Read Online The Bird Room by Chris Killen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Killen
Tags: General Fiction
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and black. She isnât nervous. There is no sound except your breathing. Off slides the other strap. This isnât her. It isnât. But itâs the closest yet. She licks her lips and laughs to herself. Then she reaches behind her back, unclasps the bra and holds it to her breasts. She pouts like a Marilyn Monroe photocopy. She moves closer, smiles again and lets the â¦
She freezes. Frantically, you click on the next file. Youâre fumbling because the mouse is in your left hand. Four in the afternoon. The curtains are drawn. The room smells warm and musty. A toilet roll stands next to the computer.
⦠bra fall to the floor. You lean up close to the screen and squint. Her nipples are too small. Theyâre a pinky-red colour. She takes them in her fingertips and pinches. She giggles silently. The camera moves down her belly. Her fingers follow it towards her knickers. She hooks her thumbs under the strip of flimsy black elastic and wiggles, rubbing her thighs together. You can see fine down on her skin. There is no chicken-leg birthmark on her thigh, though, and no mole next to her belly button. She bends forward as she slides off the knickers, the top of her head obscuring â¦
Again, she stops. You grope for a wad of toilet paper with your non-mouse hand. Was that the letterbox in the hall? Quickly, you check the curtains for gaps. Itâs just the free paper, the paperboy walking back down the path. Alice wonât be home for another hour yet. So you click on clip three (which is all Virgin British Beavers will give you without a credit card).
⦠the view. She steps out of her knickers and sits back on the bed. The camera moves between her thighs. You inch your nose up against the screen. Her pubic hair is black. Itâs clipped. Her lips are shaved. She prises them apart with shiny lacquer-pink nails and sinks in a middle finger. The screen is warm. It buzzes against the tip of your nose and up this close she pixellates and distorts. She begins to look like a game of Tetris. So you pull your head away again, just enough, but wish you could force it past the plastic and into the volcanic red of her cunt.
Alice, Alice, Alice, you think, as your eyes close, and the curtains and the free paper and the headache are swallowed in a warm, swelling, consuming nothing.
I button my jeans and stand. My spine crackles. I open the curtains and have a look into the street. An old bloke stands at the end of our path, waiting for his dog to finish crapping on the pavement.
In the bathroom, I try to piss without catching the reflection of my red-raw, semi-erect dick in the mirror. This is impossible. The mirror faces you. It confronts you. It is a gaping glass eye, streaked with stray toothpaste spittle and the wet flicks of her hair from drying. It sits just next to the toilet, reflecting me. Pissing should be enough, surely? Pissing and shitting and being an animal should be enough without having to watch yourself as you do it. The mirror was there when I moved in. It has something to do with feng shui, Alice reckons.
My dick looks how I imagine a bloated drowned body might look.
I take down the mirror and carry it into the yard. I lean it against the wall, the one where the child of a previous tenant drew a Ninja Turtle in chalk. I stand back to admire my work. Thatâs more like it. Let nature have its stupid cock reflected back at it. See how the leaves and slugs and bottle tops like it for a change.
I do nothing the rest of the day.
I watch TV.
I eat Rich Tea biscuits.
I am repeatedly haunted by the image of a blonde girl fucking herself with a shoe.
At a quarter to six Alice gets home from work.
âGood day?â I call over my shoulder.
She doesnât answer. She takes off her coat, steps out of her boots and goes into the bathroom.
After a pause, the toilet flushes.
âWhereâs the mirror gone?â she says.
âItâs in the yard,â I say. âI put
She freezes. Frantically, you click on the next file. Youâre fumbling because the mouse is in your left hand. Four in the afternoon. The curtains are drawn. The room smells warm and musty. A toilet roll stands next to the computer.
⦠bra fall to the floor. You lean up close to the screen and squint. Her nipples are too small. Theyâre a pinky-red colour. She takes them in her fingertips and pinches. She giggles silently. The camera moves down her belly. Her fingers follow it towards her knickers. She hooks her thumbs under the strip of flimsy black elastic and wiggles, rubbing her thighs together. You can see fine down on her skin. There is no chicken-leg birthmark on her thigh, though, and no mole next to her belly button. She bends forward as she slides off the knickers, the top of her head obscuring â¦
Again, she stops. You grope for a wad of toilet paper with your non-mouse hand. Was that the letterbox in the hall? Quickly, you check the curtains for gaps. Itâs just the free paper, the paperboy walking back down the path. Alice wonât be home for another hour yet. So you click on clip three (which is all Virgin British Beavers will give you without a credit card).
⦠the view. She steps out of her knickers and sits back on the bed. The camera moves between her thighs. You inch your nose up against the screen. Her pubic hair is black. Itâs clipped. Her lips are shaved. She prises them apart with shiny lacquer-pink nails and sinks in a middle finger. The screen is warm. It buzzes against the tip of your nose and up this close she pixellates and distorts. She begins to look like a game of Tetris. So you pull your head away again, just enough, but wish you could force it past the plastic and into the volcanic red of her cunt.
Alice, Alice, Alice, you think, as your eyes close, and the curtains and the free paper and the headache are swallowed in a warm, swelling, consuming nothing.
I button my jeans and stand. My spine crackles. I open the curtains and have a look into the street. An old bloke stands at the end of our path, waiting for his dog to finish crapping on the pavement.
In the bathroom, I try to piss without catching the reflection of my red-raw, semi-erect dick in the mirror. This is impossible. The mirror faces you. It confronts you. It is a gaping glass eye, streaked with stray toothpaste spittle and the wet flicks of her hair from drying. It sits just next to the toilet, reflecting me. Pissing should be enough, surely? Pissing and shitting and being an animal should be enough without having to watch yourself as you do it. The mirror was there when I moved in. It has something to do with feng shui, Alice reckons.
My dick looks how I imagine a bloated drowned body might look.
I take down the mirror and carry it into the yard. I lean it against the wall, the one where the child of a previous tenant drew a Ninja Turtle in chalk. I stand back to admire my work. Thatâs more like it. Let nature have its stupid cock reflected back at it. See how the leaves and slugs and bottle tops like it for a change.
I do nothing the rest of the day.
I watch TV.
I eat Rich Tea biscuits.
I am repeatedly haunted by the image of a blonde girl fucking herself with a shoe.
At a quarter to six Alice gets home from work.
âGood day?â I call over my shoulder.
She doesnât answer. She takes off her coat, steps out of her boots and goes into the bathroom.
After a pause, the toilet flushes.
âWhereâs the mirror gone?â she says.
âItâs in the yard,â I say. âI put
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