Content Notice
This story features mental trauma and sexual harassment
Lullaby
“Sing me a lullaby.”
I snort.
I won’t.
I slide deeper into the bath, letting the water cover my mouth. We’re now at eye level, me and the yellow rubber duck. It’s from an old, fusty suitcase under my bed. That’s where I keep useless junk and clobber. And myself, too. Sometimes.
Occasionally, I slither beneath the bed,to the side of the suitcase, and curl up like a shell. The safest position. There, I wait for The Blot to disappear.
The Blot is blue-black, and glossy, and it doesn’t like darkness because it’s full of darkness itself. When two darknesses collide, they merge, which means both disappear as standalone entities. The Blot doesn’t want that. It doesn’t want to disappear, sink into oblivion. It would never climb under the bed after me, no matter how much it wants me. So, it goes away. When it does, I re-emerge.
I found the rubber duck the last time I seashelled by the junk suitcase—it goggled at me through the half-open zip. “What are you staring at?” I asked. “It’s cramped here,” it squeaked. (No wonder—I told you it’s full of junk). I sighed deeply and peered back at the creature.
Thick-skinned, slightly matte, nonchalant.
For the next eternity, it didn’t squeak anything, and I even doubted whether it had said something in the first place. Could simply have been noises in my head. What it did do, though … It didn’t take its eyes off me.
When the danger of another Blot had passed, I winced and, holding my breath, was about to crawl out from under the bed—when the duck called out again, “Take me for a swim.”
That’s how we both ended up here, in the bath, water still around us, covering my nose and not covering anything of the duck as it floats on the surface, all-understanding and unwavering.
Clarinet
“Play the clarinet for me.”
Its voice is like a slingshot; it shoots and pops.
“You’re too needy,” I mumble.
I hold my breath and glide deeper into the bath, my hands at my sides pressed tight to the peeling enamel. My eyes watch a ripple: starting at my nose, it grows—expands—swells and shatters when it hits the silent walls of the tub. Another ripple, same fate.
I want to sigh, but I’m holding my breath, submerged, and instead I twitch my lips, and the water twitches in response. Bubbles spread, scatter across the surface. They run to Duck and breakagainst its body. Duck shakes its head, bobbing.
“If you don’t want to play the clarinet, then play the piano.”
I close my eyes, my heart thumping deep inside my ears.
“Or a violin.”
Its yellow bill remains still.
“Or a flute.”
Underwater, my lips turn into a straight, thin, almost non-existent line.
“Or a gong.”
“Or a tambourine.”
“Or a trumpet.”
With a wild roar, I haul myself out of the tub, pulling up on both arms, gripping the rim. Waves surge. Water sloshes over the scuffed, long-unwashed tiles. Splashes right and left, right and left. The duck splashes, too.
“STOP WITH ALL THAT MUSIC!” I scream.
My own voice cuts through my brain. It floods my ears. It bangs on my eardrums. Reverberates and echoes.
My eyes shut tight; red-and-yellow moths dance in the darkness—tiny dots, little lanterns. My fingers grip the rim harder; my knuckles turn white, and skin stretches, ready to burst. My howl vibrates inside my head like an old, rusty spring.
The air saturates with the smell of rotten peppermint. Pervasive and painfully familiar, it snakes its way inside me—stuffing my nose, slithering into my eyes, seeping between my locked lips.I want it out; I shake my head, but it continues to spread—the nauseous, sweet-sour rot.It doesn’t cool—the mint; it’s damp, it’s dead, it’s astringent.
I cough, I gulp, I yell—
STOP WITH ALL THAT MUSIC STOP STOP STOP
For a moment—complete emptiness.
Then, everything inside me twists, turns and—explodes.
Lion
When I fall back into the tub, sending another splash of waves onto the floor, my burning cheeks are slick with tears, and a faint wail slips out of my mouth.
“Now we’re talking,”the duck smirks.
I don’t flinch.
The duck floats closer to me, nudges its beak against my ear, and whispers,
“Remember?”
My forehead pressed to the tub, I want to sink into oblivion, but the creature stares at me, and goosebumps run up and down my bare, wet arms, and I shake my head, and howl a little more. It nudges my earlobe, the duck.
“No. You remember.”
I keep shaking my head, but it won’t leave me alone now. Tears slide down my face. I wonder if they leave any traces. I won’t know. Duck will. It doesn’t take its eyes off me—its huge, dead eyes. I don’t meet its gaze, but I feel it with every molecule of my skin. I think it’s humming or singing a lullaby, but I’m not sure—my brain has been ringing since the cry.
Its beak glides from my ear to my cheek, pokes me right in the middle, and continues its journey—to the corner of my mouth. Bitch knows what it’s doing.
Trembling, not hiding my disgust, I turn toward the tub, hiding from the invasive rubber toy, and curl into a shell. My nose smooshes into the rough enamel; I wince hard, clenching my eyes shut—tighter than before. My face now smeared across the bathtub, I whisper, stop, but the duck keeps pushing, getting closer, climbing toward my lips.
“Face it,” it coos.
“Stop.”
My body aches.
“Face it.”
“Stop.”
The duck’s too close.
“But you’re so beautiful, Nina,” it groans.
Its ghostly breath smells of rotten peppermint. With renewed vigour, it veils me, and the water, and the tub, and the puddles on the tiles, and probably the duck too; it settles in the air and rattles, loud and proud, the sour stench of decay. I’m about to vomit. And I do.
Puke erupts from my throat like lava. I hang over the side of the tub and cough, my fetid insides spreading across the floor, mixing with the escaped bath water.
As I wipe my mouth with my hand, the duck bursts out laughing. I glance at it askance, my lips acidulated, my heart hiding far behind my ribs. It howls with laughter, rocking on the waves. Its cackle grows louder and louder and LOUDER.
When I press my hands to my ears, the duck’s beak blurs into a lion’s face. It expands before me, gaping its mouth wide, baring its teeth, and—breath in—I dive underwater, hoping to escape the uninvited bathtub monster.
It doesn’t care, the lion. It dives after me and swallows me whole—in one gulp.
Memories
When I slump into the elevator, my music folder dangles from my wrist, weighing me down, and the flute case pressesinto me from above, hanging on my shoulder. I clutch homework printouts under my arm—a pile so fat it didn’t fit into the binder.
I lean to press G, but the sheets slip out and settle on the dirty floor. I click my tongue and bend down to pick them up, but my flute rolls away and hits the floor with a loud bang. I swear under my breath—it’s late, I’m tired, and simply want to get home.
I sit on my knees, prop the flute bythe wall, and start collecting the sheets when the doors open, and Professor Gamboa steps inside.
I sigh. Professor Gamboa is my choir director. I don’t really mind him—he’s old and sweet, but I’m worried he’ll pass me another one of his cakes. A month ago, we were all celebrating Easter together. He handed me a slice of cake—soft and moist, with cranberries.
“Eat, eat, Nina,” he said. “Your pants are falling down.”
I giggled—didn’t pay much attention to it. Plus, the cake was really nice, too.
But since then, he’s started bringing cakes to every class and slipping them to me after lessons. I smile politely each time but always leave the surplus sugar for my compost worms.
Professor’s wrinkled face eyes me from above.
“Need help?” he asks.
I shake my head and pull a paper from under his foot. “No, it’s okay, thank you.”
I gather my homework, clench it to my chest, and climb back to my feet. I give Professor Gamboa another courteous smile—a little too sweet to invite questions. He stands, hands in his trouser pockets. On his nose, a trickle of sweat.
A little dizzy, I sway and lean on the wall, pressing my forehead to the tepid mirror. I’m about to sink into oblivion, but Professor stares at me, his gaze heavy and penetrating. I want to ask him if he’s okay, but I don’t need a conversation. I watch him watching me.
He doesn’t flinch. He steps towards me, his eyes glued to my face. I want to back away, but there’s a mirrored wall behind me—nowhere to run.
“Professor?” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond. He plants his hands on either side of me against the wall and leans in. Very close. A bit too close. I see the hairs inside his nostrils curl slightly.
“Leo, call me Leo.”
I feel his breath on my skin; he smells of peppermint. Not the fresh kind, but rotten. Acid and gooey. I shiver and squint.
When he leans even closer, the tip of his moustache brushes my cheek. I jerk toward the wall, my face smooshing into the slick glass.
“Professor?” I squeak.
“You’re so beautiful, Nina,” he purrs, his eyes half-closed.
The blue-black Blot, glossy and ephemeral, appears just as his slimy, slippery mouth creeps to the corner of my lips and his palm slides down the mirror to squeeze my breast—and it envelopes us both.
Troll
I emerge from the bath—from the lion’s mouth—from the duck’s beak—and gasp for air. It’s cold, and my throat tickles.
Before me, on the rippling water, lies a flat, lifeless carcass. The lion-duck burst either when it swallowed me or when it spat me back out. It looks like a yellow plastic tortilla. Or deflated arm floaties (someone must have drowned). I stick my tongue out. Serves you well.
Trembling, I heave myself out of the tub and fall to the floor—right into a puddle of my own puke—and cough, my body shuddering.
On all fours, I crawl to the kitchen, leaving wet marks on the tiles, carpet, linoleum. Grab hold of a chair and pull myself up. My legs shake, and I clutch the sink to keep from falling again.
I open the tap and press my face under the water. Let it slide down my skin and fill my mouth. I drink greedily, choking, as if it’s my last water on earth. As if there’s no bathtub overflowing with water just a few steps away down the hallway.
Up and down my skin, goosebumps run, and I frown. It feels like someone is watching me. Not possible, I’m alone. I take one final gulp and, water sliding from the corner of my mouth, look around the kitchen.
I flinch.
On my windowsill overlooking the courtyard, a troll toy sits. It’s miniature, with a spherical belly and thin blue hair. Its hair stands on end as though it’s on high alert. Or anxious.
I know this troll; we met when I was four. He lay half-dead on our unkempt lawn when the neighbour’s garage exploded. I dug through piles of someone else’s burnt plastic with my hands. Covered in soot, I picked him up. Washed him in the same bathtub the duck later invaded. And then I hid him in the suitcase (it was empty then). Don’t know what happened to him next.
It glares at me, the troll.Thick-skinned, slightly matte, almost nonchalant. I scowl at the monster.
“What’re you staring at?” I ask.
“Take me for a walk,” it squeaks.
I hiccup.
Tatiana Samokhina
Tatiana lives in the beautiful suburb of Surry Hills and works in the bustling city of Sydney. She has three degrees from two different continents and juggles two-and-a-half jobs, including one full-time position, alongside her lifelong passion for telling stories. She writes across different genres, but horror has always been her favourite. Her work has appeared in Elegant Literature, 3 Elements Review, Jokes Review, NUNUM, Quotidian Bagatelle, and more.