The Drilling: A Short Story



Crouching below the window-sill, I knew I couldn’t be seen. I couldn’t be seen and neither could I see out.

It was best that way.

To give into temptation and take a glance out, out at what might be lurking beyond, would have been tantamount to sending out an invitation – an invitation to come on in and wipe me out of existence.

I wasn’t, in that moment, in those moments, unhappy.

No, far from it!

You might think this odd, peculiar in such circumstances. But, to try and explain myself, then the best way to put it is that I felt very much at peace with myself – as if protected by some kind of an invisible membrane. Protected from having any of the usual fight or flight reactions associated with being mortal.

But, like anything breathable, the membrane’s powers were momentary. I could not see, but my hearing, I soon realised, was as astute as ever. A distant grating sound, metal on metal, like the serrated edge of a bread knife cutting through the rusty crust of cheap tin, reacted with my amalgam fillings; and I didn’t need my sight to hear and to feel the presence of a drill. A drill boring through my soul!

The drilling which, having hit and made a shallow inroad into its target, would – one might expect – give in at this point, becoming slower and more sluggish, and stuttering to a stop.

Wishful thinking.This drill became louder, faster – more murderous. It was as if something immortal and unstoppable sought to destroy me – piercing my enamel, my dentin, my pulp and my roots. Drilling right into the tunnels of my nerves.

The pain was immense: a sharp serrated knife, slowly twisting and turning itself out of my cheekbones, over and back through my skull and into my brain.  I could do nothing but stay put, under the window-sill – my last remnants of my existence crushed hard against the cold-brick wall.

It was best that way.

And in the knowing, in the knowing that this must be close to the end, in that moment, with my left hand clutched to a pillow, that was clutched to my head, to my face, to my existence – I started to emerge.

With my right hand, I hitched-up with a marker pen, and with my right hand, I began to write – to write straight onto the floor – to make my mark – to make things right:



Copyright owned by Jay Cool, June 2019


Inspired, or not, by a prolonged visitation of Trigeminal Neuralgia – otherwise known as the ‘suicide disease’.


Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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