MicroHorror

I wake up groggy, head pounding. When I close my eyes, my sclerae burn like I’ve caught fever. I’m tucked into a bed, I can tell that much, but when I try to rise, my body’s just too sore to move, so I give that up and try looking around. The room is white. White walls, white floor, white sheets, white door ahead. There’s an IV drip in my hip. It must be a hospital, but it feels like a basement. I can’t find any windows.

How the hell did I get here? It hurts my head thinking about it. I try massaging my scalp, but I’m still too damn sore to move. I wonder if anybody knows I’m here. I wonder where my cell phone is. I wonder if I’m still in Austin.

I went out last night–was it last night? Can’t tell anymore. If only my head didn’t hurt so much. Where’d I go? Downtown, yes. By myself. Met someone though. A girl. A redhead. Full of freckles. Took me to some other bar, right? Somewhere with wooden tables and sawdust on the floor. Bought her drinks, or did she buy me some? Doesn’t matter ’cause we were definitely too drunk to drive. I remember a taxi, a blond mustached driver who kept peering back, licking his lips while the redhead sat on me and nibbled my neck and bit my lips when she kissed me. Told the guy to piss off–remember?–and that’s when he looked away. The redhead giggled–the hell was her name?–and pulled out a mirror, slid some powder from a packet and snorted. Did the same for me. She reached into my jeans, tugged a couple times, I lolled my head back, and wham! Everything’s fuzz from there. Memories come in flashes. Redhead’s face tensed up, blood dripping from her scalp; taxi driver’s maniacal laughter; searing pain all over my body; a spoonful of soup or stew; a whisper in my ear saying hush, hush, everything’s okay.

It hits me: I’m not supposed to be here.

I swing my leg to get off the bed, but the sheets are tucked in and I can’t get free. The pain is unbelievable, and there’s sweat pouring from my forehead, but my arms won’t cooperate with yanking off the sheets. Gotta to be something in that drip. I try fumbling near my hip for the IV, but can’t find the tube. I hear footsteps above. I panic, convulse like a fish, and end up tumbling out of bed, half in, half out, and that’s when I see it–my arms are nothing but stumps from the shoulders down.

I can’t keep the scream from tearing out of my mouth.

The door swings open.

It’s the redhead. Her eyes are wide and welling with sympathy. “Poor baby,” she says, rushing forward. “No, don’t hurt yourself. Lemme help.” She gathers me into bed. I’m still screaming. There’s a figure standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a fresh IV bag or maybe a stethoscope in hand.

“Who the hell is that?” I shout.

The redhead looks back, smiles. “Your caretaker, silly.” She waves him in. He steps inside, meekly. “He was about to cook some supper when you screamed.” She wipes sweat from my forehead, and I look into her soft eyes, somewhat relieved.

“Okay. So help me out. I cant seem to remem–” I stop midsentence because it’s him. It’s the taxi driver. And it’s not a bag or a stethoscope, it’s a hacksaw in his hands. He’s smiling. I scream again, try to kick away the redhead, but she holds me down. “Hush,” she whispers. “Everything’s okay.” The driver pulls down my sheet–I’ve only got one leg. The redhead stabs a needle into my hip, guides me flat, and the last thing I hear is: “Got enough left for at least another week’s stew.”