The Glass Coffin

The first time I met Mr. Creases I was only a boy. Sitting at a bus stop he had a strange collection of bags and bundles down by his feet. As always he was wearing his big brown coat, it's huge collar and furry lapels were matted and smeared with greasy streaks.

"What's in the bags?" I asked. Like most boys, I was stupidly inquisitive at that age.

He stopped to hack out a crisp cough. I thought he wasn't going to answer when finally he said: "Stuff. I was satisfied enough to let it drop. I kicked some grey slush into a pile and stamped my footprint into the snow, the dark brown mud showing through.

"Are you a tramp? I asked politely.

"Mmm He answered neither yes nor no.

"You should wear a hat. It's cold I said. His bald scalp was deep red and raw with twists of tangled dark grey hair crowning it.

"Don't need one. He said quickly staring blankly across the street. The deep snow had been cleared this morning and was piled high, way over my head height.

"The bus'll be ages yet. I said helpfully looking at my shoes and then his.

"You kids, you're always talking, asking questions. Yak, yak, yak, yak, yak, yak. He said snapping round to face me.

"Do you know what happened to me when I talked too much when I was a boy?

"No. I said suddenly shy.

"Take a look in here. He said lowering his jaw and pointing inside. His eyebrows shot up as if to say 'go on'.

"I can't see anything. I said.

"Put your finger on that tooth there. The end of his sentence was muffled by his dirty finger.

"Come on. He said. I shakily raised my hand and extended my index finger.

"That's it He said opening his mouth as wide as it would go. My curiosity had beaten me. Slowly moving forward my finger passed his crispy, cracked lips and into the warm darkness of his mouth.

With a chomp he bit down on my finger and I let out a scream.

I raise the axe high above my head leaving it to linger in the air. I tip the balance and it falls forwards toward the ground, pulling down hard at the last second. It cracks and splinters the wood, sending the two new pieces flying apart. Stepping back I put another damp piece of wood on the block, feet squelching on the wet dark brown leaves. Underneath the soil a mass of worms wriggle happily in the moist earth.

In the distance there is a snap of twigs. I can just about make out his shape in the gloom of the afternoon, jittering and stumbling from tree to tree. Twisted Mr. Creases is crashing through the crowded woods. I pull the axe back and forth, levering it from the block. Seeing him small and twisted pecking his way through the overcast trees I feel one hundred feet tall. Gripping the axe tightly I begin to follow.

After such I long time away, returning home I'm instantly transformed back to the child I was the second I left, robbing me of my adult life. The plump receptionist looks at me with mothering eyes, she merrily calls me by my childhood name and I squirm uncomfortably in front of her. I'm glad to get into the doctor's office, even though from the second I enter he begins to swamp me with his problems. It's a new practice for him and the townsfolk haven't exactly warmed to him. Appointments have fallen sharply and anything he prescribes is rarely collected at the pharmacy. I feel bad for interrupting him, because I too know what these people are like, but I have come to talk about my dad.

"He just point blank refuses to acknowledge the condition even exists let alone concede he might have it. He never collects the insulin I prescribe, he never lets the care nurse go near him and god only knows what his eating habits are like, he won't tell me! He moans exasperated. I could tell him what they are exactly. My dad has had a regimented daily routine, including meals, for all of my life, probably all of his too. What day is it today? Monday: For dinner He'll be having the last of Sunday's meat with rice.

"He's lost the uses of his legs." The doctor continued. "It's that serious. They should've been amputated. I mean, what does he think? That I want to cut his legs off! agitated, becoming more erratic with every word.

"It's ok. I say. "I'll speak to him. The doctor sighs in relief and in his newly regained cool professional persona he says:

"Look, he needs looking after. He's up there all alone and doesn't move too well, which is a big, big problem. I'm sorry to say he may not last the week.

I thank the doctor and go to shake his hand and then leave. Outside I begin to laugh thinking of the doctor battling my dad.

This is perfect, I think, stalking him through the overcast woods. Hundreds of rows of thin trees line up in perfect ranks like soldiers. There is no one around for miles. I'm going to cut his fucking head off. I'm don't even need to think about it I'm going to cut both his hands off and shove them up his arse for what he did to me.

Just one small inch of flesh. My life of playground taunts and awkward handshakes. When I left school I applied for a variety of jobs, unsuccessfully. Most of the boys in my class joined the army but they said I lacked the vital component necessary to fire a gun. Nobody would eat the bread I had made, the dough I squeezed through the gaps in my fingers as I kneaded. .My dad had to work hard to get me a job felling trees even though most of my co-workers had bigger bits missing from their bodies. So for nearly a year I hacked down trees.

Adrift from Irony I left to do the one thing I was good at: play piano. At first people saw me as a novelty act but I didn't mind, as long as people wanted to hear me play.
My dad thought that it was no way to live.

For two days now I have skimmed around the outskirts of conversation carefully navigating my way round certain subjects, but now I'm struggling for things to say. I usually talk about neutral subjects with my dad like sport. But how can I talk of acts of athleticism with a man whose legs are useless.

"You've got woodworm upstairs. I say brightly. I noticed whilst hiding upstairs in the bathroom, the rotten wood come away in my hand and crumbling like powder.

"It's on the door frame and you know how tricky they are to replace. I say just for something to say. Get words on the board, make this visit more substantial.

"I'll treat it before I go. I say with sickly optimism as if that action would make everything alright in the world. I travel 200 miles to talk about woodworm.

"Fire's getting low. I'll go cut you some more wood." I said smiling, just glad to get away.

My dad never approved of me playing the piano but I honestly didn't care. At the height of my popularity people would travel miles to see me play. I would play all night, stopping for ten minutes to gulp down a drink then back again playing with a cheer from the crowd who would dance, non-stop, through the night. I began earning good money and put some aside for when we were ready to have kids of our own. Outside my name was painted in big yellow letters.

I never saw it happening but things had changed. I was arrogant. I thought I was a great, a legend. Slowly things slid back and people would come to see the freak, the nine fingered pianist. I couldn't go back to that, I was angry and conceited. I began to have nightmares again of massive yellow teeth slicing through my soft skin and underdeveloped bone. Spitting the digit to the ground in a spray of spittle. Laughing manically with crazy, spinning eyes. I would stumble out of clubs drunk and shout his name, cursing it, wishing for a chance of revenge.

I had followed him to his shack made of two old doors and a piece of corrugated iron random pieces of wood poking out, knotted and twisted, like a nest. Rusting cans and broken bottles lay on the floor like dead fish on a dry river bed. Outside I kicked a vodka bottle with a faded yellow label. I hear him mutter and shout. Inside he is on his knees clutching his right hand tightly with his left. It looks purple as his thumb and fingers make a loop around his wrist stopping the flow of blood.

He barely registers you, twitching, starring at his hand which he is holding centremetres away from his face.

"Look at me." I say kicking him hard in the back. "Do you remember me?" He turns and faces me and his eyes light up. He mumbles to himself. He crawls on his knees towards me shaking his hand at me he says wildly:

"It's in here, I've got it. The bug. He slams his closed hand down onto a chair by your legs, a cloud of dust puffs from the faded red velvet cushion, the gold paint from the frame cracked and pealing.

"Cut it off. He whimpers. "Please. Iwanted him to beg for forgiveness to grovel on his belly, but now I'm struck dumb.

"Please, it's in here, in my hand. I caught it. He begins to crow. "It's been crawling around inside me for years but I was clever. I got it, I caught it! Yes. It thought I was sleeping but I trapped it. You just have to cut it off! Please, you can. I don't want it inside me anymore. Please. Cut it off. CUT IT OFF! You can." I raise my axe above his wriggling hand.

Lying on my old bed I look around my room which has been perfectly preserved. All my trophies I won when I was a kid, dusty and unmoved for decades. My dad said he'd turned my room into a library, I guess he never got round to it. The sun was coming up. I was feeling empty. All the hate and anger I had felt for that man had evaporated. He wasn't a monster he was insane. I couldn't do it, how could I?

Restless, I walk around the house and up to the door of my dad's room. Staring, my face an inch from the door, I was never allowed in his bedroom. I wanted to go and tell him about shelly and how I'd fucked things up because maybe he would understand. Shaking I gripped the door handle. I walk into the room. I wish I had that axe with me, I was terrified.

I pulled the covers back and he was lying on his back in his vest socks and pants, arms by his side like a newborn.

"Wake up" I said, my dad began to stir unable to move. I asked again.

"What's going on?" He asked groggily.

"That day, when I lost my finger, you said you'd sort it, what did you mean? What did you do to him?"

"It's four o'clock in the morning!" he protested lifting his head up to look at me, his chin pressing on his chest.

"Answer me." I said

"You can't just barge in here, who do you think you are, asking me questions?

"Answer me. I said turning the light on. He groaned and squinted, unable to move any of his limbs.

"Did you hurt him, what did you do? I need to know, I mean, did you do it for me? Because you loved me? Because he hurt your son? I was grasping at the mass of thoughts wriggling in my head.

"You kept my room un-changed, do you miss me, or what? do you even want me here? I need¦I'm trying to understand dad. If I go now, or tomorrow, we both know it'll be for the last time.

He waited and looked at me.

"Did you hurt him? I asked.

"You don't want to know. He said finally. I stared at him and did nothing.