Static Serenade

By Abbie Doll

Static Serenade

Why is it we can say wide awake but not narrow? Buried in bedsheets, I’m stuck pondering the restrictions of language, doing my best to distract my brain from this hair-raising predicament. A series of similar nonsensical thoughts carries me to sleep’s doorstep, but not quite inside, as a tsunami of static pummels my eardrums. The metallic crunch of a twenty-car interstate pileup crashes this auditory party. The static itself possesses a demanding subtlety. It’s urgent. It should only be background noise, but I can feel it growing. The volume of this unidentifiable scratchiness keeps climbing higher and higher, louder and louder. It’s absolutely magnetic. The static is calling to me. Luring me. And amidst all the noise, I spot a blurry, almost formless figure swaying in the darkened corner of my vision. Maybe there’s nothing there. I’m not sure. But I swear on my life I saw something.

My mind returns to the static, clutching onto it like clingwrap. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. Part ephemeral, part permanent, it’s confounding all my senses. I look to my left. On the nightstand is an antiquated, dust-ridden radio. The thing hasn’t worked in years. Still, I think I’ve found my culprit. Where else would static come from?

As if on cue, the static lands on an otherworldly station in the midst of some too-cool-for-school disc jockey’s announcement—

Jeremy Miami here comin’ to you dead or alive. You’re tuned into Mortal Mayhem 97.5.

And that’s all there is. The static resumes its airwave dominance. I clench my eyes shut, beckoning my ears to focus. But the harder I strive, the quieter it gets. Like a mourning mother struggling to process the unexpected loss of her newborn, I’m doing my best to make some sense of this senseless situation. This static is so elusive though. I can practically see the key dangling, dancing in front of my face. That figure in the corner’s got it on a fishing line and is toying with me like I’m the catch of the day. But who, or what, is reeling me in? What’s really going on here?

My thoughts cease as a new sound enters the mix. The back of my skull smashing against the headboard with rhythmic repetition. Thud. Thud. Thud. I wrestle with keeping my focus on the familiar—that sweet, smothering static.

The unwelcome cacophony continues. My ears are greeted by a crackly lullaby, a sophisticated sound not unlike a seven-layer cake, some exquisite, fancy French delight. A sinfully sweet, forbidden delicacy. Somewhere beneath the crinkle, music streams. It registers, just barely. I can’t make out the song. But it burrows deep, lodging itself in the unexplored terrain of my subconscious. That damn radio is pulling me in with its sensuous shanty, its sirens luring me in with their haunting melodies. And I have to admit, I welcome the distraction with as much intimacy as I can muster.

 But other sensations persist. I try not to notice the sudden yanks on my hair, but it’s like ripping weeds from their stable home in the ground. My scalp grieves. Out of pure instinct, my hands shoot for my head, trying to protect from damage already done. Instead, I’ve made a mistake in opening myself up. An intolerable tightness locks itself around my wrists, clamping to my skin like handcuffs.

*

            The static keeps calling. The stark uncertainty of my situation resumes. I try to open my eyes, but my reluctant, lethargic lids resist. I want to look around the room. Anywhere but directly in front of me. For a moment, I find meditative comfort in the floor fan and its spinning blades. But its humming vibrations are making untoward suggestions. Above me, I find the motionless ceiling fan, dangling menacingly—its paddles mocking me with their undisguised judgment. I can’t help but feel imprisoned, haunted even by the open blinds and their barred shadows on the stained carpet beneath.

I can feel myself drowning in this swell of sound, possessed by its soul-stirring nothingness. My conquering fear declares victory and assumes the throne of control. Oh, how I wish I could make out this sound. It’s like I’m hearing the dead and all their unheard whispers. Something has to be communicating with me, right? But I’m weak and powerless here, enslaved in the static’s threatening embrace. It envelops me, seals me shut. I’m glued to this fucking bed. The agonizing adhesive, my own sweat. I close my eyes again. I can’t watch this. I don’t want to see what’s happening.

A spirited tennis match ensues within my sockets—my pupils banging back and forth, bouncing off the sidelines with an explosive suddenness. I can feel my heart inflating, growing until it threatens to burst like a popped balloon. The floodgates have been opened. My fear surges through my body’s vascular highway.

Someone help me. Please.

Save me from this waking nightmare before my will to live recedes.

*

I’m still here. How much time has passed? I haven’t a clue.

The trusty floor fan, in its remarkable reliability, continues to spin. The background noise it generates shares the static’s frequency. I am grateful for the interruption it provides, salvaging what lingers of my sanity. In these brief moments, I find the strength to believe in the world of normalcy again, and the static seems silly. I write it off like some bad kung pao chicken and the last eighteen hours spent making turbulent love to the toilet. And yet, my mind is wallpapered with rotten flecks of shit.

Alas, the static remains. I’m drafting my eulogy, bidding adieu to my innocence, my essence. If I keep listening to this, I will surely fade, just as the densest fog dissipates with the tender, warm caress of the morning sun.

Eventually, I acquiesce and am escorted off the premises.

That’s either the sensation of warm relief surging through me, or I’ve wet the bed. I’ve given up the ghost. Let the void in. It’s been pounding on my door with such adamance, such and persistence. I feel my poor pelvis being pounded, shredding me into a messy pulp.

I’ve let it all in, but I’m not home. I’m lingering somewhere around my body, my mind ejected like the tangled ribbon from an overplayed VHS. Someone forgot to rewind me, to remind me how all this was gonna go.

In the distance, I hear the bathroom door shut and a trickle of urine being coaxed out. I lie motionless, calmed by the static, nowhere closer to sleep than I was before. I close my eyes and wonder with apathy what’s to come. How on earth, in my ravaged and pillaged state, can I ever expect to recover from this rape?

Abbie Doll is a current student in Lindenwood University’s MFA in Writing program and has served as an Editorial Assistant for The Lindenwood Review. She lives with her husband and two canine companions in Columbus, OH. Her favorite activities include curling up in her hammock with a good read, taking the pups for neighborhood strolls, and experimenting in the kitchen. Traveling the globe and exploring the beautiful intricacies of language are her greatest joys in life.