MicroHorror

The remains of the dog–old Mrs. Waverly’s Yorkie, went missing last week but it was a snappy, yappy little thing so nobody cared–went slithering into the bin. Bobby’s mother tied up the black plastic with choppy movements and shaking hands.

“Wait till your father gets home,” was all she said.

Since she wouldn’t look at him, Bobby went inside and locked himself in the bathroom. His father said that the eyes were the windows of the soul, that you could see all the important stuff there. His father knew everything, so it had to be right, but Bobby was struggling with it. He tried his best, like he did with all his father’s lessons, but it wasn’t coming easy. He needed more practice.

He stared into the bathroom mirror, holding his eyelids open with his fingers, so that he could have the widest possible view of his own eyes. He needed to make the most of it, because they were likely to be black and swollen shut by the time his father was finished with him.

Could he see fear there? He thought maybe he could, after all.

Because there were rules about the conduct of experiments, about the scientific method. Bobby’s work sometimes didn’t meet his father’s standards of neatness or efficiency, but he was trying hard at it. He’d even hoped he might get to upgrade from dogs and cats this year. But now he’d broken the first, the most sacred rule of all:

Don’t get caught.