MicroHorror

Glamour. That was the promise, she thought, as she stared at her reflection in the dingy mirror. Not this. Not this obese thing concealed in scarves and cheap jewelry.

Stevie Nicks meets a hippo.

Oh, Lora Lynn. How far you’ve fallen since that first time.

He was tall, dark, and wore skinny jeans. It was 1970. With a breezy British accent he offered Soviet-made cigarettes. They stank. He laughed. She made some joke about his teeth–which were perfect, not the stereotypical English mouth.

They went to his hotel room and undressed. He wasn’t her first. Wasn’t even, seemingly, the most exotic or handsome man she’d been with. So when she got close, proximal to that first embrace, just millimeters away, she was surprised at the physical shock. The intensity, the passion like heroin. When he sank his teeth in, the universe exploded.

Immortality and hunger–she thought she understood the deal. But the years (decades! she reminded herself) of ripping up and down the east coast, hitting clubs and bars and conventions of horny businessmen, took an unexpected toll.

The pounds layered on. She developed gout and elephantine ankles. As she grew, the hunger grew. But the pickings, they were slim. It was no longer so easy. No longer a matter of just laying out the bait.

She hadn’t felt rage or bitterness before then. But now, she blamed God, or the gods, whoever was responsible, ultimately. She would beat it, she decided.

The motel was on the Texas coast. Long abandoned due to hurricanes, and tourists who disliked sand fleas and drug smugglers. She was alone, curled up in a filthy corner for months under a roof half torn open.

You don’t eat, you get thin, right? Not if those fat cells, like every other part of your body, are immortal. They screamed to be fed.

She left that place and resumed the hunt.

Just how far down can you go, Lora Lynn? She straightened her dress and opened the bathroom door.

Tony, waiting for you in a motel room. That’s how far. Deep, deep, down.

He was a trucker. Wife beater. Meth smoker. He was lying on the stained comforter in the dark, his braided grey ponytail illuminated by a buzzing street lamp just outside the window.

With the lights out, he thought, the bitch wouldn’t see the sores around his groin, some scratched to the point of infection. But Lora Lynn easily disentangled the scent of pus from the mélange of odors in his unwashed jeans before they even spoke. Grease, fast food crotch-cradled while he drove, urine (of course), and…blood?

Oh, he has his own plans for this night, she thought.

She lifted her dress off and dropped it to the floor. His eyes became greedy slits, wolf-like. As she climbed onto the bed, he rose and pushed her off, her head hitting the floor painfully. He jumped on top of her. She could smell the adrenaline coming through his skin in waves. He wanted it quick.

So be it. She sunk her teeth in and sucked, enjoying only the sense of surprise at her strength and his inability to escape. Was that all that was left? Irony? Meager fare, indeed.

She picked up what was left of his body, feather-light, and took it to the bathroom. It looked like an origami mummy. She flicked a lighter and touched the flame to its ear. The fire caught quickly, almost explosively, dissolving the body as if it were magician’s paper.

She sobbed as she cleaned herself with balled-up toilet paper. There was no longer even an echo of that first time. No thrill, no pleasure. Certainly no joy.

She bought rope and completed the day-long drive to her farmhouse. Threw the rope over the rafters and tied it off.

She swung for days and it was excruciating. Eventually, she spidered up the rope, the rafter creaking all the way, and worked it free.

Ain’t we beautiful, she thought.