I was shrouded in
darkness. The closed blinds forbade any form of natural light to
creep into the room, preserving the atmosphere which I found so
important: that of excitement, intrigue, and mystery. My hands graced
the silky soft quilt I was perched upon, a fabric of pure perfection
that assured maximum comfort on the sprawling double-bed.
Listening
intently for a moment through the yellowed wall (discoloured from the
endless late-night cigarettes Grandma smoked), I could faintly hear
the living room television. Yes, Grandmother was out of the way. I
had her wonderful bedroom to myself. It was my domain now.
I glanced around
in awe at the clutter on top of the wardrobes; the drawers which were
so crammed full of interesting junk they couldn't close properly; the
cupboards crammed with ancient ornaments and fob watches. I knew that
most of the stuff was useless, tit and tat purchased by Granddad on
endless visits to those car boot sales he loved so much. But I often
wondered where all those items originally came from, what secrets
lurked behind each and every one of them (and, perhaps the biggest
mystery of all, what Granddad had actually wanted them for in the
first place!).
One of my hands
wandered towards a tall cup on the bedside table, filled to the brim
with Grandma's own special brew of strong, sweet tea. As I sipped and
sipped and eventually gulped, like an alcoholic draining his first
beer of the day, I allowed the boiling hot liquid to ease its' way
down my throat (and could still feel it as it swirled down towards my
stomach, refusing to die away) – an unrelenting mix of fire and
sugar which seemed to fulfil something more than just a mere
quenching of the thirst, as if I were experiencing a sixth sense
above and beyond that of taste. In a matter of seconds, the cup was
empty, and I replaced it on the plastic mat, directly on the
tea-stained ring at its' centre. The cup's own little throne.
It was after
this satisfying burst of nourishment that I decided to divert my
attention toward the reason I was in Grandma's darkened room in the
first place. Perched awkwardly at the end of the bed was a collection
of videos, in a tidy little box-set, that an Uncle had leant me
earlier in the day. He obviously (wrongly) assumed I was into science
fiction, as the tapes were all from an old show called 'Doctor Who'.
I'd heard of it, of course. Everybody knew the hilarious 'knock,
knock...' joke, for instance. But sci-fi just wasn't my thing. I was
a child of horror, it had always been the way. Of course, polite as
ever, I'd taken the videos from my Uncle with a smile and a “Thanks,
Uncle Peter, can't wait to watch 'em!”, and Grandma had allowed me
to watch them alone in her bedroom.
“Just shout if you
want another cuppa!” she'd called shortly after making me my eighth
cup of tea within the last hour.
And so here I
was. I assumed it would be a case of watching one episode, pretending
I'd viewed them all (so as not to offend my Uncle), and then go out
into the sunshine to play. Taking the first video of the set, titled
'Genesis of the Daleks', out of its' case, I shoved it into the huge
mechanical monster that was Grandma's VCR player, which devoured the
tape hungrily and noisily. I then switched on the equally enormous
square television, before folding back onto the bed to watch, I
expected, just one single episode. In just a matter of seconds,
unbeknownst to me, the seeds of a colossal, almost insane, obsession,
were to be sown.
I could not have been
more unprepared for the experience I was about to endure...
Copyright: Cory Eadson, 2012
