I have Mr. Gloom in my closet.
He appeared in my life inexplicably. One day, I simply found him in a corner of the basement hallway. He stood wedged between the wall and some old furniture that the neighbors had kept in the corridor for over a year now. It’s hard to say for what purpose. They probably found it difficult to part with. Or it was one of those situations where we say “it might still come in handy,” even though everyone knows well it won’t.
I found him by pure accident. While opening the basement door, I dropped a paint cap, and it rolled right under the furniture. As I reached for it, my eyes settled on something very strange, non-human—actually, at first glance, not-of-this-world. As it soon turned out, those were Mr. Gloom’s feet.
Mr. Gloom usually lives where I found him—in the basement. Although now he has moved from the hallway into our own storage unit, where I decided he would be safer. It’s usually such a mess in there that no one would notice him anyway. He hides under my father’s hanging lawn-mowing clothes. He’s fine there, and I am at peace knowing no one will take him away. As I’ve established, he likes the cold. And the dark.
Tonight, exceptionally, he is staying in my room. For the first time in three years, my parents decided to clean out the basement. Luckily, I overheard the conversation and helped him move to my room just in time. It was inhumanly difficult, but since I am resourceful, I managed somehow. I’m very happy about it. Even though he’s strange, I’ve grown quite fond of him.
Truthfully, I don’t know his name or where he comes from. Perhaps he has no name at all—just like a wild animal. Though, on the other hand, in the animal world, there is a very clear hierarchy and everyone knows their place, despite the lack of first and last names. Perhaps animals also name each other in some way? Incomprehensible to the limited human mind.
I call him Mr. Gloom because he doesn’t say much. In fact, he makes no sound at all. Naturally, he doesn’t protest the name I’ve given him. I don’t know if he perceives anything at all. His skin ripples sometimes, and that seems to be a form of communication. I’m starting to notice certain patterns. Yet, beyond these minimal movements, I see no change. His existence seems to be nothing more than passive persisting. Every day, I imagine he’s just having a bad day and doesn’t feel like talking. And if he wanted to, he would have no trouble doing so. And so we live. Each in our own reality.
Mr. Gloom’s skin seems to be a very complex organ. Just like a human’s, only more so. It’s much thicker too. Light brown, yet pale. Its temperature changes slightly over time, but it is always lower than that of a human body. The only exception is the short while after Mr. Gloom eats. Then, his body temperature rises—for a change, above forty degrees. This usually lasts for an hour or two, depending on how substantial the meal was. I like to cuddle with him then.
I like being close to him in other moments, too. His skin—which by its look might seem slimy—gives one a bit of a shock upon touching. It is dry and cool. A bit rough. Almost exactly like the skin of a snake. Those biblical descriptions of slimy serpents are so divergent from reality. It has always made me wonder. I suppose people who fear snakes have never actually had a chance to hold one.
I’m almost afraid to think how they would classify my friend.
Because this is what he has become to me: Mr. Gloom. A friend.