short stories

Let the goat breathe (04/2023) 

I have identified some room for improvement. I will dig into her brain and fix it. I'll shovel out the dirt, muddy like used coffee grounds, that blocks her from seeing reality. You have your friends. Use them. They can fix you. And, failing that, I will fix you.

Molly and Cara were sat drinking coffees in another one of those nameless little artisan coffee shops on the outskirts of the city centre. Molly and Cara’s coffees of choice today were cappuccinos, served to them in worn yellow mugs. Warm umber walls, the gentle jazz in the background, the clinking of cups and the whirring of the steam from the coffee machine; it gave the place an intimate atmosphere. Instead of feeling calm, Molly felt suffocated. Trapped in this room. Trapped in this role. Cara had gotten up to use the bathroom and Molly seized this opportunity. Discretely, she took out a label-less bottle from her tote bag and added its contents to her coffee. Vodka. She whipped it back in her bag - just in time. Cara came waltzing back over to the table. Molly looked deep into Cara’s hypnotic, emerald eyes. Anything Cara wanted, she could just flash a look like that and they’d have given her it. What did she have to do to get that? Useless. She sipped her modified cappuccino and continued the conversation with an unaware Cara. A tired Molly downed the remainder of her hot coffee, scalding her throat. She held the pain in, face stoic as ice. Cara locked those emerald eyes on her, now bemused. Ignoring Cara, Molly looked away and dived deep into the bottom of her mug. She inspected the little flicks of coffee remaining. She found nothing but dark, undefined shapes in the residue. Faintly scowling at the muddiness of the picture, she sat her mug back on its saucer and got up from the table. Cara watched, anxiously waiting for Molly to say something. “I’m off to theatre!” Molly told her, seeming aloof, yet still composed. Cara looked dumbfounded. She raised her soft brown brows at her and began to speak. “The theatre – Molly? Wha-?” But Molly interjected before Cara could finish. “See you tomorrow!” She chirped. Molly sped out the door, chimes ringing as she quickly became a shadow in the distance.

Holly’s in a room, all white, causing a blinding brightness. Could this be heaven? Is that where she is being taken? She doesn’t know. She’s watching someone, something. The man on the table, who’s surrounded by unknowns in pearly, shiny, white coats, he has... horns. Like a goat. Except he’s not a goat. His face looks like it is made of plasticine. She feels her face; it’s still there. Good. She’s not part of them. She’s only watching, safe, from behind her screen. She’s stood in the night, the dark; while they are on the other side. The hybrid is on the operating table, his eyes closed, big white wires attached to his limbs. His heart beats steadily on the monitor. He’s naked. The people wearing the coats turn into her view. A doctor, with fine fluffy brown hair, turns towards the camera, in an eerie close-up, and yells “LET THE GOAT BREATHE!” Holly panics. She watches, helpless, as the tiny nurse, who was watching the monitor, wakes up the man with the horns. There is a blur of melting faces running around, keeping him conscious. For what purpose? As the doctor. Approaches. With a- with a knife? To take his horns, maybe? Holly’s banging her fists to be let in. She’s falling against the screen. She knows she’s safe, that this can’t be real, yet she is terrified of what she’s watching. The doctor is slashing the body of the goat man. His thighs, his shins, his feet, his toes. Holly can feel his pain reverberating through her body. She feels numb and sharp combined, like she is the one being anesthetized and harmed. Is she inside the hybrid? How can she be feeling what he is? The doctor is frenetically slashing and cutting up the arms and hands of the goat man. He can’t take it anymore. His face melts and his neck falls off. Holly hopes this is the end. A feeling of relief sets in. No more pain. “PUT HIS NECK BACK ON. HE NEEDS TO FEEL THIS!” No! The nurse scuttles up to this hybrid and jams his head back on his neck. It doesn’t quite reattach straight away, which causes the nurse to become visibly irritated. Her tiny hands try again and again to stick this man back together. By some miracle, the head and neck fuse together again. Further rounds of abuse are in order. Holly is trapped in this nightmare, with no clear method of escape. The last image in Holly’s mind is the man yelling out, wobbling, open eyes bulging out of his head, as the lights fade and noise turns to silence.

The faun is my test, my creation, my warning. You will watch, horrified and disoriented. You will empathise with his pain and, in doing so, empathise with yourself. That is my goal. I invade your dreams that aren’t really dreams because you’ve come here under the influence of something potent. Something with impure intention. Despite this, and despite your fear for me, I’m here because you want me to be. That desire is buried in the caverns of your poorly-wired mind. I can fix you and bring you back, if you want. I can sew your head, your arms, your legs back on to your fragile body. Can't you help yourself? Aren’t you supposed to be a smart girl?   

A dosed-looking Molly sat down at her kitchen table, a cuboid plank of plastic posing as birch, that was only very loosely-attached to the wall. Molly was with her best friend, Dina, who looked at her with a silent concern, as Molly was pouring a cup half-full of rum. “I’m only going to have a couple ciders for pre-drinks” Dina announced. It was transparent to Molly what Dina was trying to say. It irritated her. To Molly, it just felt like nobody was on her level anymore when it came to nights out. Whatever. At least she knew how to have fun. At least she knew how to forget the impermanence of everyone and everything in her life and shut her mind up. Molly returned to reality and checked her buzzing phone. It was Cara, letting her know she was at the gate. “Cara’s here. I’ll go get her. Think the others will be arriving soon.” Sure enough, at 6:30pm on the dot, a whole crew of people turned up at Molly’s place. She was the music master, her favourite role. She was confident in this ability; to be able to work the crowd; keep them happy, keep them entertained. She was going to get absolutely wasted, she thought. Her personality, she had feared, was becoming flat and vacant. However, in Molly’s muddled mind, this was nothing rum and coke and a little Serani can’t fix. “I don’t wanna play games. No games aaaa aaaa!” Molly sang along.

Molly turned to Dina and alerted her that “Holly might come out tonight I can’t lie.” Dina’s forehead creased with bewilderment. “Who is Holly? I don’t know this girl?” She snapped at Molly. Dina didn’t mean to sound so harsh but when she wanted answers, she needed them as soon as possible. “Holly. You know Holly...ahhh. You know what, never mind.” Dina just shook her head at Molly in stupefaction. It was typical of Molly to say these odd, unexplained things and then carry on as if the peculiar thing had never been uttered out loud in the first place. Dina often wondered if Molly’s thoughts sometimes, unintentionally, spilt out of her mouth without her even noticing she’d done so. As such, Dina tended not to react to these things with any level of seriousness, instead she’d brush it off with a laugh.

Time was blurring as they left Molly’s and walked bar-to-bar. Molly didn’t know how to stop herself from going over her limit. Maybe it was because she felt alone anyway and wanted to dive deeper into that lonely world she had built for herself. It felt like people were talking and she was just existing in between these conversations, losing herself and turning into a different person. She felt so far away. At least she didn’t have to deal with – 

Molly doesn’t want to say his name. His name does not make her feel good. He does not deserve any airtime or space in her brain. She wants to redact him. Molly realises it’s her story and she can redact him if she wants! Ha! Okay. Fuck [redacted]!

At least she didn’t have to deal with [redacted]. He wasn’t coming. “You love [redacted], don’t you?” People kept jibing at her. Was it a cruel joke or just a statement? Molly didn’t know. They were right, annoyingly. She did love [redacted]. But that in itself was insane; [redacted] was toxic and it was all wrong for Molly. In reality, Molly didn’t want him. She wanted to be alone now. But it was the cruel rejection; the soreness of being lied to and manipulated for so long, that played on her mind. She knew it was not love. Obsession, or limerence, perhaps being a more accurate term for this feeling. Yes, limerance. So, she didn’t love [redacted]? Just, she loved the potential. The ‘what could have been’. It hurt her physically. It made her sick.

Cara caught up to Molly when they were walking outside. “Molly, where were you the other day? When you said you were at the theatre?” Cara questioned Molly. “I was in... theatre. Then I went home. And went to sleep.” Cara looked at Molly – was that anger on her face? Confusion? She really couldn’t tell. It was like all the faces were blurring, melting, like clay or...plasticine. “No but what play did you see?” Molly didn’t reply to Cara this time. Maybe Molly didn’t remember. Maybe Cara wasn’t really listening. Maybe Cara wasn’t really seeing. Maybe if Molly had Cara’s enticing eyes, [redacted] would finally love her. She could win him over everyone else. She hated how everything in life had to be a fucking competition. She could not keep up, nor compete. She refused. She knew she would always lose anyway, so what was the point? 

A now heavily inebriated Molly skipped to join up with Richard and Adam, her favourite duo. Molly may have liked Richard a little but it wasn’t that deep. She didn’t really have to admit this either; Molly wasn’t trying to hide it. Just an innocent crush. They both weren't going to do anything about it either. To be honest, maybe she didn’t actually fancy Richard. Maybe she just admired him as a friend. Either way, it didn’t matter. Poor Richard and Adam. Molly just talked and talked and talked at these poor, pitiful men. It was quite likely Molly did not know what she was saying at all. Despite this, they didn’t really seem to mind her. The guys let Molly do her thing while they had fun playfully berating Dina for her destructive, past ways. “You’re going for a groove tonight, yeah? A groove, a groove!” Richard taunted Dina. A ‘groove’ being code for going home with any man who gave her some positive attention. Molly, at this point, was quite out of it. Richard crossed the line, mentioning [redacted] again. She started crying. Not this again. Not again. “I’m going home.” A vacant Molly told them. She stumbled back the way she came, away from the life, the party. 

She isn’t Molly anymore, she has morphed into another person. Her brain is not keeping her memories in the right place. She’s moving towards something else now. You know, you keep observing her and not doing anything. Is that a sensible idea? Do you care for her or not? She does not care for herself, clearly. She has lost faith, like everyone else around her has.

Holly is in another building this time, though still with those white walls. She does not feel fear. There are no doctors. Just old people with heads of thinning white hair. An old people’s home? She’s no longer behind a screen either. She’s made it inside! Although, something feels off, different. A sense that no-one is watching over her like usual. There’s a fog filling her mind, forcing her to operate on her backup generator. Holly-on-automatic. Her eyes blur the image. A man in a wheelchair pulls up in front of Holly. In her untrustworthy mind, he appears to her in front of a blaring spotlight. Ok. What does he want? “[I have no clue what he said before this but he said something and if I put redacted you will think I’m on about [redacted] when I’m not]. Can you take off my shoes and socks for me?” The man whines. She doesn’t remember what else he says. She feels so sorry for him and only wants to help. She’s kneeling on the cold ground. Isn’t she inside, though? Why is the ground wet and gritty and cold if she is inside? Where is she? Is this not a dream then? In the corner of her eye, she swears she can see a McDonald’s sign. She hasn’t yet made it inside. Instead of this initiating fear, Holly solely feels disappointment that it is not a dream. Holly does as she is instructed. She doesn’t know why she’s doing this for the man but she feels completely safe. She shouldn’t feel so safe. Holly zones in on this man’s bare, wiggling toes. Then to her phone. Why is it ringing someone? She feels like she knows this person but she doesn’t know why it is calling him. Is she doing that? Huh? The man asks her to put his shoes and socks back on. She does as she is instructed. She feels overly emotional, like she’s completed an act of pure charity. Her mind is without a single coherent thought. The physicality and mentality of her being are becoming two dissonant entities, playing in two separate keys and many octaves apart. It is almost as if her head is not attached to her body anymore, or, more likely, that it is clinging on for dear life. The white of the room she’s imagined is fighting with the image of the sign Holly thinks she can see. The man wheels away, returning her vision to the darkness. 

What in the hell has happened? Molly breathed in sharply, jumping herself awake. Her first instinct was to check her phone. Fuck. Why was she calling [redacted]? It made no sense. She always valued keeping herself controlled. She had let her veil slip and now people knew how she felt. A part of how she felt, at least. Why would she do that? She searched her mind to find nothing but big, gaping holes. She inspected the clothes on the floor beside her bed. Her jeans were muddy but she couldn’t remember how they had gotten that way. She was exhausted. That was not sleep. There was no rest. That was a...coma? Her heart was beating hard, travelling from her constricted chest into her stomach, stomping, and making her feel sick. She wanted it to stop. This was becoming an alarmingly common occurrence for her and she didn’t like it. Losing control. She called Dina to ask her what she had done and how she had behaved. Despite Dina reassuring Molly it wasn’t bad and that she was just emotional, Molly couldn’t cease her shame. There was no comfort for her. She just wanted to go home, where she could go back to sleep; to her dreams, where she was safe from her mistakes. “I’m going home. I want to go home. I need to go home. And to stay there.” She told everyone. Hanging up on them all. The mirror never reflected how she felt. Molly was erased inside and she wanted it present in more than just the purple circles under her dead eyes. Home was only a train journey away. But she didn’t want to make the changes. She wanted a direct route today. She eyed her pills; what stock she had at her disposal. Her focus turned to the sleeping tablets she’d collected. Molly wasn’t picky with what she took. She just wanted to escape herself. She insisted she wasn’t an alcoholic, or an addict, but any ticket out of her body, she’d take it. And she’d been saving up her tickets for a long time. She decided to leave for the station.

Aren’t you supposed to be a smart girl? Why let such minor things, in the grand scale of life, consume your mind until it is this black hole of pessimism? I can only fix you and bring you back if you want me to. I am afraid your desire for that is dwindling. The potency of these dreams increases in line with the potency and volume of the bottle. Where is the empathy for yourself? My warnings have failed. You do not want me here. I cannot watch.

Holly is lying in the white room with the doctor and the tiny nurse. Blood stains the sheet beneath her. From a previous patient, probably. It isn’t clear how she knows this and even though she should be afraid, she welcomes her new position. She’s not behind that screen anymore. She’s fallen through. This can’t be heaven. It feels like nothing more than a murky dream, orchestrated by her subconscious. Holly feels rather dead. And Molly surely is on her way to her now. She feels her face but her fingers don’t reach her skin. Is she plasticine? Her body hurts but not enough to make her want to scream. Her head is floating. Her eyes look down far enough to see how her entire body has been slashed. The doctor has had his way. I am watching as much from above as I am feeling and seeing it from inside myself. I see no point in trying to move or yell now. Holly is – Molly is – Oh my god, that is me. My head has come off of my body! Holly still feels it. Molly still feels it. They feel our body. The tiny nurse comes over to Holly. We know she wants to reattach my head. No, don’t put me back together. Doctor, please just cut off my limbs. I am begging you. Take off my arms and burn them in the place where you will burn my legs, my torso, my head, my hair. Hear her thoughts, my thoughts, our thoughts. The doctor walks away from our body, one single tear rolling down his cheek. He hasn’t done that before. In my dreams he always puts me, or whoever else it is on this table, back together. He would yell at them to feel. With his back turned, he’s speaking, maybe whispering, but our ears can’t hear anymore. The white fades into night. He’s finally granted our wish.

I wrote this story for an assignment during what was a pretty tumultuous time, hence the chaos reflecting in this short piece of writing. I wanted to play around with surrealism and point-of-view, which is why I switch narrators and tense throughout.