Trembling With Fear 9-03-23

Stolen, by S.G. Perahim

I got caught. Fair enough.

The security guard snorted when I surrendered the goods. A glittery pen and a bunny-shaped eraser. But I don’t shoplift for a living, I do it for the thrill. No high stakes. Nothing in this dingy place was worth much, anyways, except those scraggly dolls showcased behind the counter. 

But one hundred pounds apiece—heresy!

They looked like they’d been left in the sun too long, their leathery heads crackled and dusty, popping out of lacy dresses and colourful dungarees. Dulled glassy eyes following me around.

“Why does this ‘knick-knacks’ shop even have a doorman?” I couldn’t help wondering, while feeling his massive frame escorting me towards the back of the store, like a moving wall closing behind me. We reached the office, and the pressing question of the doorman’s legitimacy went straight onto the back burner of my brain. There was a lot to take in.

A battered desk, encumbered shelves, bizarre junk scattered on the creaky floorboards. More dolls. Undressed. Their blackened leathery bodies looking as if they’d been charred and tortured. Frilly frocks and puerile dungarees didn’t seem such a bad idea to justify the price, after all.

In my hurry to stay away from the doorman, I bumped into an oblong item wrapped on the ground in a burlap sack secured with a lavish amount of sisal rope, laced mummy-style. The stench arising from it made me gag.

Perched on a bar stool accommodated behind the desk, the shop owner – a tiny, crinkled lady – beamed. No teeth in sight. Blackened gums.

“Perfect, I was low on stock.”

I opened my mouth. That much, I remember. I did it with the unequivocal ambition to clear my name and maybe devise an agreement with this old hag that wouldn’t include cops, handcuffs and a holiday in a cell. But she banged her hands on the desk, then clasped them together and a screech erupted from her wrinkled lips.

Then everything went dark.

When I woke up, I was paralysed, terrified, and utterly uncomfortable. I could feel the rough fabric of the burlap bag scratching my exposed skin and the ropes were tightened in all the wrong places. My midriff was soaking wet. I could feel, taste, hear and smell everything. I just couldn’t move or talk, or … breathe. Or just barely. 

I think I was still breathing, at least at the beginning, and my heart was beating so slow I could maybe register for a world record. I would have laughed at the thought if it had not been so sad to have it at such a dire moment. I couldn’t cry either. So, I waited.

A dull routine started. Every day, she’d come and undo the cap of my ‘mummy wrap’. She’d crouch next to me and screech. I’d faint and wake up.

I got used to the floor once the last dampness from my bodily functions had dried up. I don’t think I’ll evacuate my bowels ever again. I also got accustomed to the cold, because I quickly reached room temperature. I became OK with my decay, too, and the smell of it, and the manner I could sense and sometimes hear my whole body dry up. 

But I never got used to her tiny bony fingers travelling on my face and her foul mouth reaching my ear. I never got comfortable with the way her unfathomable wail was draining the life and soul out of me, leaving me every time a bit closer to the finish line, but never quite there. Never quite there… 

Even still, I rapidly started to anticipate her arrival. It was a relief to have some living company, even for a minute. All I could hear most hours were a random twitch or a faint sigh coming from a neighbouring mummy wrap. That’s how I learned that if I tried hard enough, I could do things with my desiccating body. I quickly stopped trying to scream or move; there might be other ways out. Or so I hoped.

Occasionally, I’d receive a treat: the odd spider visiting my hair. The highlight of my day! Did I even attempt to lure, tame and educate one through the sole power of my thoughts? Out of sheer boredom? Absolutely. More than once, actually. To no avail. 

One day, the doorman came and removed the links from my now oversized mummy wrap. He sewed my lips with a fishing line. He muttered something about getting me a commercial smile, while his huge hand—almost double the size of my now-shrunk head—was conducting its steady needlework. He’s not talkative. I’ll never be again. 

I was then garbed into an orange dungaree with a rainbow unicorn lovingly hand stitched on the chest. I wondered if it was the doorman’s craftsmanship. Full of mysteries, this man… It was ridiculous but it felt like an upgrade after the gruff sisal bag.

The doorman sat me up on the desk. My hips creaked and the pain shot through what was left of my nerves like a lightning bolt. And suddenly I could see my body. That’s when I noticed how tiny I had become. I was not a lanky mummy, like the one you can see in museums. My bones had shrunk too. How odd. You don’t pay attention to that kind of detail when you spend most of your day trying to give yourself a heart attack so you can finally die. At that point, I would have loved being able to close my eyes, but I couldn’t, and was forced to stare at my revolting blackened feet popping out of a bright orange garment. 

That’s when she entered the room. 

I hadn’t paid heed to it before, either, but she looked much better now. Her smirk had teeth and her skin didn’t fold in on itself as it used to. She seemed… lively. I didn’t feel too pleased about that. 

Her prickly fingers seized me for what I hoped was the last time. This was the end. Finally. She was going to suck the soul out of me once and for all and put my dried and dead body for sale behind the counter. RIP me!

And from my counter vantage point, I just saw a kid nick a notebook.

I’m glaring at him from the doll shelf. It’s a forlorn warning.