MicroHorror

The oily blackness of the garage floor seeped into his naked skin. Sandy grit flayed his back. The concrete beneath him was cold and damp.

He’d long ago lost feeling in his arms and legs. Tightened rope burned his wrists and ankles. An oily rag had been shoved in his mouth.

Even as he lay there, Burns realized that he’d created the monster. In between bouts of unconsciousness, he told himself it was only to get closer to his son.

Their visits were limited to one weekend a month. There was only so much a father could do in two days, right? And who knew what Karen said about him the other twenty-eight.
He heard footsteps slowly approach the shelf where he kept his tools.

No, Gary wanted Josh to remember these visits, wanted the kid to have some positive memories of his old man. And the one thing the kid seemed to like were video games.

In one of their stilted conversations, Josh shared that Karen limited his computer time to two hours a night. So that would be the thing.

It became tradition to stop by the game store on Friday night. Josh could buy whatever he wanted. Gary hadn’t paid attention to the titles. The kid would spend the rest of the weekend killing ogres or vanquishing zombies. So long as he was happy.

His head was in something cold and vise-like. He tried to imagine what it could be. Perhaps the weights he’d kept around since college and never used.

There was a loud crash from behind. A can of nails or a bucket of screws falling off the shelf. Burns reflexively tried turning his head and almost snapped his own neck. He began to whimper while trying to remember what else he kept on that shelf.

He’d gone into the guest room earlier in that day and happened to glance through the growing stack of empty boxes. They had titles like “Orgy of Death” and “Blood Lust II.” Creepy depictions of violent murder and bloody mayhem decorated the covers.

He remembered what happened anytime there was a violent teenaged outburst. Talking heads went on TV, blaming video games or music television or a culture that allowed abortion. Gary knew that had nothing to do with it. It was the parents who were at fault. Anyway, Josh was a good kid.

He stared into the overhead fluorescent and heard more rattling from behind. Moments later, something landed on his chest. He raised his head enough to see the familiar three-pronged end of the orange extension cord. The concrete beneath him became damper. But it was mercifully warm.

Josh had also left behind one of his notebooks. It was decorated with skulls and burning crosses and sketches of automatic weapons. He opened it up to find more drawings inside, each more disturbing than the last.

One was a take on the famous Da Vinci self-portrait, where he lay in an “X” with a circle around him. In Josh’s version, ropes bound the man’s hands and feet. His head was in a vise. Cloth had been shoved into his mouth.

Looking at it, Burns flashed suddenly to the weekend his cat had gone missing. Josh had been there.

Footsteps approached. Gary’s muffled whimpering turned into throaty screams. Turning his eyes, he saw a pair of six-and-a-half boy’s tennis shoes. He glanced up to see his son was masked. A macabre parody of the yellow seventies smiley face.

He confronted Josh earlier that night. Nothing heavy. He didn’t tell him he’d been prying. Just suggested maybe this weekend, he lay off the video games so the two could spend some time together. Josh seemed to take it well. Later on, at dinner, he thought his drink tasted funny.

A hand reached down to lift the cord from his chest. Moments later came the whirring sound of his own drill.