MicroHorror

Daniel Stokes promised himself never to go back to prison. He’d learned his lesson. His time had been well spent. He’d taught himself not to make the same mistakes twice.

At home, his wife of ten years had grown grossly obese. He frowned whenever he looked at her. “Why’d you let yourself go?”

“Who cared if I did, Danny? Not you.”

”You should have cared, regardless of me.”

“That’s it in a nutshell, ain’t it? I didn’t care. You were gone and I gave up caring.”

“You knew I’d be back.”

“Like that mattered? What if you’d died in there? What difference would my looks have made then?” She blew out a stream of smoke.

“You shouldn’t smoke either. It ain’t healthy.”

“So you say. Maybe I’ll get one of them patches. You know the ones? They’ve got ‘em for everything now. Diet patches, stop smoking patches, birth control patches. Just about anything.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I will.”

Eventually, they settled into some sort of a life.

Daniel filled balloons at a party store all day and by the end of the first week, he just wanted to fill himself with helium and fly away. He dragged his tired body through the door each night, his wife sitting in the same chair, still in her pajamas.

“You ain’t dressed yet?”

“For what? I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Don’t you ever do anything besides sit, eat, and smoke?”

“Why should I, Danny? What good is it? You went to prison for fraud, for stealin’. I can’t hold my head up for the shame. Better to sit at home.”

“I did it for you. To get you stuff.”

“That’s funny, Dan. Real funny.”

His footsteps, heavy on the stairs, led down into the dark pit of the basement. There, he felt at home, cold walls, dank smells, and scurrying creatures.

Daniel, king of his fortune.

A plan formed in his mind. Prison psychiatrists would call it desperation born out of life going nowhere. Daniel was on a dead end street, along with his marriage.

Soon, he came home from work and told his plan to his wife, chair-bound, housecoat-clad, flip flops on her feet.

“A friend told me about a business venture. I’m selling some of those patches you talked about.”

She tapped her ashes into an ashtray. “Imagine that. A legitimate job.”

“You wanna try one? It’s a diet patch.”

She ignored him, her attention on the soap opera on television.

Downstairs in his office, he drew detailed pictures of patches. If she became his guinea pig, he could finish sooner with initial research. He could finish many things, quicker.

Next morning, she called him from the bedroom.

“Okay, Danny. I’ll use your patches. Maybe we’ll have a life after all if you sell enough.”

He nodded and smiled secretly.

That night, Daniel worked turning out bundles of ten patches. On each, he dripped lethal drugs and dangerous herbals to end hunger in anyone who wore them. Then, he set them aside to dry. Patch instructions dutifully placed with each square placed into the cellophane.

“Wearer should lick each patch thoroughly until it is wet before placing on skin. A slight tingling or burning sensation can be expected.”

Prison taught him so much; most importantly that everyone followed instructions. They always did what the package said to do. His eyes glittered from the single bulb burning in ceiling. He carried his small arsenal of patches upstairs. His guinea pig was waiting.