Dating : GAGA

It was half past three on a Wednesday evening when Steve came home and tucked himself up in bed. He sought the warmth of the covers after the bite of the cold outside. After getting himself comfortable he pulled his laptop towards himself, excited with the wonder of what he was going to do. Perhaps he would mindlessly browse Facebook for half an hour, or lose time in a stream of Youtube videos. He could perhaps play his favourite game Empires of the World until the battery on his machine ran out. But as he crossed his legs beneath his covers and brought his feet together, and reached for the power button, he felt a sudden pang in the middle of his head. It was as if his body froze, preventing him from pressing the button. He could not place this mysterious feeling, or explain why it held such command over him — but he decided to press the power button. Only the button didn’t work.

Steve pressed the key again, this time with a bit more severity. Still nothing. A black screen sat in front of him, reflecting the lightest contours of his face. He lay there gazing into his bulbous reflection before deciding that he really didn’t like the look of his face, and brought his laptop to a close. Now it was just him alone with his bedroom, with no computery companion to hold his attention. He looked around and saw things that needed sorting: the papers and books on the desk, the clothes that almost made it into the washbin (he liked to throw them from his bed), and his work clothes piled next to his bed like the preamble to sex between lovers. Doing any cleaning after a day’s work did not fill him with enthusiasm, but he thought the task would be less arduous with a cup of tea standing by. He tossed his laptop to the other half of his bed and peeled the covers back from the corner, enough for him to slide his legs out and slip his feet into his slippers. He let the covers fall back into place and took a couple of strides towards the door. Before his hand touched the handle, a noise caused him to halt mid-step. With one leg still in the air, and looking like a silhouette of a walking man, he turned his head back towards his bed and the origin of the noise. He was sure he heard a “ga-ga”, like the phonetic speech of a baby, emanate from his bed. It was loud enough to give him a brief jump; loud enough that he was certain that it was real. He put his leg down and faced the bed. Behind his squinting eyes he mulled over possible explanations. He had heard things before, like his name being called when there was no-one around, and he was always able to attribute it to his imagination. But this time was definitely different.

Two thoughts crossed his mind, “should I laugh, or should I be worried?”. There was always the possibility (one which he thought about far too often) that he was being recorded by some sort of comedy show. They would be filming his reaction, and if he was anything less than brave and funny, like shit scared or embarrassing, then he would be mortified. There was this possibility, or the possibility that something was in his bedroom that could make that sound that he himself did not put in there. Perhaps a dilapidated baby head sat under his covers, compelled into existence as some sort of cosmic penance for the copious masturbation sessions his sheets and laptop have had to suffer through. He liked the idea of the comedy show explanation more, or perhaps he was too scared to think of the alternative, and decided to approach his bed with a coy, almost sardonic, smile.

As he moved towards the bed, he became aware that beds in real life are not like in cartoons. Beds in animations, he distinctively remembers, are always drawn as having flat sheets, with little to no texture or undulation. His sheets, however, seemed to be filled with lifted pockets which could be hiding anything. Easy space for a cat to hide in. Or a mouse. Maybe, even, another him? He cursed that his mind always went to the weird and macabre, and tried to focus once more on his playing-along-smile. He was now formulating in his mind the quickest and manliest way to pull of the sheets. From the top corners? Arms aren’t long enough. From the bottom? No, that feels seem wrong for some reason. From the top corner? Bingo.

With anticipation and excitement, Steve tore at the covers, making sure to flex his arms and stomach in the process. He thought himself to look like the sheet-pulling equivalent of The Thinking Man. The rolling back of the sheets, and the accidental sliding of the laptop into the narrow unexplored depths between the wall and the bed, revealed nothing. He looked about in his room and up to the ceiling to try and find the cameras, hoping someone would come out and explain this lacklustre trick. Standing there in silence, he realised that of course there was no game show. He didn’t really believe it anyway — he was just pretending. He must not have heard the noise either — it happened now sufficiently long enough ago for him to question its occurrence. With this he turned back to the door, content that there was no mystery to be solved, and found that it had no handle. The space where it should have been was as white and reflective as the rest of the door. That space in his head became active once more. From over his shoulder he felt and heard, with unmistakable clarity, a deep and foreboding, “ga-ga”.