"Mr Vich´s Demon" by Suzannah Carrick

Cage of Words

Mr Vich lobbed his heavy notebook through the window of his room and sat grumpily down on the bed.  Glass descended like sugary rain about him, but he ignored it.  Anger was bubbling at his insides, churning them up and wringing them out.

“What the hell’s wrong with him?” he yelled, kicking over a chair and sending it flying into a wall.

“Why won’t he listen to me?” he chucked a pillow at the door.

“That’s it!” Mr Vich screamed, his voice hoarse.  He got to his feet, wrenched the door from its hinges, chucked all the drawers from his dressing table into the air, and punched the grandfather clock full in the face.

            “You called.” Drawled a low, bored voice from the – now door less – doorway.  A creature leaned there, propped against one elbow, his red and white stripy hair falling into his eyes.

“Yes I bloody well did!” Mr Vich yelled, advancing on the nonchalant animal.  The creature stared back.  Roughly, the same height and shape as a human –with limbs impossibly thin, and four, sprawling, toes on each foot that often doubled up as a second pair of hands.  Its incredibly pointed chin narrowed to a deadly-looking needle tip, and snaking, seaweed-like tendrils sprouted from where its eyebrows should have been.  Its eyes were the irritating, bland purple that comes free with windows xp limited-colour paint programme.

            With these, the creature regarded Mr Vich disdainfully,

“I have other things to do, you know – apart from being at your beck and call all day.  Like painting my toenails for instance.  Do you wish to deny me the meagre pleasures of life?”

“I hardly consider that a priority!  I have a book to finish!”

The creature shot him a snide look, “Well that says it in itself – doesn’t it?”

Mr Vich’s face purpled, and the muscles in his scrawny arms gave a weak wobble.  Unperturbed, the creature pushed past him, righted the chair, and sat on it.  Looking mildly around he asked,

“So where is it, this book?”

            There was a silence, during which Mr Vich flushed, before saying,

“I threw it out the window.”

“Dear dear.” Sighed the creature, helping himself to a biscuit that had been trodden into the carpet, and curling his three, crimson tongues around it, “Aren’t we getting a little old for temper-tantrums?”

Mr Vich said nothing, he merely looked with his meanest of looks.

Smirking, the creature tucked his stripy hair behind his triple-point ears, and said lightly, “It’s sweet that you rely on me so much.  And of course – I’m touched – but do get a hold of yourself.”

            Mr Vich spat on the floor, “Don’t flatter yourself, Creativity, if there was a cheaper, shinier, more dependable option I would take it.  Why I have to rely on a clod-hopper like you so I can write is a mystery.”

Creativity looked coolly at him, “Insults won’t get you anywhere with me, Mr Vich, they’ll take you backwards.  If you carry on like this, I will go downstairs and watch nature programs until you have calmed down.”

            “Don’t you threaten me!” Vich growled.

Creativity put his feet up on the bedstead and rubbed his snout-like nose, “You think that’s a threat?  Man, you lack my imagination, I could come up with insults that tied you up into knots and posted you halfway across the universe and time.”

He tugged at his tentacle eyebrows and shrugged.

            Mr Vich, so riled he could barely articulate, pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him.  Shooting a sideways glance at the Creativity creature, Mr Vich screeched,

“Your time is up, PARASITE!”

“Hey, a guy has to make a liv- what are you doing?” Creativity was on his feet, flames of his anger igniting on his shoulders.

Mr Vich sneered in triumph, “I’m writing you into a story, dearest.  I’m going to trap you in a cage of words so that people can walk past and look at you, and poke sticks through the bars, and insult you.”