Melbourne gothic
You walk through Melbourne Emporium, you’re pretty sure there were only five floors, you’re definitely sure that it couldn’t have been more than eight floors. But the floor you’re on says it’s the fifteen, but this can’t be, you scream. The shops look like you have seen them before, but it’s none of the familiar brands you know. You are alone, the woman in front of a store asks you if you need any help. It’s too late now, they’ve caught you.
There’s a stretch of empty land behind your house, it’s for development, they said, but there was nothing but grass and the occasional tree on there. You walk your dog down an old beaten path and you try not to look up. If you look up, you’ll be lost.
The radio plays the same three songs, the same three sounds to guess to win. No one ever wins, plenty of people try, no, that’s not it, the announcer said, with the air of mocking sadness. They sob into their phone, they know, they’ll be taken by smooth FM soon enough. There is a static silence on the other end and the announcer hang up, come back tomorrow, they said in a cheerful tone, come back tomorrow to win a $50,000-dollar prize.
You hear the sound of dogs barking, you always hear the sounds of dogs barking. Do you have a dog? You ask your neighbours, they laugh and shook their heads. No one has a dog, they told you, it’s an apartment building. You go home, satisfied with the answers, but you still hear dogs barking, where are the dogs? Where are the dogs?
You walk past a house being built, you have not seen anyone working on the house, the house is always empty. Yet the next time you walk past the house is finished.
The woman on the graffiti smile at you, where did this graffiti come from, it’s on the underside of a bridge. The woman blinked and her smile got wider, you ignore the woman, you cannot help her.
The milk bar on the corner of the street changed owners, they’re always changing owners, do you even remember what the last owner looked like? Do you even remember what this owner looks like? Of course you don’t, the owners don’t have faces, and even if they do, they would not let you see.
It’s raining, but there was a clear sky just minutes ago, where did the clouds come from? It was 40 degrees an hour ago, now you need to drag out your winter puffer jacket. It’s not winter, of course it isn’t, isn’t summer either. It is Melbourne.
You get off at parliament station and you take the escalator up, but there are no escalators up, only ones that go down into the dark abyss of the train station. The monotone voice of the announcer droned on as you desperately walk around trying to find a way up but there isn’t a way up, it’s only down.
There’s a quaint little shop on the corner of the street. You have never seen anyone enter nor leave the shop, but it is open. You wonder to yourself how the shop keeps itself alive. You stop wondering the moment you step in and you saw the quiet yellow glow of eyes that belonged to the shop keeper. You stare at the frozen dried meat sold on the dusty shelves, you don’t have to wonder what the meat was made of, you know.
A car park outside of your house, it has always parked here. The tires were flat, the car rusted. You peek inside, you should not have peeked inside. A dead man owns this car, a dead man owns you now.
The school bell rings and teens in Kathmandu puffer jackets flooded out. You don’t seem any of their faces, you can’t see any of their faces, only the green inner lining of the jackets and the white Nike they donned on their feet. You search for your child, where are they? You desperately ask yourself, but deep down, you know, the Kathmandu Teens have taken them, they have become one of the nameless, faceless crowd. You hold your second child close to your chest and whisper in their ears to never, ever buy a Kathmandu jacket, because if they do, they will be lost.
The posters on the street advertise for a show of a band you do not know, you feel like you’ve seen them before. The next time you drive past those streets, the posters multiplied, covering every inch of the wall that it occupies. The posters didn’t have a name for the band, only a date, address and a small sentence that said, “Only in Melbourne”. You shudder at the implications, you hope none was stupid enough to go.
A small café opened on your street, their menu only listed one item, flat white. You find yourself holding a cup of their coffee, you don’t remember going in, you definitely don’t remember buying one. You drink it, and it tastes horrible, but you keep on drinking until the cup was finished. The next day, you find yourself with another cup of the same coffee, again, you don’t remember getting it, again, you drink it. You have to accept now that’s your life, the gods have got you now.
EB Games were having a sale, red posters lined the walls that all read in massive blocky texts “1/2 OFF”. You don’t remember a time when there wasn’t a sale there. The next time you walk past EB Games at the local shopping centre, the sale was gone, you don’t ever remember that there being a sale.
You eat meat pie at the local cafe, the filling didn’t taste quite right, like there was fingernails and hair and the sounds of tortured souls in there. You shrug and keep eating, this was all very normal.
