Lisa Farrell

Listen to Lisa’s story – read by Jo Clark

When you’re asleep, I slip out from under your pillow, peel myself from your shadow, and slither down the stairs. I empty the smaller bins first, tipping my head back and cracking open my jaw. I swallow it whole, everything half-finished or single-use, the decaying, the torn and the broken. It smells sweet-sour like rotting fruit, but tastes like liquorice.

I have more substance, swollen with the detritus of your life; I’m growing heavy enough to leave sticky footprints on your floor, up your walls. I clamber out through a window and land on the soft, night-dewed ground with a thump. The air nips at me, but I find the outside bins in the dark, following the warm smell of unwashed cans, damp and infested. Bins lined up stiff as soldiers, guarding their precious cargo. I flip open their lids, let each fall with a crack, like a gun firing, jaw snapping, trap closing on a limb.

The bags rustle sweetly as I draw them out, one by one, the plastic smooth as unbroken skin. Bottles clank together, teasing me, and I tear through the thin membrane to the rich pickings you’ve tossed aside. Upturning the bags, I pour evidence of everything you’ve consumed the last few days and spread it out upon the concrete, to eat, to savour. Each prick of sharp metal, shard of crumpled plastic, and scrap of smooth, inked paper is delicious in its own way. Coated cardboard is soft and juicy, oily with food I watched you enjoy at speed. Empty bottles have a heavy tang, worth a swallow though they bloat me. I’m so hungry, I even eat the metal trays, though I know they’ll take weeks to pass.

The bags themselves I save for last, they leave me breathless with their otherworldly taste and texture. They fill my limbs and settle awkwardly, inflate my arms with muscles like balloons. I haven’t space for more, but I’m still hungry. My belly drags on the ground as I crawl back inside, hoist myself slowly over each step.

Drawn by your breath, knowing you’ll soon make plenty more, I plant a sour, grateful kiss on your lips before I squeeze myself into a dusty gap under your bed. The bed rocks as I get comfortable, disturbing your sleep. You’ll wake groggy tomorrow, with a foul taste in your mouth.

Lisa Farrell is a freelance writer in the hobby games industry and a postgraduate researcher exploring interactivity in fiction. Some of her recent stories have been published by The Amphibian and Litro, and performed by Liars’ League London. To read more visit http://www.lisafarrell.blogspot.com

Read & Listen to more from Lisa:

Litro Magazine – ‘The Hunt’
Liars’ League – ‘Family Recipes’ (read by Gloria Sanders)