The crusty layer in Ellie’s mouth gave her a feeling of regret that she struggled to pinpoint. Both the crust and the feeling of regret tasted metallic. Like spilt blood. Why she felt these things and how to resolve them continued to perplex her.  

Drinking alcohol had made the last few days manageable and forgettable. But two days of socialising was her limit. Tomorrow would be Friday, the last night of the week, and hibernating for the weekend felt necessary. Mum insisted that Sunday was the last night, on account of it being God’s Day, but Ellie didn’t believe in God. She created her own rules and reality. Like tapping her thighs twice, left and right, to settle her nerves. That was her relief, not God.

She clambered for the glass beside her bed, which seemed to fight back. It slid through her oily grip; blood pumped into her cheeks and cold specks of sweat blossomed all over. She resented the reaction. This call to arms that convinced her everything would go wrong in some catastrophic way.

 What remained in the glass crawled and dripped into her mouth with little consideration for her thirst. The double image of her nose appeared as she watched each drop reluctantly crawl. Three droplets landed, one on the left and two on the right. The odd and asymmetrical pattern left her feeling uneasy; something bad was bound to happen. Staring back at her was the reflection of a shrunken head, trapped at the base of the glass; a personalised memento mori. It frowned, as if knowing something terrible awaited her future.

Every morning, she checked her phone to see if the world was different. The text blurred at first, then dehydrated into clarity. A text from Becky read, “Are you home yet?” Becky would send the same message; Ellie would send the same reply the next morning. The redundancy of the ritual struck her. She considered not replying, a test to see if Mum, if Becky, if anyone would worry, would call the police, would send out a search party. She preferred not to know the answer.

It felt nice to be cared for; this was the conclusion she came to. But the underbelly of this conclusion exposed the selfishness she feared. That staying with Becky merely satisfied this need and nothing more.

Other reasons existed; Becky made her laugh, Becky made her feel beautiful, Becky accepted her. Unsatisfied with her testimony, she said out loud, “It’s okay to just want love.” 

She typed. “Just got up, home safe. Sorry for the delay. I love you.” The same words every time. 

"Come here,” crawled through the air. From the window or the corridor. 

“Mum?” Ellie shouted. “Mum?” She shrugged and assumed it was not urgent. Nothing was urgent today; this was a day of solitude.

Several apps in, she diffused the red alerts that graffitied her screen. With an absence of reason but not belief, if the alerts ever passed one hundred the world would end. Whilst she knew this was unlikely, it was not something she ever wanted to test. 

One alert recommended a post on self-care. Self-care was not on her mind before, but now it was and it suddenly felt important. Promises of mental wellbeing if she simply stopped feeling guilty about doing nothing, enjoyed time to herself, and realised society was to blame for its over-productive culture, blanketed her in instant relief. 

Thirst built up, and the gunky layer on the roof of her mouth expanded, seeming ready to escape and envelop her entire body.

The sun pushed through the blinds and sliced them into slithers. Every blade of light invaded the room, forming buds of guilt and blooms of resentment in Ellie’s stomach. The light pulled at her limbs like the words of her mother, and urged her to make the most of the day. A rainy day would stroke her head and tell her not to worry. As the room heated up, she felt defeated.  

The kitchen reminded her of the night before. As she entered, a dirty plate with scraps of toast and butter and an empty packet of salt and vinegar crisps pieced together her arrival home. Beside the remains was a note with red ink. A note from Mum, perhaps a quip about living rent-free and cleaning up her mess. The note would wait and the ink would not fade. She had a lifetime to read it. “Mum?!” Ellie shouted. The house seemed empty. Just Ellie and her mind.

After gulping a pint of water and gasping for air, she stood in front of the fridge. A polaroid of her, Mum and Dad stared back. Sometimes it welcomed her, today it did not. Today her dad looked disappointed, despite his inability to confirm this in life. His fading smile shifted with the fluctuations of her outlook. He held a large carp, some days with pride, others with arrogance. Beside him a large bucket brimmed with dying fish that waited for their fate of release or consumption.

The carp in his hands had yellowed, a sign that one day the photo would fade into oblivion. The whites of his eyes looked progressively more painful, like he needed to blink. 

Ellie imagined his buried corpse and contemplated which one, Dad or the photo, would decay first. As she flipped the polaroid and secured it with the snail-shaped magnet, she felt his stare through the black backing. Tapping her right thigh twice, followed by the left, she imagined the gradual disintegration of his limbs and torso, melding with the earth, smooth chards of green grass, perlite, weeds, bricks, plastic wrappers and dead roots. His head would last longer, shrinking away, still fixated on the world around him, still scrutinising the air until he no longer remained.

Ellie blinked twice and intentionally, snapping back into the kitchen. She gathered a plate of snacks consisting of cheese, pickles and various meats, and entered the garden. Sunlight warmed her skin instantly and before she breathed in the atmosphere, the words “come here” slipped back into her memory. Looking behind her shoulder into the empty kitchen and forward again did nothing to identify the source, so she concluded that it was in her head.

Under the shade of the apple tree at the bottom of the garden, the heat was bearable. This was good for her. Relaxing in the sun, napping, eating snacks. She needed to rest. Life had been busy lately. Despite the strange feeling that someone watched her, any stiffness in her mind and muscles melted and floated upwards. 

A blackbird whistled from the roof of the house, improvising songs about the day. Dad had taught her about birds, most of which she could not remember. The blackbird was distinct in its indistinction. A hyper-melodic call for attention. She remembered, amongst other things, that they ate slugs, which made her face wrinkle out of disgust. She preferred to remember them for eating blueberries and raspberries, and the delicacy with which they pluck them off branches. 

The image had already crawled into her brain, slithering against the inside of her skull. A bloated slug sucked up through a slim, sharp beak. She heaved. Mum repeated and insisted that the blackbird was a sign of Dad’s presence, which made her shudder. Many other things were shuddering signs too. Floating white feathers, goose pimples and the first snowdrop of every season. All signs that he visited and watched them. She looked at the bird, which seemed to be looking back. Judging her for judging him, before it flew out of view and took its song with it.

The strange sensation touched again, like eyeballs pressing against her skin. Rows of houses overlooked the garden, but there were no twitching curtains or strange silhouettes. She repeated mantras, accepted her anxiety, took deep breaths and lowered her shoulders. “Everything is okay. I am not being watched.”

Ellie noticed the large, yellow bucket on its side, its opening facing in the opposite direction. A bucket Dad had used and that had been in the shed. The shed door was padlocked and it seemed strange that Mum had taken it out.

She tapped the bucket with her bare toes. It wasn’t light, as expected. It wasn’t empty. She kicked and it rolled a little in the opposite direction. Must be rubbish, or dirt. The muscles in her legs felt disobedient and the contents of the bucket was not motivation enough to stand. 

Her stomach rumbled, bubbles bouncing and quivering within her, mapping out her organs. The rumble continued; she blushed and felt the urge to apologise. Not a full blush, not down her neck and her chest, across her arms and legs, but enough to feel flustered and embarrassed. The rumble peaked a third time.

Grabbing at the plate with clumsy fingers, she felt a cracker, cheese, and something sticky. Something odd. Tacky and oblong. She pivoted and watched a fine string of slime stretch, snap and dangle from her fingertips. Outstretched on a gherkin, a fat slug gently chewed. It looked cannibalistic. It chewed like a tiny, chubby cow, and cows she loved, but slugs she did not. This pink slug meandered aimlessly, seemingly unaware of the world that Ellie occupied. She slapped the plate away, the slug hurtled, hit the grass and soon unfurled to continue chewing, oblivious to its near-death experience.

The grumbling grew louder and Ellie spoke to herself like a child, it’s okay, you’re just hungry, that’s all it is, hunger pangs. She convinced herself that her stomach was a ventriloquist, throwing the bubbling over her shoulder and to the side. You’re okay Ellie, you’re okay, it’s not a dog, or a rabid fox. The sound would not give. You’re okay, you’re okay, mantras that she had learnt online from people she didn’t know. Her legs recoiled until she could almost chew her knees. Nothing on the grass, nothing in the hedges. You’re okay. 

As the bucket moved, it was hard to distinguish feelings of pleasure or pain. The feeling was like exploding, every cell turning into grains of sand and catapulting in opposite directions. Her body fled in infinite directions simultaneously, and moved nowhere all at once. Something was in the bucket. 

She thought of kicking the bucket. But her limb, which she thought of as too fat and lumpy, was still precious to her. The grumble turned into a growl. The growl angry and resentful, as her chair shrank beneath her. It sounded miserable, like the old guy at the bus stop. Perhaps he’d died, drifting on the wind into the garden, seeking refuge in the bucket to haunt her for never letting him board the bus first, to haunt her for her choices. 

The noise hastened. Impatient. She curled her toes until they vanished. It was now a threat. Targeted. The back door wasn’t far, she could make a run for it. She could run and sacrifice her legs, if that’s what it took, and crawl into the kitchen in time to shut the door. This could be her moment, the point in time that makes her and proves that she can do it, that she can overcome adversity. You’re okay. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t okay when the voice spat and tongued a new sound. “You—” The word evaporated, out of breath, or in pain, perhaps both. “You—” It repeated, clearer, with more vitriol. Ellie immediately felt guilty.

“Who’s saying that?!” The shout came out a screech, reeking of fear that she had not smelt for years; she hated herself for it. This was her moment. This could define her. The bucket shook and the vibrations became nauseating, unbearable, you’re okay, you’re okay. Images of claws and teeth and wild animals; you’re okay, you’re okay. The plastic tearing open, scratches across her face, lost eyes, blood, mutilation; “STOP IT,” Ellie screamed. She flailed her left leg, flipping back and forth until she clipped the bucket and it spun one hundred and eighty degrees and the catastrophic images dissipated. The opening of the bucket faced her. 

Congealed spider webs, old and new. Dried leaves trapped for eternity. Dust and dirt. A lump of dry mud, not unlike a potato. But no beast. No wild animal. No monster.

Laughing was uncomfortable at first. Like air pushed through thick cloth. It rasped against her throat that seemed to want to hold it in. She laughed again, the sound unlike the laugh she knew. A third time until it became easier and more familiar. She cursed herself, slapped her leg and needed to slap the other. Two slaps left, two slaps right. “You stupid—” Ellie paused.

One eye peeled open, wet and sticky, unused to light after years of darkness. Crusted at the edges and begrudgingly awake. Its deep brown iris verged on the edge of emptiness, distorted through a thick, glassy lens. A hard eye that would hurt to flick. The second eye opened, much smaller than the first, but equally dark and wet. It blinked twice, independently of the other, the lid scraping against the eyeball, full of slime and grains of soil. 

For something the size of a potato, it threatened her like something the size of a lion. Its aggression transpired through its writhing; its bitter eyes narrowing into a deep frown that risked cleaving itself in two. It had no eyebrows, but didn’t need any for the protrusion of its bony brow. Its mouth was tiny, its lips thin and powerless, puckering and winding in circles as they practised silent vowels. Its nose was average and the only thing that seemed proportional to its form. Its skin was harsh and weathered, as you would expect to see living in the bottom of the bucket. It had no hair, and perhaps felt bitter for it. And more than bitterness, it seemed filled with resentment and hatred, just for the faces it tried to pull. For something with no arms or legs or torso, it seemed ready to leap and tear Ellie into lumps.

Its eyes blinked in unison and focused on Ellie. The horror of the thing seeing her, recognising her, filled her with sickness. The eyes found her, like this was their purpose. Like no other light bounced into their pupils but the light that had first hit Ellie. For everything else was invisible to these rotten orbs. She felt their disgust towards her. 

It twitched side-to-side and sniffed hard, eyes wincing. “Why—why are you there?” it asked. Ellie refused to answer. To converse with this tiny head would make her something she didn’t want to be. “Why?” it coughed, thick spit flying from its dusty mouth. Its lips smacked, dehydrated and sticky, cracked and bleeding in the corners. She thought to offer it water, to placate it, to be nice, like she always was. 

“What are you?” Ellie asked.

“I’m here,” it gasped, “to get you.” 

“What do you mean?” Ellie’s voice quivered, and in this moment, she felt too much slip away. That any command or direction she had was handed to it. Like she had passed her nerve over on a plate and said here you go, have it, devour it all, it is yours. It rolled its tongue around its lips, eyes twisting in circles. “Come here, Ellie.”

“How do you know my name?!”

“I know so much. Come here… and I'll tell you.” 

“Where have you come from?”

“I know you, and I know you come from that house, from your parents. And I know some days you never want to leave that house.”

“Leave me alone!”

“And being alone is what you love the most, as the world is a terrifying place. In here the world is so small and quiet. You’ll never need to tap your thighs again.”

“Get away from me!”

“You’d like to get away from everything. Leave it all behind. The pressures, the fears, the judgements of everyone around you. Of your parents. Of your father. To escape your own head?” Ellie realised, like her skull had opened up and every word and thought that left her was chewed up and devoured by this thing. He tasted her. Masticated every syllable until the letters relinquished her secrets. Satiated with sentences, tones, pauses and questions. She could no longer move. She no longer wanted to flee. What he said was true and they were already bound together. He knew. She knew.

“Come here, Ellie,” he said, baring new sharp teeth. “Come here, poor Ellie. I understand you. I know what’s in your head. I am one, after all.” He did, understand. And he was—just a head. And everything he said was the truth, refined and unmalleable. And despite the insanity of it all, Ellie felt relieved for the first time in a very long time.

“You’ll never have to leave again. You’ll never have to worry about leaving your house. You’ll never tap, and tick, and check the locks, or count, or scream. There are no rules here. Always safe. Always home. It’s time.” 

She picked up her phone, typed, and then deleted the pointless words. Just “I...” remained in a text to Becky. The alerts pinged on various apps, passing one hundred and continuing to climb. She tossed the phone, landing beside the fat, chewing slug.

The urge to tap her thigh emerged, an old desire path, familiar and comfortable. But her hand hovered. She wondered if refraining from tapping, from denying her finger contact with her skin, would cause her to dissolve, erasing all evidence of her existence. Or would the world fall into oblivion and take her with it.

Without a word of confirmation or decision it began. She floated towards the bucket, towards the rancid face, her limbs and body wrinkling and shrinking and dropping off like leaves and twigs, her hair dissolving, her skin loosening and tightening, loosening and tightening, as the world disappeared and the bottom of the bucket became her home.

The world looked small from the bottom of the bucket. The chair like a toy. The growling neighbour at her side whispered, occasionally nibbling her cheek out of hate or comradery, she couldn’t tell which. Mum’s distant shout drew Ellie’s attention, tempting her to cry for help. But the temptation passed and she felt tired. Her eyes became wet and sticky, full of dirt that scratched the inside of her eyelids. He told her there was one rule here. One rule he had forgotten to tell her. She couldn’t leave and as long as she didn’t, he would never abandon her. He told her to sleep, to drift away and rest without end and it sounded wonderful.

The world became more peaceful than she had ever experienced. It was very nearly beautiful.

✷