DeletedUser31931
Bit of backstory, this was the story I wrote in my mock exam, the brief was "Write a story in which an obsession dominates a character's life."
It sat on a shelf on a wall, in the middle of a nondescript flat, in the middle of yet another city with a man who had yet another job working the regular seven until five shift. He was average height, presentable in most echelons of society (or at least those in those that he would have resided in) and looked... average. He would leave in the morning and return in the evening, and from that point on the people on the floors above and below would hear nothing of him, except for the occasional bang or cry of frustration. They would often wonder what occurred in there, what were the harsh clangs. The flat below remembered a time when they thought the roof was about to fall in; they were halfway up the stairs to complain when they decided better and returned to their flat. The banging had continued and so had the cries of anguish; their roof still occasionally vibrated and they wondered what occurred in that room. Of course they had never seen the inside of his flat; he lived alone and had not invited anyone around in the time he had been a resident in his apartment. From the few glimpses they could garner, he had a small, nondescript TV sitting in the corner, however, a remote was nowhere to be seen and neither were any chairs. The walls were regulatory beige; if you wished to have them changed you had to ask the permission of the landlord, yet since his moving in neither of them had spoken anyway.
The landlord could, in fact, only ever remember one conversation with the man, which was that he had requested to install a shelf. Nothing else had ever been delivered there and the landlord had often been curious to take a look, yet he never did, more out of respect for the privacy of his tenants than anything else. The man paid his rent and that was that as far as the landlord was concerned.
The man, meanwhile, sat on the floor of his apartment with It sitting opposite him. There were nine dials numbering zero to nine, which made a possible nine hundred and ninety nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine combinations. It also had a keyhole. He could not find the key. He was not sure if there was a key. He had taken it to a locksmith once, and they had said they could not make a key for it. There probably was not a key. That did not, however, stop him from trying. Any time he got a key, or anything that looked like a key, or anything that could be mistaken for a key or anything key related, he tried it. Of course none had worked so far... but that was not to say that they would not.
Of the possible combinations, he was at five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty two. He had also tried a sledgehammer, but had rejected that idea after it cracked one of the floor boards. He was now on combination five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty three. He could not find a handle to open It, so he was merely left to assume that it would open upon him finding the right combination. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty four.
He had taken it to a specialist once and the specialist had attempted to open It, but to no avail. The specialist had attempted to open It with explosives, but to no avail. The specialist had attempted to take some shavings off of It for analysis, but to no avail. The specialist had offered him a refund and then given up. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty five.
He picked It up with a sigh and brought it over to the table. In all of these years this part had never accomplished anything, never a dent or scratch in it. His finger flicked absently. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty six. He opened the toolbox on the table and pulled out a new hacksaw, his finger still flicking. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty seven. He started at the base with the hacksaw; the pattern was pre-determined by now, an art refined over many a year, however, today he slipped and It fell off of the table; putting the hack down he stooped to pick It up. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty eight. The table, like everything else in the flat, was cheap, bought at a local store, he couldn't remember which. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty nine. It had served him well for the past however many years, but it was heading rapidly towards the end of its lifespan. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty. Once it collapsed he would attempt to find the store and purchase another, if they still sold this model. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty one. If not, he supposed he would merely have to find another. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty two.
The hacksaw had done nothing, though at this point he would have been more surprised if it had done something than if not. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty three. He had also tried yet another 'skeleton' key, two wrenches and a grinder before giving up on that path, It had sat there unmoved as always. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty four.
He put It on its shelf. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty five. It stayed there during the day as well, whilst he was at work, earning the money to pay the rent for the flat and buy the various tools he had acquired over the years. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty six. Of course, after they had failed him, he sold the tools on to second hand shops and the like, he had no use for them after all. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty seven. He walked out of the main room, down his hall. A couple of the lights weren't working properly which meant that the hallway was only dimly lit at points. He stepped inside the bathroom and took a shower before changing into nightclothes and stepping outside again. Before going to bed, he took one last look at It. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty eight. No luck. As was custom, he did it one more time. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty nine. Then he went back down the hallway and clambered over a pile of paperwork of some sort into bed. He flicked the light switch off, rolled over onto his side and then proceeded to go to sleep.
It was there, in front of him, he'd finally found the right number. The door had popped open at last, no need for a key after all. He reached forward to touch it, and the box felt unusual. Usually it was cold, just slightly below room temperature, but enough to be noticeable. It was now hot though, it was burning hot, red hot. The metal lit up as it glowed, he tried to pull his hands off it but he could not as the skin charred and fused with the burning metal, as he desperately tried to pull away from the box he awoke with a cry of anguish. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and fifty.
It sat on a shelf on a wall, in the middle of a nondescript flat, in the middle of yet another city with a man who had yet another job working the regular seven until five shift. He was average height, presentable in most echelons of society (or at least those in those that he would have resided in) and looked... average. He would leave in the morning and return in the evening, and from that point on the people on the floors above and below would hear nothing of him, except for the occasional bang or cry of frustration. They would often wonder what occurred in there, what were the harsh clangs. The flat below remembered a time when they thought the roof was about to fall in; they were halfway up the stairs to complain when they decided better and returned to their flat. The banging had continued and so had the cries of anguish; their roof still occasionally vibrated and they wondered what occurred in that room. Of course they had never seen the inside of his flat; he lived alone and had not invited anyone around in the time he had been a resident in his apartment. From the few glimpses they could garner, he had a small, nondescript TV sitting in the corner, however, a remote was nowhere to be seen and neither were any chairs. The walls were regulatory beige; if you wished to have them changed you had to ask the permission of the landlord, yet since his moving in neither of them had spoken anyway.
The landlord could, in fact, only ever remember one conversation with the man, which was that he had requested to install a shelf. Nothing else had ever been delivered there and the landlord had often been curious to take a look, yet he never did, more out of respect for the privacy of his tenants than anything else. The man paid his rent and that was that as far as the landlord was concerned.
The man, meanwhile, sat on the floor of his apartment with It sitting opposite him. There were nine dials numbering zero to nine, which made a possible nine hundred and ninety nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine combinations. It also had a keyhole. He could not find the key. He was not sure if there was a key. He had taken it to a locksmith once, and they had said they could not make a key for it. There probably was not a key. That did not, however, stop him from trying. Any time he got a key, or anything that looked like a key, or anything that could be mistaken for a key or anything key related, he tried it. Of course none had worked so far... but that was not to say that they would not.
Of the possible combinations, he was at five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty two. He had also tried a sledgehammer, but had rejected that idea after it cracked one of the floor boards. He was now on combination five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty three. He could not find a handle to open It, so he was merely left to assume that it would open upon him finding the right combination. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty four.
He had taken it to a specialist once and the specialist had attempted to open It, but to no avail. The specialist had attempted to open It with explosives, but to no avail. The specialist had attempted to take some shavings off of It for analysis, but to no avail. The specialist had offered him a refund and then given up. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty five.
He picked It up with a sigh and brought it over to the table. In all of these years this part had never accomplished anything, never a dent or scratch in it. His finger flicked absently. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty six. He opened the toolbox on the table and pulled out a new hacksaw, his finger still flicking. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty seven. He started at the base with the hacksaw; the pattern was pre-determined by now, an art refined over many a year, however, today he slipped and It fell off of the table; putting the hack down he stooped to pick It up. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty eight. The table, like everything else in the flat, was cheap, bought at a local store, he couldn't remember which. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and thirty nine. It had served him well for the past however many years, but it was heading rapidly towards the end of its lifespan. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty. Once it collapsed he would attempt to find the store and purchase another, if they still sold this model. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty one. If not, he supposed he would merely have to find another. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty two.
The hacksaw had done nothing, though at this point he would have been more surprised if it had done something than if not. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty three. He had also tried yet another 'skeleton' key, two wrenches and a grinder before giving up on that path, It had sat there unmoved as always. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty four.
He put It on its shelf. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty five. It stayed there during the day as well, whilst he was at work, earning the money to pay the rent for the flat and buy the various tools he had acquired over the years. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty six. Of course, after they had failed him, he sold the tools on to second hand shops and the like, he had no use for them after all. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty seven. He walked out of the main room, down his hall. A couple of the lights weren't working properly which meant that the hallway was only dimly lit at points. He stepped inside the bathroom and took a shower before changing into nightclothes and stepping outside again. Before going to bed, he took one last look at It. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty eight. No luck. As was custom, he did it one more time. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and forty nine. Then he went back down the hallway and clambered over a pile of paperwork of some sort into bed. He flicked the light switch off, rolled over onto his side and then proceeded to go to sleep.
It was there, in front of him, he'd finally found the right number. The door had popped open at last, no need for a key after all. He reached forward to touch it, and the box felt unusual. Usually it was cold, just slightly below room temperature, but enough to be noticeable. It was now hot though, it was burning hot, red hot. The metal lit up as it glowed, he tried to pull his hands off it but he could not as the skin charred and fused with the burning metal, as he desperately tried to pull away from the box he awoke with a cry of anguish. Five hundred and twenty three thousand, two hundred and fifty.
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