Staying up late.

Jim sits slouched on the couch, eyes at a squint as he bathed in the blue flickering glow of the tube. The thoughts that passed through his head were few and far between, half remembered moments in a catalogue of tiresome shit. ‘So and so was rude,’ ‘Kerry forgot her…’ ‘a black dog giving him the evil eye as he rode past on the 89a bus.’

A silent groan formed a silky slick layer of saliva around his plump bottom lip. Wanting to look away from the glow he found himself transfixed by it’s passivity, it was a bootleg zen state that would go far to numb him before his eyes shut for the night. The sounds and images were blended up in his mind into a runny paste; they refused to resolve into anything meaningful, like a baby staring up a mobile above it’s cot.

Eyes shut for the briefest of moments, the wave of which threatens to capsize him to sleep. Next door’s dog barked as it tugged on it’s chain and suddenly Jim was wide awake, bolt upright, fists clenched. A quick curse to the dog and the urge to go and give that arsehole a piece of his mind,
‘if only he had much more to give’ he though sinking back into the doughy feeling of his stupor. Maybe in the morning, but not now.

His eyes came back around to the tube, it had been a late night talk show, some washed up old hack had been plugging the latest in a long line of their fading mediocrity, it was good to know that even the rich and famous were little better in the long run. They just had everything already, so it didn’t matter that they too were duds.

Jim watched as the hosts words began to slow down. He’d stopped speaking to the has-been, who had been rabbiting on about his new knock off MP3. The camera was panning closer as the words rang out of the tube. They didn’t make any sense but he could tell they were words, like hearing russian or chinese, he couldn’t place this language. “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn”
Welsh? Could be welsh. The host, with his slick smile and black pit eyes was staring right at him. Jim shuffled left then right and the camera panning to keep the stare dead on him.
“Well fuck, what is this skit,” he wondered, now sure this must have become some kind of cerebral comedy. The words came out again, not from the set; they leaked from the walls. Turning around slowly and carefully as though he might startle the noise, Jim craned around to see a bump the size of his fist poking out the wall. It was inside the wall, moving around like a maggot under the skin, a furuncular.

Jim saw the bulging veins on his arms and felt his stomach churning round and round. He wanted to look away but didn’t feel like this was the kind of problem one could ignore. Reaching into his pocket and only finding the remote he wondered who to call, pest control wouldn’t come out till morning and the fuzz would take him for a prankster or worse a junkie.
“Yes, hello officer, my walls are speaking welsh, can you come shove me in a cell,”
There was a sound of scratching against the carpet, the composure and need to be careful evaporated away like ashes on the wind.

He spun around, nearly teetering over as sight lurched into his senses. A long haired woman was crawling in through the T.V set. Face pale as the moonlight, eyes a lovely shade of soul eating pitch nihilistic black, Her hair was more like a set of tendrils or tentacles that probed her new surroundings. Jim got the feeling they were looking for food, they’d probably consider him food.

Jim’s foot shot up and planted itself on the woman’s face. She growled as wisps of black smoke bellowed out from her mouth filling the room with the smell of hot tar. The smoke burnt at jim’s eyes so he squeezed them shut and shoved his foot forward.
“I’ve got work in the morning, dammit,” he grunted.
Jim fell back exhausted onto the couch to see the woman staring back at him from the other side of the T. The host was waving from the background of the shot.

“I’m busy. I want to go to sleep,” he said to the T.V set, the long haired woman cocked her head not sure what to make of this. “I’m sorry i kicked you, but would you mind going away?” jim asked. The channel flicked, now playing a stream of oddball random advertisements each more nonsensical than the last at a pace that wouldn’t stop getting quicker.

He collapsed back into the Sofa, now stilled in his mound; he realised his breathing had become ragged and irregular, there were beads of sweat trickling down his face. The screen momentarily dimmed and reflected back another pale skinned figure, this time it was him. He was ghastly pale, he grinned in response and threw back his head, turning from the reflection
“A fever, thank the lord.”

The tube chose that moment to flicker and beam a moment of static into the room before jumping back to the talk show, another guest, another plug. People have strange dreams under a fever, Jim had once dreamt he was stuck marching in a column of toy soldiers as it charged off a cliff face. He’d not been able to break step, not even when the ground below him came away and the jagged rock pools sore up to meet him. The guest was a nondescript fellow, Jim's focus wondered from one feature to the next, upon figuring out one detail, like a button nose, the previous one would seem to shift, now his lips were thin, his expression brittle, his nose bulbous and now his lips were plump again.
“It’s important for everyone who enjoys nature to go and bash Jim in right this second,” said the shifting man as the host nodded along, he turned to the camera and smiled at Jim nodding to himself all the while.

“Good to see you again, Hows that lump treating you jimbo?” asked the host, the shadows around the T.V sunk into an inky black. they took on new depths, reached out towards him. The room elongated, pulling him further and further out, dragging with it Jim's attention as it extruded out.
“Trippy,” Jim thought to himself.
“You like that do you,” the voice answered back.
“Sure do,” Jim said, if he was going to be delusional there was no point getting worked up over it. He’d still be sick as dogs in the morning, he’d drop Carrie a line and let her know he was too rough to work.

The tube could say what it liked, it’d all make for a weird story in the end.
“Yeah that’s great jimmy, great that you could join us tonight,” he was watching himself as he saw himself; there, opposite the host, the man in the seat... it was him. He waved back to himself,
“How’d i get there,” Jim asked.
“Here Jamie, how’d you get here?” said the host, correcting him with a wagging finger. Jim looked around, he could still see the outline of the set, but now it was on the inside, the pale woman was standing just beside the frame, leant on it examining her nails.
“Focus on the take Jamie, smile for the cameras,” said the host.
“I’m not an actor,” Jim protested, he stood up and pulled off the mic.
“Such candour,” the host replied. “Let’s give the man a hand,” said the host, applause filled the room though from nowhere in particular. There was no audience, only the set and the creeping shifting dark that surrounded it. In the dark, hanging on along the very limit of sight shapeless bodies writhed and swirled.
“Am I being pranked?” Jim asked. The host threw back his head and laughed, it was a soundless gesture but he could hear a full bellied chuckle coming out just the other side of the screen. He looked down beside the chair to see a diminutive form looking back up at him.
“Watch the screen or miss the world going by,” it chirped, insect wings seemed to have been stitched onto a frog body by some callously curious malefactor, yet that went no way to explain it’s power of speech.

Jim turned his head to the lense, to look back at the other side. The past few minutes were compressed as they played back for him, snapping to the present moment as though reality itself was being fast forwarded. A knock came at the door, the long haired girl, having slipped back through, opening it. She walked back as two exceedingly tall suited men strolled in, hunched to keep their heads from the ceiling. A tone played over the phone and girl covered her ears.

The men in the black suits had featureless faces. Their lips were thin wiry and seemed painted on. The nose was little more than a pair of black dots a centimetre above the lips. Following up to the eyes one might have to imagine, as they were covered by thick rimmed sunglasses that reflected the world around them as though through a parabolic lenses. The ridge of their brow was nonexistent, nor did it have eyebrows to mark it; moreover they had no hair to speak of, this at least made sense.

They straddled the television on either side. Lifting it up and attempting to carry it out, only for their efforts to snag on the cable. They stopped and set the television down. Jim felt the room shake as he landed back on the ground. He rose from his chair meaning to make his way out with all haste but found he was still sitting.

The host was talking, leaning over and staring dead at him, The look in the host’s eyes had gone milky, looking straight through him, it made a sort of contorted sense that he couldn’t hear the worlds. Jim tried to read the lips but found it was all meaningless. Trying once more he rose from his feet, this time a little more success. He was up and out the plush padded upholstery laden chair. Walking about the checkered studio floor. Though he was also still sat in place he was also up and about. He could feel a tether around his throat, a weight pressing in on his larynx that strained the increasing so the further he went.

The himself still sat down watched him standing and he found he could recall that self’s perspective near instantly. The same was true vice-versa, neither asked the question they knew to be on the others mind as both lacked any hint at an explanation. “Introspection blinds us to the now,” chirped the creature as it fluttered its wings to rise up with a cicada’s buzz. It landed up on Jim's left shoulder causing both startled Jims to turn to it. “Not here, there,” it chirped.

Back outside the men in black had unplugged the set, pulled it out the door and thrown it carelessly in a white transit van. The Jims collapsed into one, banging on the screen that would not permit them exist. Jim felt his breath becoming ropy and harsh. The sweat was trailing down all around him, his palms dribbled like a blocked drainpipe. The studio around him had faded away leaving only him in this endless unlit stage.

The creature on his shoulder chirping away. “Change the channel,”
“To what, the shows ended,” asked Jim
“Only now,”
“Only now?” Jim echoed.
“You’re not here an hour ago, only now,” added the creature. Jim blinked then pulled the remote from his pocket.
“An hour ago,” he murmured, pressing in the numbers into the remote.

He sat on his sofa teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when a sudden jolt brought him awake. The sensation of falling that all too often scuppers attempts to sleep. He looked at the tube across the room. In the top left corner he saw the little icon “Channel four, plus one,” he blinked suddenly remember his dream. He felt a cold rush reach down his spine.
“Next up your late night talk, with host….” the television squealed as the intro began to roll.

He found his fingers creeping towards the remote again. He was curious what was playing an hour later, was the same as he’d been dreaming.
“I’d not press that were i yous,” chirped a voice on his shoulder. Jim looked down but saw nothing. The set went dark. He found his thumb pressed into the off button at the very top of the remote though that was not where he’d been reaching. He sighed.
“Bed,” he mumbled heaving him off the sofa and treading the crumb laced carpet across the room. He looked back before leaving, half expecting himself to still be there.

If only he had been. Sat either side of where he had been were the men in black. Long white fingers, lacking fingernail and moving like a bundle of noodles probed up into the air beckoning him. Jim remembered a fever dream he once had, marching off a cliff as he came back across the room and sat down.
The men in black slipped the remote into Jim's hand and he lifted it to the set.
“Bang!” he thought firing the inferred jet across the room. The light flickered on just as the host was introducing the many faced man once again.
“What are you doing,” Jim called out to himself across the room, still standing in the doorway as he watched the other himself sitting open mouthed as the men in black whispered into his ears. “You’ve got work in the morning,”
“You’ve got work in the morning,” the sat self echoed. “I’m kissing mutilated lips,”
“No good couch potato, get your ass up here,” Jim shouted thumping the door frame.
“I’m feeling a bit under the weather, i’ve got a fever so i’m going to sit it out. You go on to bed, i’ve got a show to catch up on,”
“Jim,” said Jim. “You won’t be able to come back a second time,”
“I’m already there, i just need to catch up,” said the seated Jim, not looking away from the screen.

Jim saw the girl beginning to pour herself out the screen as the van pulled up outside. He turned and walked down to his bedroom. Not wanting to be a party to what was about to take place. He locked his door and slipped in a pair of earplugs to drown out the noises from outside his room, sleep took him fast.

With the Beep. Beep. Beep, moan and groan Jim came bubbling back from sleep. He pulled the curtains back and squinted into the glow of a streetlamp. A deep orange sodium glow bathed the room in sterile light. The sun wasn’t yet up but had begun to eat away the dark’s edges. He sighed, which turned into a breathy yawn as he shook his head side to side. Hands raised to his eyes wiping away the night’s grit and the dread of a new day wormed its way back into his bones.

On his way through to the kitchen he passed the lounge, the television was gone from its stand leaving a rim of dust and muck adjacent to an immaculate plate of now vacant space. The sagging spot on the sofa where his posterior lay was empty. He was gone.

Flicking on the kettle brought the reassuring muffled hiss of function which helped to ground him. Freeze dried power in the bottom of a sickly coloured stained mug rose up to meet him as the boiling water was poured up to its rim, a lacklustre splash of nearly gone off milk preempted the arrival of the teaspoon and it’s rampant string.

The first few thought beaded out like morning dew dripping down the stems of grass. Who to call, did he need to report himself missing? Should he report the tube stolen.

Another swig and slice of toast kept him going as he sat on the chair of a one person kitchen table chewing between gulps of coffee. He could no longer remember the other himself’s thoughts, not from the moment he left the room. He knew and understood that last resolute impulse, and dearly wished he didn’t.