Author’s Note: It’s hot as Hell today. I’m overheating and don’t know what I’m typing. That’s my excuse anyway. On the other hand, this is a wonderful tribute to that classic show The Twilight Zone. Yes, that sounds better. I think I got away with it.
The Toilet Zone
A cloying glue of absolute night, the darkness congealed around me like a wetted cape. One might’ve said the night entangled, and it did, stalling breaths and restricting movement. It was a warm, forgiving abyss, however, and for that I supposed I should have been grateful. My friends, or rather, companions, appeared not to share my enlightened view.
“Where the hell are we?”
“When I get out of this!”
Three separate and rather differing responses to one unavoidable truth; we were lost with not a hope of being found.
“We could light a fire,” I attempted.
“In Hell? Really?”
Jonesy was a man of little imagination so I forgave him his sarcasm.
“How do you know this is Hell?” blurted Smithy.
“Because it’s dark, scary and you’re here.”
“And you,” said Sigurdson.
Sigurdson was always practical delving right to the score of the matter as was his way.
“What do you think, Rich?” he said to me.
“I’d say we should light a fire.”
“But I’m not cold,” moaned Jonesy, his sarcasm suddenly deserted him before the physically imposing Sigurdson, (like all Icelanders, he was enormous).
Smithy was still having none of it. He paced about in the near dark like a restless lion. Even when we all moaned at him to stop, his restless energy prevented it. “Hell my arse!” he groaned over and over again.
And so it persisted in our nightmare world until completely out of the blue, I said, “Hang on, how did we get here?”
Three blank faces, or so I imagined, not being able to see them clearly and all that.
It became a game of cat and mouse after that. Each 0f us recalled what we knew. Each of us knew little. We distilled it down to this: we each fell asleep; we each woke to know their friends there; we each were as bemused as the next.
There we stayed in our crazed new world muttering and mumbling, snitching and sniping. For how long it lasted, who could say, but it was a long time. I knew for certain it was long because, as usual, Sigurdson grew hungry. Once at the point of madness and absolute starvation, he killed Jonesy and ate him. I was unsure whether I was angrier that he’d done this, or that he hadn’t offered me any. He finished off Smithy next having chased him round and round for hours. I heard his slurping of flesh from bones from the far corner of the cavern, or whatever it was we were in, and decided I had to make a move. That’s when I began to climb.
There was no light to reveal my way other than the strange phosphorescence that had lit our lunatic friendship. Nevertheless, I climbed with the vim and vigour of a man who saw light within reaching distance. Or a man whose best friend was about to eat him? One or the other, anyway.
When my head hit something other than rock, I almost panicked. When I heard Sigurdson closing in, I almost did so again. But almost is a funny word when you’re close to death. Instead of almost dying, I pushed up and out, the thing resting on my head angling up as though on a lever. That’s when I recognised where I was.
My mum’s bathroom had a brown Paisley design that’s was so out of taste with interior decoration, it could only have been our home. Relieved, I dragged myself out of the toilet and sat back down on the lid just as the Icelander was about to climb out. He pushed and shoved and groaned and moaned, but couldn’t get out. That’s when I did for him. I flushed the toilet.
Sigurdson was gone in a plumbing-groaning explosion of gotten-ridden-of waste. Phew!
“Are you all right love!” bellowed my mum from her bedroom.
“I am now!” I shouted back.
“Doctors for you tomorrow. Bleedin’ ridiculous struggling like that,” she said in a lower, more concerned voice.
Ah well, that was a problem for another day.