Feeding The Closet Thingy
Little Tommy Tinkleton was once a normal boy. He once was scared of the dark. He once liked to play with his toys. He once even ate a worm, then a snail, and then some flowers, but never did he do anything considered too peculiar for a boy his age. A strange thing happened to Tommy Tinkleton a month or so ago, and he became no longer normal. Nobody else knew it to be true, but it most definitely was, and continues to be. Tommy Tinkleton keeps a secret that takes imagination to fathom, and courage not to fear. Before that secret’s shared, and before we go ahead, one thing must be clear:
Little Tommy Tinkleton no longer plays with his toys, and no longer fears the dark. His favourite meal is worm-like but it’s certainly not alive.
In fact, Tommy’s appetite seems to have grown a lot in recent times, for spaghetti and meatballs in particular, but he only eats alone in the quiet of his room. His parents don’t mind that one bit – means less for them to do. They have so many interests and far too little time to worry about something as insignificant as parenting. Their interests so broad consist of anything and everything they can look at in the mirror, and quite literally nothing else.
It was twenty-nine short days ago that Tommy’s world took a turn, and every day since he’s kept that secret without the need for any real discretion. Mum and Dad, or Barb and Bill, as they insist that Tommy call them, have not the nearest clue, not even a sniff of Tommy’s normalcy’s disappearance. Putting it nicely, they are far too engrossed in the aroma that lingers around their own backsides to notice, or to even care about any changes in Tommy’s behaviour. So every afternoon after school when little Tommy charges through the front door, climbs the stairs to his room and returns dressed in his bright green flannelette pyjamas, only to ask how long until dinner is ready, Barb and Bill think nothing. Then as quickly as possible they cook an oddly large pot of spaghetti, so they can finally take a break from the strenuous parenting they’ve been burdened with.
It takes only fifteen minutes to cook the Tinkleton blend of spaghetti, and tastes worse than its brainy resemblance. Taste buds shrivel from just the scent, like a rainforest catching wind of a bulldozers exhaust, but still Tommy hastily comes when called.
“TOMMY. SKEDDY. COME GET IT NOW. I’VE BEEN SLAVIN’ ALL AFTERNOON”, Barb yells.
Little Tommy Tinkleton, looking like a normal boy, races to the kitchen. His hair bouncing about with far more enthusiasm than he – it’s shaggy and brown, because a barber to Barb and Bill is a waste of precious time and money that they like to spend on themselves. He stands holding a plate, and with his twice-daily brushed teeth he assembles a smile that attempts to appear thankful.
“DON’T JUST STAND THERE YOU UNGRATEFUL SOD. YOU EXPECT ME TO PUT IT ON YOUR PLATE FOR YOU AS WELL?”
Tommy says, “sorry”, and gathers a scoop. That scoop precedes the next, as the next does the following, until eventually he stands with a plateful fit for at least two grown men. “May I be excused?” he asks, as politely as he can.
“IT’S ALWAYS WANT, WANT, WANT, WITH YOU ISN’T IT, TOMMY? GET OUT OF MY HAIR”.
And so up to his room Tommy marches, with just short of a child’s wheelbarrow full of horrible looking, smelling, and tasting spaghetti. He arrives at his door, but before he opens it he glances over his shoulder to make sure his parents aren’t watching him – though Halley’s comet would sooner come. He enters at the pace of that snail he once ate, wheelbarrow leading the way, and then firmly closes the door behind him. He drags his bed-turned-barricade across to the door, sealing himself inside, and then he places the plate of spaghetti on the wooden floor in front of his closet. Tommy hasn’t embraced some Japanese eating habit, nor does he know of such a thing. He edges hesitantly towards his cupboard, and with his arms trembling reaches for the handles. Just as his hands make the slightest contact, a shockingly hideous, thunderous grumble, rumbles through the room. It’s not some cavernous cry for food from Tommy’s tummy however, and he gasps briefly from apparent fright. He pauses for a moment before he composes himself somewhat. In one swift motion he yanks open both closest doors and dives backwards to the floor. There he lay shaking, eyes peeled wide open, unable to look away. He involuntarily lends an ear to the sound of something devouring his ‘skeddy’ as if disembowelling a cow that lives inside another cow’s bowels with its mouth.
Then…
it stops.
Tommy waits a few seconds, and a few seconds more before he springs to his feet and closes the closet doors. Then he goes about his business as if nothing at all unusual has occurred. As if he’s still…normal.
Barb and Bill Tinkleton were never normal people, nor were they ever nice. They’ve always been the kind of people that seemingly struggle to grasp the concept of kindness. The citizens of Moggleville, the town in which they’ve spent every ungrateful breath of their lives, are painfully oblivious to this gaping flaw. Although, this is understandably owed to the fact that Barb and Bill chose to adopt Tommy out of the kindness of their hearts, or at least the Tinkleton dictionary’s definition of such a gesture.
The truth behind Tommy’s adoption is far more cunning than kind, and far less complicated than such a doing should be. Moggleville has a personality that is quite the contrary to that of the Tinkleton pair. The town brims with happiness, and is always willing to lend a helping hand to the less fortunate; so much so that it offers incredible perks for people raising a child, especially an orphaned child.
These perks are like the bright lights of a casino where losing doesn’t exist, and Barb and Bill, they’re insects.
To be quite frank, Tommy has never loved Barb and Bill, though he’s certainly tried. Up until those twenty-nine days ago he would ask every night if they’d tuck him into bed and read him a story; the answer always anything but yes.
Oh how things change.
Now, after delivering his daily mound of skeddy, he spends the night at his desk drawing. The things he draws could easily be mistaken for the product of a normal child’s imagination, but they’re much more fact than not. Tommy’s only doodling’s of vividness are those in which his real parents are still alive, but he doesn’t draw those anymore – not for twenty-nine days, at least.
Tommy eventually climbs into bed but not before a stealthy late night raid on the pantry. He wakes the next day much like the last. Something seems different though; he just can’t seem to figure out what. He gets dressed the same as every other day. He has breakfast the same way too. He goes to school and everything there is…the same. Same teacher. Same class. Same table. Same chair. Same lunch. Same number of friends. And at three o’clock the same bell rings as per every other afternoon, and he races home as quickly as he can.
He charges through the front door and runs up stairs as if accompanied by a particular Survivor hit song, and changes straight into his pyjamas. Still everything seems the same.
Tommy makes his way downstairs where finally something is clearly not the same. It’s completely quiet – peaceful almost. It’s never peaceful. Barb is nowhere to be seen, and Bill still at work. Out of curiosity more so than concern, Tommy goes searching for Barb. He checks the lounge room, no Barb. He checks the study, no Barb. He checks all three bedrooms, then front yard and back, and still no Barb. Tommy stops for a moment to soak up the peace before he wanders back inside. He doesn’t miss Barb’s foul mouthed presence at all, but for certain closet-related reasons is quite anxious for dinner to be cooked.
With Barb clearly not home, Tommy decides that the Tinkleton skeddy is simple enough for him to cook himself. He rattles around the kitchen for a pot and all the ingredients (all four of them, five if you count water), and without any sort of trouble he has it cooking in no time. While he waits he notices what looks like a note on the kitchen bench. Feeling it may provide answers as to his paper mother’s whereabouts he picks it up to find that although it’s not a note per se, answers it does provide.
Tommy holds in his hand a checklist titled ‘Junk We Can Sell’.
Barb has obviously been busy scheming of ways to make a quick buck – albeit a dishonest buck. She’s been so productive too. Of the dozen or so items on her list, every box bar one is checked.
On first read Tommy doesn’t make much of the checklist, but on a second inspection he has a light bulb moment.
Tommy realizes that the box yet to be checked just below ‘Tommy’s Bike’ reads, ‘Tommy’s Bits and Bobs’, and that means…
He scurries upstairs and crashes through his bedroom door. Standing nervously in the middle of his room he stares at his closet.
It couldn’t be true, could it?
He approaches the closet hesitantly, just as every other afternoon. This time however, he’s afraid for a very different reason. He swallows his nerves and opens the doors.
The truth is a funny thing to behold, as is irony. An ironic truth however, that is just…justice.
On the closet floor lay a pool of blood in which one of Barbs shoes swims. Tommy swiftly closes the doors. He’s overwhelmed with emotions – such conflicting emotions. Tommy doesn’t have a hateful bone in his body, but even the most decent human beings can only tolerate so much abuse. He backs away from the closet and sits on his bed in shock.
Then, Bill arrives home from work. He too notices something different.
“Why’s it so damn quiet around here?” he mumbles.
He walks into the kitchen to see the pot of skeddy cooking as always, but no Barb.
“BARB, WHERE ARE YOU AT?” he shouts to no reply – if only he knew.
Like the gummiest of sharks he hones in on the pot of skeddy and gives it a quick taste. “Yep, done”, he says.
“BARB, SKEDDY’S READY”, he yells.
“TOMMY?”
Tommy’s too overcome with shock to hear Bill calling his name.
“THAT GOOD FOR NOTHING BOY. DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING ‘ROUND HERE?”
He starts dishing up Tommy’s dinner, piling it as high as he possibly can, and when he can fit no more he proceeds to carry it up stairs – the skeddy so high it’s all but blocking his view.
He swings open Tommy’s door to see Tommy sitting on his bed.
“THERE YOU ARE, YOU LITTLE SOD. I’VE BEEN CALLING YOU. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Tommy looks up at Bill blankly and stumbles on his words. “I’ve just, I’ve just been, umm –“
“DON’T HAVE ALL NIGHT, BOY. HERE’S YOUR SKEDDY”
Tommy stares blankly for a moment longer until he has his second light bulb moment of the day, and urges Bill to put the plate on the ground.
“Quickly, put it down.”
“PUT WHAT DOWN?” Bill asks with the same bitter tone as always.
“Put the plate on the ground, quickly”, Tommy says.
“HA! I’LL DO NO SUCH THING. NOW TAKE YOUR DINNER, YOU LITTLE SH –“
“Please, Bill put it down“
The room rumbles louder than ever before. Bill turns to face the closet clearly startled.
“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?” he asks.
“Bill, please put it on the ground”, Tommy pleads once more.
Another big growl roars from within the closet sending tremors across the room.
Just as Bill finally decides to heed Tommy’s advice, the doors burst open to a hideous groan.
Bill is paralyzed with fear. He shakes.
“W-what is that thing?”
He looks down to see his wife’s shoe swimming in blood, and nervously starts to back away.
It edges towards him, fresh flesh still on its breath.
“S-s-stay away from me. Look, skeddy” he says clutching at straws.
“Take the boy instead, he’d be much tastier, and no one will miss him”, he begs – gutless.
It’s already made its mind up though; Bill is dessert.
Tommy sits on his bed, still in shock, unable to look away. He involuntarily lends an ear to the sound of something devouring Bill as if disemboweling a coward that lives insides another coward’s bowels with its mouth.
Then…
it stops.
