BEATING HEART

James Buoey

DISCLAIMER: This creative writing contains content that some readers may find offensive.

Thinking about it now, my closet is sort of like an alien organism. The holes that poke through the clothes I wear reveal the intricate wire of organs that power it. Some fuck-off binbag coat is the heart of it all, its long sleeves ventricles, coursing life through the rest of the thing.
       It beats. No, literally, I’m watching it convulse and spaz outwards every other second. My landlord wants me to check it out because, apparently, it’s not supposed to do that, but if he’s not going to poke around then I’m sure as hell not.
       I’d like to say we’ve agreed to a code of terms or, well, to some vaguely tangential thing at least. It can’t really shake its head or flap its not-yet-developed vocal cords to signal agreement, but the fact my skinsuit hasn’t been wringed out and my organs are still firmly in my tummy says enough. Rule one, of course, is to not bother the neighbours. Just leave them alone; ignore them.
       To be honest, I don’t really care about what happens to them – if I were to find their spines neatly laid out on my doorstep it’d honestly be a pleasant surprise – but the landlord does. And he really scares the shit out of me.
       Rule two is to let me sleep. If you need to get up and explore at 4 a.m., just make sure you don’t trip over my shoes, and if you need to get into the fridge then open it slowly and don’t slam it shut. I tell it these rules, and it sometimes stares at me with a cold but plainly harmless stare. You know when you piss off your dog and it just, like, looks at you? Its back legs stiffen and for the first time in its life it stands with a healthy, stern posture. Yeah, it’s like that.
       I say it’s harmless, but the only reason I’m still alive is probably because I wave the receipt from when I bought it in its face whenever it tries to make a move. I can still return you to the store, fucker. I’ve still got two months.