lightning garden

Your television is slowly filling with liquid. At first it was only a small blurring at the bottom, easy to overlook. You got used to it so quickly it took you weeks to realise it had been rising. When it had taken over a third of the screen you could no longer ignore it. You banged on the TV and fiddled with the settings. When you turned the thing over to inspect it from behind, you heard the sloshing. You debated opening the box, letting the liquid drain; but an anxiety set over you and you couldn't. You watched less and less television after that. Occasionally you'd forgot, want to watch the news or catch some programme or just see what was on, and you'd turn it on and see the liquid was already halfway up, three fourths of the way up, four fifths of the way up. You tried to brave it and sometimes you could, being absorbed in some movie or sketch comedy even though you had to watch it as if it was inside an aquarium; but most of the time you eventually got annoyed or scared or both and had to turn it off.

Then came the day the screen was full. And after that the day you first heard the gurgling. And after that, the day you realised the screen was swelling. Now it's protuberant like a pregnant belly, a translucent blister ready to burst, sloshing and hissing. It's always on, tuned to no channel, kaleidoscope visions of warped features coming and going past sheets of snow. You know it will burst. You know it. You don't know what will come out — will it be just water? Will it be oil? Will it smell bad? Will it stain? Will it be poison, or acid — will it carry disease? Is something about to be born?

Your bedroom used to be on the other side of the living room, where the television is, but you've moved to sleeping on the kitchen table. All your things are in the cupboards or on the shelves. You've surrounded the television with sand bags. You've considered telling the building manager or your landlord or at least warning the other residents, and many times you almost have, but you never end up carrying through, because maybe it's not real, maybe they will blame you, maybe they're in on it, maybe the looks they give you are looks of malicious glee. Maybe they all are in the same situation as you. Maybe when the televisions burst there will be no end to the liquid and the entire world will drown.

You wait. You're afraid.