between the devil and the deep blue sea

Bygone…

Mr Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig on Twitter) has regular Flash Fiction competitions. On Friday he asked for a 1,000 word story about unicorns. I’ve never entered one of these competitions, and never felt compelled to write about unicorns, especially since seeing that web post with the most atrocious unicorn tattos imaginable, but I like a challenge. Not sure exactly where to go with my unicorn tale I asked Twitter to chuck some other words at me.

Thirteen words later (from a mixture of fellow writers and at least one terrible, terrible person) I had a mix of ideas that led to the following story. Including the fourteenth word ‘unicorn’ all words are present and correct.

Enjoy. But not too much. It’s not the cheeriest tale you’ll ever read.

***

The man who answered the door couldn’t have been much older than thirty, but he wore his years badly. He peered through the crack, the chain pulled tight between door and frame. “Yeah?” he asked, looking me over. “Mr Taylor? I’m Bella Fenchurch,” I said. “Ah yes, Bella.” He seemed to relish my name on his lips. “Do come in.” He unchained his door, and stepped back, with a sweeping and exaggerated gesture to let me know I was most welcome.

I did not feel most welcome.

The flat was dimly lit by a tall lamp beside a sofa. A secondary light source became apparent as I stepped into the room, a computer monitor sitting on an old desk. Framed black and white photographs dotted the walls. A heavy grey curtain covered what was presumably a window. There was a humid smell in the air, and I imagined the furniture affected by damp and fungus. A couple of doors led off the living area, but I did not want to think about what lay beyond.

Mr Taylor picked up a plate from the sofa, and began to munch on some toast. “Please,” he said, “make yourself at home.” I chose to remain standing and gazed around as he left the room. There was the sound of the plate being added to a large pile of the same. “Would you like a drink, Bella?” he called out, “Beer? Water?”

“No, no, I’m fine thanks!” I called back, unable to take my eyes off the pictures.

The closest showed an impossibly obese woman, surrounded by children. Disturbingly, all were naked, all staring smiling towards the camera. It was like an advert for fecundity. A little plaque gave this lady a name:  MARY.

I looked to the next picture quickly. A man in a suit held his head in his hands, a head so swollen and globular I was reminded of Atlas supporting the world. A hat teetered on top. Sad eyes looked outwards. The name plaque told me this was DAVID.

A third picture had a casually dressed man in a garden, smiling. His right hand rested on the handle of an old lawnmower. It looked the perfect model of suburbia, were it not for legs that appeared to bend backwards and end with hooves.

“That’s Stephen,” a voice said behind me, too close for comfort.

I turned quickly, and smiled awkwardly. “Are these pictures real?” His smile broadened and he nodded. “This is my own little freak show. Proof to me that God has a sense of humour. You believe in God, right?”

“Ah, no, I’m agnostic,” I replied.

“What the fuck’s that?”

Easier to lie I figured. “It means no, I don’t believe in God.”

“Well… look… look at this… with the hangman and the duck… that’s –“

“Not why I’m here,” I interrupted. Looking him in the eye I reminded him. “The unicorn?”

He froze, then he remembered his spiel. “But yes, of course. Would you like to follow me?” He gestured towards one of the doors. “Not more photographs,” I said, “If you’ve got a unicorn I want to see it with my own eyes.” His eyes glittered in the lamp light.

“Trust me,” he smiled, “It’s through here.”

I didn’t speak for a second. “You keep it in your apartment? What is this, some sort of joke?” “Oh no,” he said, “please, follow me.” He opened one of the doors and disappeared into darkness for a few seconds before a dim light came on. “Please,” he called, “Come and look.”

The room was devoid of furniture, a bucket beneath a cardboard covered window. The unicorn was lying on a sodden mattress on the floor, asleep, or more likely sedated. Chains held it down, one holding its head close to the floor. Its white hide was dirty, it’s single horn tarnished by filth. Any sense of nobility had long been worn away. “Sorry about the mess,” Mr Taylor said. “Unfortunately they don’t just piss rainbows.” He laughed at his own joke. I didn’t. I didn’t know what to say.

I could feel my host looking at me, almost imagine him licking his lips before he spoke again. “I know what you’re thinking,” he finally offered. “Why am I keeping this amazing creature in these awful conditions? But look. Here’s the thing. It’s a fucking horse with a big spike on its head. It’s dangerous. Look. Look at that there.”

I looked.

“That’s his penis,” Mr Taylor explained. He paused, waiting for a reaction before continuing. “This is your unicorn equivalent of a raging bull. This thing will pierce you without a second thought. Especially a young maiden like you.”

I shot him a look. He shut up. We stared at each other.

It was the most surreal moment of my life. Neither of us spoke, both of us just watching the other whilst, feet away, a unicorn lay in its own filth. In some guy’s apartment.

“Let’s do this,” I said, breaking the silence, reaching into my bag.

“So… money… what do you want to do? You want to pet it? You want to do any of that, you know, kinky shit?”

“No,” I shook my head, “I’m going to release it.”

He froze, then burst out laughing. “Release it? How the fuck do…”

The gun caught him off guard. Seconds later a bullet drilled through his forehead and danced around in his skull. As he jerkily fell to the floor I turned towards the silent unicorn. If it was awake it showed no signs of it, the only movement being the rise and fall of its rib cage.

“You poor bastard,” I told the creature, stroking the mane away from its face, “You don’t exist. You can’t exist. Certainly not like this.” I rested the silenced gun barrel against his forehead, aligned with the horn. “God, if you DO exist… if this IS your idea of humour…  you’re one sick bastard,” I sighed.

I pulled the trigger.

***