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cc&d v202

this writing is in the collection book
Ink in my Blood (prose edition)
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 Ink in my Blood (prose edition)
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 Weathered
An Unfortunate Host

Danielle Stirling

    Every morning Bentley Ferrari wakes up at 6 o’clock and drags himself sleepily across the room to the small area in the corner: the bathroom. He has a morning battle with the cockroaches for authority and proceeds to make himself look semi-decent all the while stepping over the losing cockroaches dead bodies. His grey-brown hair is combed into a comb over and strands of his greasy hair fall from their place on his head down in front of his boring brown eyes. He wobbles to the left of the bathroom area and pulls out his work outfit. He struggles to fit the red plaid shirt over his head and his beer belly hangs slightly from the bottom. His blue jeans are worn and faded, reaching right above his ankles.
    Before he leaves for work, he pours a few cups full of dog food into his dog’s food dish and gives him fresh water from the tap. He takes his keys from the table in front of the television, littered with beer bottles, and walks out of his dumpy studio apartment on his way to work.
    Outside his apartment in his designated parking stall sits a white, 1979 Chevrolet Chevette, its paint chipping horribly, making the car look pitiful and sad. Bentley gets in his car and starts the engine; it purrs softly then roars to life, making a small bird fly away in fright. He pulls out of his apartment complex and races down the street and around the corner, the tires screeching as he disregards the red light.
    Fifteen minutes later he arrives at a small, broken down building and parks directly in front of it. The orange neon sign above the door glows dully in the morning light. The lines swirl together, the sign reading: Key Shop. Bentley takes a small, dirty key and shoves it roughly into the door handle and turns it to the right. The door squeaks open and he walks inside, throwing his keys on the front desk. He flips the light switch on and the small shop comes to life quickly. Keys of every shape, size and color dawn the walls that are painted a soft blue. The cream colored ceiling has small cracks over its surface. Chairs are lined up against the back wall and the front desk lies directly across from them.
    Bentley looks up as a little bell rings, signaling a customer has come in. A man with gloves over his hands walks in carrying a big chest and walks over to the front desk; he sets the chest on the ground besides his feet.
    “Good morning sir, it’s unusual to see customers this early in the morning, what can I do for you?”
    “I can’t open this chest; I need a key made for it.”
    “Didn’t it come with a key when you bought the lock?”
    “Yes but I lost it.”
    “I see, well I need to make a mold of the lock and have the key made. It will be ready by Thursday for you to pick up. Can I have a name and number?” Bentley takes out a sheet of paper to write on.
    “Thank you,” Says the man with the chest, ignoring Bentley’s last question. He abruptly turns away; throwing his gloves in the trash can near the door and walks out quickly. The little bell rings again.
    Bentley watches him walk out, “I guess he’ll pick it up Thursday,” he says and shrugs.
    Bentley gets up from behind the front desk and looks strangely at the large chest on the floor. The wood is old but still sturdy; an iron lock holds the chest closed. Bentley bends down awkwardly to pick it up, it’s very heavy. “There must be something in here,” he says to himself. He takes the chest to the back room and puts it on a small wooden table with drawers on the sides that hold his key making gadgets and materials. He sits down, and opens the first drawer on the right which contains his molding materials.
    Fifteen minutes later he finishes the mold and lets it sit to dry over night. He walks back out to the front of his shop and starts his book keeping; it keeps him busy until more customers arrive.
    As Bentley walks out the door to go home for the night, he takes the trash bag out of the trash can. He locks his shop up and walks over to the dumpster to throw away the trash. He gets in his car and drives home.

    Bentley comes home that night after a long day at work and enters his apartment. His dog is asleep on the couch and the lights are off, only the moonlight illuminates the room. He flicks the light switch on and throws his keys on the table in front of the television. He walks to the refrigerator to grab a beer and walks back to his couch. He sits down and kicks his old and torn shoes off while popping the bottle cap off his beer on the side of the table. He picks the remote up from the floor and pushes the power button to turn on the TV. Breaking news flutters across the screen, a woman’s voice speaks:

    ‘Early this morning, 60 year old Tom Lucas was reported missing from his home. His wife, who was spending time with her sister out of town, tells us that he never leaves the house due to his lower body paralysis. She came home around 8 o’clock and her husband was no where to be seen. If you know anything about this event please contact your local police station.’

    “Well I’ll be damned, isn’t that my old grumpy neighbor?” he said to no one in particular. He just shrugs and flips the channel. 10 beers later, Bentley is passed out on the couch, the television still talking to the quiet room.
    The next morning Bentley awakes to a beeping sound. “Damn, shut up!” He rolls over, not judging the space between the edge of the couch and the floors, and falls off, face first. “Shit, ouch.” He rubs his head; a small red bump starts to form. He struggles to stand up and walks over to his empty bed and unplugs his alarm clock; it immediately stops beeping. He continues over to the bathroom area, once again killing cockroaches. He combs his hair the same way and stays in the clothes he wore yesterday and passed out in. He quickly brushes his teeth and puts his deodorant on. He fills his dogs dish and grabs his keys off the table and walks out the door.
    He arrives at work fifteen minutes later. He once again rams the key into the lock and the door squeaks open. Right away he notices a stench that wasn’t there yesterday.
    “What the hell is that smell?” He covers his mouth and his nose as he gags. He decides that he needs and air freshener so he walks out of his shop and down the street a few shops over and quickly buys a strong air freshener. He walks back in his shop and leaves the door open to air out the shop, putting a wooden block under it so the door does not close.
    The day goes by quickly. Bentley has little time to finish working on the key for the chest the strange man brought in, but he gets it done. Customers come and go, a few making comments on how it smells like “someone died in here”. Bentley apologizes and says he doesn’t know why it smells bad and bids his customers good day.
    Bentley walks in his apartment and shuts the door behind him, yawning. He throws his keys down on the table in front of the television and walks over to the refrigerator to grab a beer. He goes to his bed and plugs his alarm clock back in, walks back over to the couch and plops himself down next to his dog and turns the TV on. The news is on again:

    ’60 year old Tom Lucas was reported missing yesterday morning. We have new information that leads us to believe that he has been murdered. Investigators found spots of blood on the carpet, leading out of his apartment. Police say a witness saw a man walking out of the apartment complex that very morning and sped off, running a red light. We do not know if this man is responsible or not. Once again if you have any information, please contact your local police station.’

    “I hate that old guy, but why would someone kill him?” He says to himself. He takes a large gulp of his beer and sets it back down on the table, flipping through the rest of the channels. The night repeats itself with Bentley lying passed out on the couch and the TV still on.
    The next morning Bentley awakes to the same beeping noise. He groggily gets up and goes to turn the alarm clock off. He continues his same morning routine of killing cockroaches and making himself look semi-descent.
    He leaves his apartment and drives to his shop. He opens the door and the same stench is in the air, but it’s overwhelming.
    Bentley cringes at the smell. He makes his way to the back room to find an infestation of flies swarming around the putrid smelling chest.
    “Oh for the love of god!” he manages to choke out as he examines the back room. Bentley walks toward the chest with his arm guarding his mouth and nose. The flies hover and stall his concentration as he tries to feel for the key on the small wooden table.
    “Shit, shit, shit!” Bentley screams as a fly nearly chokes him out. He finally spots the key near the edge of the table and swipes it before he inhales anymore flies. As he fights back the urge to vomit, Bentley feels for the keyhole, almost blinded by the flies. He jams the key into the iron lock, as he does he hears the sound of the little bell on the door ringing and more than one set of footsteps marching towards the backroom.
    “Put your hands where I can see them!” A police officer demands.
    Bentley, with a stunned and confused look on his face, throws his hands in the air. Silence fills the air for what seems to last for hours. Bentley clears his throat trying to overcome the shock and says, “What can I do for you boys?”
    The cop pulls out his handcuffs and says, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Tom Lucas,” as he slaps the cuffs around Bentley’s wrists.
    “I’ve done no such thing!” He whimpers.
    “We got an anonymous call about you being the murderer, Mr. Ferrari.”
    Just then another cop unlocks the chest revealing Tom Lucas’s missing body.
    Bentley feels his knees give out as he looks at the unfortunate host of the chest.
    “My god it’s Tom.” Bentley gasps as horror fills every crevice of his body.



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