculous farce and the unsettling feelings it had stirred within me was by doing as she’d asked. I pinched my arm, bracing myself for the sting that would follow, but…there was none. I pinched a little harder, thinking I must have been too timid the first time. Still nothing. I slowly raised my eyes to meet Mrs. Anna’s.

“You see?” she said, sounding more bored than victorious.

“It sort of hurt,” I said, feebly. “Anyway, I’m tired and I haven’t eaten – thanks to you. My arm’s probably asleep.”

“You’re all asleep. Pinch your nipple,” she said, nonchalantly.

“I beg your pardon? I most certainly will not.”

“Pinch it – it’s the surest way. A dead nipple is a dead giveaway.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said, appalled at the thought but determined to prove her wrong. As I placed my fingers on my shirtfront in search of my left nipple, I could feel myself blushing. I soon found the small bump beneath the cotton and gave it a good hard squeeze. But again, nothing. I tried the right one. Still nothing. I pinched both at the same time as hard as I could, but the outcome was the same. I felt a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I…I don’t understand,” I said, my voice faltering and fearful.

“What’s to understand? You’re dead.”

“No, wait, wait…” I pleaded. I was now in a state of near panic. I pinched my left cheek with all my strength, then my right one, but the result was just as before. I began slapping myself across the face again and again, but still felt nothing. Then, in desperation, I punched myself as hard as I could in my stomach and groin. As I frantically continued to beat myself into a pulp, Mrs. Anna suddenly stepped forward and grabbed me forcefully by my arms.

“Stop it! Stop this!” she barked, loudly.

“But…but what is this? What’s happening? Where am I?”

“Listen to me,” she ordered. “You are dead, I already told you that. Where? You are neither here nor there, that is where you are.”

Just then the he doorbell rang. Mrs. Anna released me from her grip and began straightening her apron and tidying her unkempt hair a little.

“But I…I don’t understand,” I said, hoarsely, trying to stop the tears that had welled up inside my eyelids from spilling over.

“Then think yourself lucky,” she snapped, impatiently, as she turned and headed off towards the front door. “Meanwhile, waiting in my hallway I have three very unhappy foreign aid workers from Afghanistan wanting to know why they were beheaded, and, more importantly, where their heads are. And you think you have problems?” Just before she left the room she turned back to face me, her hands planted squarely on her hips. “Maybe you would like to take care of them, no? Tell them all the answers? Then answer the door to the new ones, yes? Please forgive my English, but give me the f*cking break.” And with that she left.

I wiped my tears on the backs of my hands and tried to collect myself as best I could. It was all too much to take in, much too much, but I had to keep my head. No matter what Mrs. Anna said and no matter how impervious I’d become to pain – at least physically – I still couldn’t accept that I was dead. How could I be? Death wasn’t like that. Death was something that happened when you were asleep. It crept in overnight and did its mysterious deed when no one was around to see it – not unlike Father Christmas. True, it sometimes struck more blatantly. I’d seen any number of films and news stories in which death came quickly and violently to people. But it always ended the same way, with them just lying there – dead. Not me. I was still moving, still thinking, still ruminating. For instance, if I really was dead, how could I possibly ask myself the question ‘How can I be dead?’? And why would I be here? Here of all places?

As those thoughts continued to bounce around my mind, I suddenly became aware of the sound of a child quietly sobbing. I wasn’t entirely sure where it was coming from, but unless my ears were playing tricks on me, it seemed to be emanating from the kitchen sink.

Everything was wrong. I had to leave this place. Despite being penniless and rudderless, I knew it was time to go. I’d clearly stumbled upon a madhouse of demented eccentrics who were hell-bent on dragging me into their perverted existence. I had to leave. To where I did not know, but it was time to make an exit while I still could. I looked frantically from left to right. If I could just remember which door I came in – or which door went out. It all started to look the same, but I had to get out – I had to. My sanity was at stake. I had to go. Go quickly. Leave! Now!

I heard the sound of another child, this time giggling, echoing all around the house. In mad desperation I ran to the door I thought to be the one that Mrs. Anna had left by. When I swung it open, standing before me was Luka, her stomach hanging down in a mass of bloody entrails from the middle of her dress, little pools of blood forming on the floor beneath her. In one hand she held an AK-47 and in the other an empty vodka bottle. Her eyes were closed and she was leaning forward, puckering her lips, as if waiting for me to kiss her. I screamed and stumbled back, almost falling to the floor, then lunged forward and slammed the door shut again.

Out of nowhere, I suddenly heard the opening bars to ‘The Theme from Mahogany (Do You Know Where You’re Going To)’ begin to play. I grabbed desperately at the handle of the door to the left of me, which I thought to be a closet, but since I was no longer sure of anything, decided to give it a try. Upon opening it I could hardly believe my eyes. It was indeed a closet, and standing inside of it, wearing a big, black, long-flowing wig and an extravagant dress festooned with sequins, was my mother. She held a microphone to her mouth and proceeded to lip-synch the words of the song, giving me a knowing wink just before the first line.

I stepped back, more confused than frightened, and as I watched her mistimed attempts at miming the words I began to feel very light-headed.

As she stepped forward towards me, I could feel myself begin to swoon, everything starting to spin and swirl around me. Just as I felt myself falling to the floor, my mother deftly reached out with her free arm and caught me, still continuing on with her mismatched mouthing.

Held tightly against my mother’s sequined bosom, the sound of Diana Ross filling my ears, my conscious mind slipped away into the night.