The Sewer Boy By Jacob Scott
I run the water so hot it burns . I want to feel my skin steamed to softness until it drops from me , melts away . Exposes the rawness of me .
In childhood , I was surrounded by monsters . Lagoonlivers and devourers of flesh , creatures that trawled the dark and crawled inverted across ceilings . Parents and teachers and preachers told tales of ghosts ; the idea of a haunting followed me , hovering knife-like above every peaceful moment . So , I have long been familiar with the feeling of chilled bones . The shivering of the spine is mine – I claimed the racing of my own pulse long ago , so long that every thrill conjures up nostalgia . Tucked away in a countryside home , child to a family all swallowed up by fear , is the story of my life . Now , I carry horror around in my pocket , next to my door keys .
The tiled room is coast-like , full of fog and humid to a degree that makes me sweat , cloys in my lungs . The tub is made expansive by the blinding heat of the bathwater ; there ’ s no telling where the ceramic ends or begins , suddenly I have an ocean to myself . Steam is crawling out onto the landing , sliding through the gap between the door and the floor . I pull the door ajar and watch cloud pour out into the hall . It won ’ t be long before the whole house is somehow changed .