Author Topic: Storage unit #58 RugRats  (Read 1016 times)

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Bob Killen

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on: 11:42 AM, 11/ 6/17

#58 RugRats

14OCT17 was the last day. The last day I could visit storage unit number 58. The units were all being shut down because of an insignificance. Not that it mattered to me, I hadn’t visited storage unit number 58 in 20 years; I just kept paying the bill that came every month. Now that they were closing I guess I’d have a little extra change in my pocket, not that it mattered. Living alone in a Winnebago in Nevada is not very expensive. As I pulled my filthy 1997 grey F150 into the small parking lot I hesitated and thought about why I was there. 20 years… awful long time to not have a visit. I opened the crumpled-in door of the truck with a shove and released several empty McDonalds bags. Strolling hesitantly, I made my way over to the rolling metal gate where Charon was waiting for me. I showed him I was the proud owner of 58, and walked in the way I had many dark nights before. Time melted as the rolling green door became ever closer and my walk became like that of a child’s accepting a punishment. Time froze when I touched the handle. “20 years, long time not to visit”. My breathing had become raspy, short, and difficult as I undid the lock. The explosive bang of each slat of cold metal on to itself as the door rolled up caused my soul to shrivel. After years of thundering bangs, silence was the only thing with me as I opened my eyes. The dim white walls of the unit greeted me in their usual pale way while the floor stared back in un-acknowledgment. Old friends never need many words. The smell of dust, metal and concrete, in a room that by all available evidence should have no discernable smell, slithered into my nostrils. I stepped into my room. I would say I was afraid, but fear is too weak a word. I was dead for all but the beating of my heart. I knew what came next and before I could protest my hand was pulling down the door behind me. With a thunderous crash my cage was shut, and I was once again in the darkness of my room.
   
I sat, for in the presence of company it is polite to sit and talk. As tears started making their way down my withered cheeks I felt along the old concrete floor. The same bumps, irregularities, defects, and desperate scratch marks graced my fingers. I knew them all. I laid on the floor out-stretched, my nose pushed against the concrete as my tears pooled around me, but I made no sound, that’s forbidden. As my descent became more all-encompassing, I noticed the single strip of duct tape withered and adhesive-less touching the tip of my finger. What a disgusting mess. I loved that duct tape though because it took my mind off it. I regained my functions and yanked my head up to stare at it; and as I peered into the darkness the streams down my cheeks became rivers and my tongue turned to dust. 20 years is so long to go without a visit. I started to hyperventilate as I clutched my knees to my chest and thought of the machines with their claws pulling my room apart. I thought of the pigs with their bombs blowing everything away. “Where will I put it? What will happen to it?”  I ran my fingernails along the floor scratches even though I know they didn’t ever fit the marks. My mouth was agape, and I screamed a silent scream of pure insanity.  I had left my room, but it never left me. I had left my room, but it never left me. I LEFT THE ROOM FOR 20 YEARS AND NEVER WALKED ACROSS IT’S THRESHOLD. “What if they find what I have left here?” I knew they wouldn’t. No one could, not after today. I stumbled like a drunk to the far wall where my hands came to rest on the cool white paint. My silent screams of anger and hatred filled the room as I clutched the scuff marks on the wall. My fingers trembled with each passing groove. The dust in the air becoming ammonic to my nostrils. I knew it was there, but it was easier to pretend I forgot. Sitting in that back corner his eyes daggers into my soul. I couldn’t ignore it, it had to come with me. No one could know. A final time I spent the millennia walking from the end of my room to the door. As the metal made its booming roll up and the sunlight flooded in…I looked back.
   
I looked back upon my desolate, empty room, save it’s one piece of decor. A room of secrets no one will know. I am not leaving anything, I am taking everything home. I picked up the room and put it on my back. As I walked out the ferryman gave me a funny look. I suppose an elementary school child’s backpack with a large picture of Tommy Pickles on it was an odd fashion choice for a man as old as me.
« Last Edit: 01:19 PM, 12/ 8/17 by Bob Killen »



Lysdoodle Weaver

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on: 03:38 PM, 11/ 6/17
Bob, if there are dead puppies in this unit,  I will haunt you. I will discover how to haunt people over the interwebz while still alive and I will haunt you.



TataSantec

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on: 04:58 PM, 11/ 6/17
If there are dead fucking squeleton of puppies I will be haunted. Please don't. But I really liked the story so far, well written :)



Oxygen-Thief

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on: 10:23 PM, 11/27/17
This is a very unique setting with some creepy imagery, in my opinion. There's something about empty dog cages that's unsettling to me. So far the story is very gripping with interesting characters, and I like that the narrator is interesting in their own way instead of being merely a camera for the reader. There are quite a few typos though, especially near the end of this draft. Good luck with the rest of this story!



Bob Killen

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on: 04:21 AM, 12/ 4/17
The original had the puppy thing sorry about the confusion.