Everything that's in my head

Chapter 5

The beetle polished off the last of the crumb, wiped his mouth with the back of one of his hands and leant back against the bed frame. It had been some time since certain events had taken place and he had only now calmed down.
The impromptu snack had revived his spirits and now with his strength returned and his heart finally still, he could take stock of his situation. As things stood there had been no noise from up top for a while and only now and again was the dreadful silence punctured by a restless chorus of springs. From what he had gathered from the smells and odours that wafted down from on high, it was obvious that the thing upstairs was a heavy smoker. On the hour and sometimes every fifteen minutes, a pair of white, veiny, alabaster feet would swing down and would be secreted into a pair of ordinary looking Marks and Spencer slippers. These would then shuffle out silently, only to remerge minutes later reeking of tobacco and wearier than when they left. Judging by the phone calls this restless soul was receiving, things didn’t seem to be going well either. The beetle’s tormentor had been fielding a series of calls that had a sinister ring to them and it intrigued the beetle as to the exact nature of what this person’s particular crime might have been.
From what the beetle could gather from the intelligence unwittingly broadcast to him via the one way conversation, was that his erstwhile torturer was up against it big time and had fallen into a big black hole, from which there seemed no escape. it made the fool hold his head in his hands and weep.

He was not typical of the fayre the beetle had become accustomed to in his time in the room; this one was definitely unusual. He was no Napoleon. He wasn’t a Messiah. The owner of the porcelain feet, seemed lucid enough to hold sentences together and that they had a beginning, middle and an end. There was just this terrible sense of despair that hung in the air and which made the beetle uncomfortable and want to make him clean his antennae one more time. A call came later in the day that had a different tone altogether but still carrying with it a great sense of foreboding. This time, the accusations were made this end and the person being spoken to was being held responsible for some fatal error of disclosure. The phone call was ended at some stage and no further contact was possible, despite repeated attempts.
Time passed.
A routine began to establish itself, imperceptibly at first: cigarette break followed by a lot of lying back and looking at the ceiling; a series of phone calls followed by long silences. During these catatonic interludes the beetle felt it quite safe to sneak out and stretch his legs. He looked at the mountain of flesh that rose above him and could see no discernible sign of life. It was as if the face was a desert, with no joy to give it grooves and so break up its featureless terrain. Occasionally, the eyes would blink but other than that it was just a thousand mile stare into nothingness. The beetle considered scuttling back home but decided against it as things were warming up here and he didn’t want to miss any of the fireworks. This one intrigued him and he wanted to hang around to see what strange and wonderful things this man came up with.