Suburbia Is Evil
May. 20th, 2003 11:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ursulaMy villains are all very similar. I know this says something about my subconscious, but I haven't traced exactly what.
They raced each other down a rocky path, past a grove of trees, a jungle-gym hung with bats, the sound of screaming. At last they came to a neat white house, set back from the road and surrounded by a picket fence. Theo shuddered. Prue opened the gate.
The house had a lawn of white grass, and a pebbled pathway leading up to the front porch. Theo pressed the doorbell. It was silent. She tried again, and the silence seemed to spread around them, pushing out from the door in waves.
Prue was considering breaking a window when the door opened. The woman behind it had a purple-red pantsuit and dark hair cut in one of those flippy television-star haircuts that make real people look like their bangs were eaten by a cat. Her bangs were perfect, and she was tanned so dark that you could feel the skin cancer multiplying. She might have been twenty or sixty, or six thousand.
“Oh, I’m so glad you made it!” she said. “We’ve been expecting you. Come right this way.”
She led them down a dark hallway lined with gray carpet, and then another and another. There were no windows. By the time she opened a door in the side of the corridor, they were both exhausted.
The room was large, large enough to fill the downstairs of an ordinary white house all by itself. A giant black television was set against the far wall. Three chairs and a coffee table huddled in the center.
“My husband should be along any minute now,” the woman told them. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring you some tea and cookies?”
“That’s OK,” said Theo. “We’ll wait.”
“You’re sure? Just a cake or two? You must be so hungry, coming all this way . . .”
“We’re on a diet,” Theo said firmly.
The woman’s gaze lingered on Theo’s round shoulders, her full breasts, then twitched skeptically at Prue, all glasses and bones. “What about you, dear? You’re sure you don’t want just a piece of fruit?”
“Yes, very sure.”
“Well, if you’re absolutely certain . . .” She herded them toward the chairs. The central one was huge and made of black leather. It had all sorts of levers and buttons along the side, to raise or recline, or summon a tray of fruit. There was even a pocket for the remote. Clearly, it belonged to the man of the house—- the King of Hell.
The other chairs looked like deck chairs. They were white, with cross-stitch pillows attached as an afterthought. The chairs themselves were carved all over with a twisting pattern, flowers or animals, or scales.
“Do sit down.” The woman smiled a dentist-advertisement smile.
“We can wait,” said Theo, standing.
“But you look so tired! You’re sure you don’t want a glass of water, or lemonade?”
“No, no really, it’s all right.”
“At least sit down. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. You’ve come such a long way.”
Prue shrugged and sat at the edge of her chair. She was tired, very tired. Theo followed suit.
“No tea? You’re certain?”
“Really. No tea,” they said together.
“I’ll just go find my husband, then.” The woman left, finally, her footsteps clicking on the bare floor.
Prue tried to stand. And failed. The light twisting carvings on her chair were moving, curving, forming a manacle-grip around wrist and forearm and ankle. Scales, it was all scales, and stone. She tried to rock the chair, but it had grown into the floor, stone and stone together. “Theo!” she yelled.
Theo was already caged in. She breathed deep, feeling the earth beneath her, looking for a crack, a slit, a place where fire or salt water could push the rock apart. Then the ground would shake them loose, and the stone would surrender itself to her; but no, it was the same rock all the way down.
“I can’t move it,” she said. “Too solid. Earth is her mother.”
Prue thrashed and yelled and at last was silent. They stared at the empty black television screen. It reflected the empty black chair. Nobody came.
Years passed, or centuries, and nobody came.
They raced each other down a rocky path, past a grove of trees, a jungle-gym hung with bats, the sound of screaming. At last they came to a neat white house, set back from the road and surrounded by a picket fence. Theo shuddered. Prue opened the gate.
The house had a lawn of white grass, and a pebbled pathway leading up to the front porch. Theo pressed the doorbell. It was silent. She tried again, and the silence seemed to spread around them, pushing out from the door in waves.
Prue was considering breaking a window when the door opened. The woman behind it had a purple-red pantsuit and dark hair cut in one of those flippy television-star haircuts that make real people look like their bangs were eaten by a cat. Her bangs were perfect, and she was tanned so dark that you could feel the skin cancer multiplying. She might have been twenty or sixty, or six thousand.
“Oh, I’m so glad you made it!” she said. “We’ve been expecting you. Come right this way.”
She led them down a dark hallway lined with gray carpet, and then another and another. There were no windows. By the time she opened a door in the side of the corridor, they were both exhausted.
The room was large, large enough to fill the downstairs of an ordinary white house all by itself. A giant black television was set against the far wall. Three chairs and a coffee table huddled in the center.
“My husband should be along any minute now,” the woman told them. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring you some tea and cookies?”
“That’s OK,” said Theo. “We’ll wait.”
“You’re sure? Just a cake or two? You must be so hungry, coming all this way . . .”
“We’re on a diet,” Theo said firmly.
The woman’s gaze lingered on Theo’s round shoulders, her full breasts, then twitched skeptically at Prue, all glasses and bones. “What about you, dear? You’re sure you don’t want just a piece of fruit?”
“Yes, very sure.”
“Well, if you’re absolutely certain . . .” She herded them toward the chairs. The central one was huge and made of black leather. It had all sorts of levers and buttons along the side, to raise or recline, or summon a tray of fruit. There was even a pocket for the remote. Clearly, it belonged to the man of the house—- the King of Hell.
The other chairs looked like deck chairs. They were white, with cross-stitch pillows attached as an afterthought. The chairs themselves were carved all over with a twisting pattern, flowers or animals, or scales.
“Do sit down.” The woman smiled a dentist-advertisement smile.
“We can wait,” said Theo, standing.
“But you look so tired! You’re sure you don’t want a glass of water, or lemonade?”
“No, no really, it’s all right.”
“At least sit down. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. You’ve come such a long way.”
Prue shrugged and sat at the edge of her chair. She was tired, very tired. Theo followed suit.
“No tea? You’re certain?”
“Really. No tea,” they said together.
“I’ll just go find my husband, then.” The woman left, finally, her footsteps clicking on the bare floor.
Prue tried to stand. And failed. The light twisting carvings on her chair were moving, curving, forming a manacle-grip around wrist and forearm and ankle. Scales, it was all scales, and stone. She tried to rock the chair, but it had grown into the floor, stone and stone together. “Theo!” she yelled.
Theo was already caged in. She breathed deep, feeling the earth beneath her, looking for a crack, a slit, a place where fire or salt water could push the rock apart. Then the ground would shake them loose, and the stone would surrender itself to her; but no, it was the same rock all the way down.
“I can’t move it,” she said. “Too solid. Earth is her mother.”
Prue thrashed and yelled and at last was silent. They stared at the empty black television screen. It reflected the empty black chair. Nobody came.
Years passed, or centuries, and nobody came.