the doorbell
DIING DONG!
DIING DONG... DIING DONG...
The sound hammered through Mr. Makoto's head like water torture. Each time the thought of that sound passed through his brain, it was like remembering shock treatment; he relived both the memory of physical pain and dread at the thought of it coming again. The reason why he had associated the simple sound of his doorbell with such horrible feelings was a mystery to him. What did the ringing of his doorbell mean? Who usually rang? The ConEx guys delivering his art supplies? The vacuum cleaner salesman? Bible-thumpers? A crazed fan who was stalking him? No, what could possibly have happened that would make him loathe the sound of his doorbell?
DIING DONG!
That was it. He'd had enough of laying there and experiencing these recurring daymares. He needed to get up; perhaps that would make them stop, he'd get up and do something. He turned on the radio and picked up a dustcloth. Softly, the radio's music flooded the tiny bungalow; he'd just caught a song somewhere in the middle. It did a nice job of helping to drive away the nasty doorbell thoughts.
And when Ishtos is brightly shining in the satin sky
I'll make a wish upon a star that will make you want to cry...
Makoto hummed along to the soft, sad melody as he dusted. He traced in the dust like brush-strokes. The sound of ringing doorbells was the furthest thing from his mind.
"DIING DONG!"
He jumped, almost knocking over the glass vase that was on the shelf he was dusting. After a few seconds he realized that this time it was not in his head, someone really rang his doorbell. Makoto walked over to the door, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked through the spyhole. It was his girlfriend. His heart began pounding harder, because of the eagerness he felt at seeing her. He fumbled with the latch as he opened the door, and looked into her beautiful round face, locking his eyes with hers. She walked in, and he did not throw his arms around her in passion, but held fast. He savored every moment they were together, because when she left him alone, he did not know how long it would be until he next saw her. The anxiety he felt in those spaces-in-between drove him insane, in fact, he almost forgot her in all but maybe a small part of his subconscious. Even now, the pangs of lonliness, like blocks of lead in the pit of his stomach, were hitting him.
"You're staring at me, again!" Her sudden sharp remark snapped him out of his melancholy daze. His depression turned to annoyance; he hated it when she criticized him for something she barely understood. Still, he tried not to let it show.
"What? I was just appreciating your beauty, that's all." He retorted.
"Well, stop it! You're creeping me out!" Was her snappy counter-retort.
He hated how immature she could be. Yet he loved her. They sat down together on Makoto's bed, and talked for awhile about frivolous things (mindless chatting was something else he hated), occasionally embracing lukewarmly. She'd sometimes kiss him on the neck, then pull away giggling when he tried to pull her close to him. After being frustrated many times, he backed off and just sat facing the wall, with his hands on his knees. He was not in the mood for her teasing; he just didn't want the heartache, today.
"You're being boring." She complained after a few minutes.
"Well, you don't seem to want to do anything." He replied sorely.
He got up, went over to his easel, and began to paint. If she was just going to play games with him, he wasn't going to bother. She watched intently as his brush caressed the canvas. She seemed to derive more pleasure from watching him paint than from physical intimacy with him. After awhile, he became lost in his work, doing it as though it were automatic, not noticing the thing that was taking shape on the canvas before him. Suddenly, he felt odd, like a big black cloud was forming in his mind. He looked around, and she was gone.
Somewhere in the midst of his artistic fury, she had left. Now he was alone. The big black cloud in his head began to rain drops of dark, opaque liquid that fell to the bottom of his stomach and solidified into a great blob of lead there. He looked at the canvas, at the unfinished painting of a doorbell ringer, and his heart began to hammer inside of his chest. He clutched at his temples as the feelings returned, the feelings that he both anticipated and dreaded...
DIING DONG!
Based upon City of Dreams