MicroHorror

Its scientific name was myalgic something-or-other. To me, and to everyone else who suffered from that goddamned disease, it meant just one thing: pain. Deep, grinding pain boring its way through your muscles. Sudden, electric, slashing pain that comes out of nowhere like the clawing stroke of a vicious animal or the lash of a whip. Throbbing, oscillating, radiating pain.

Afraid and on edge, you never knew when it would come, what kind of pain it would be, or how long it would last. Sometimes it would stay with you seemingly forever, then vanish just as fast as it appeared. When it came, all you could do was pop the over-the-counter stuff like acetaminophen, ibuprofen, or naproxen; doctors are stingy with prescription dope. Ask for it and they think you’re a junkie.

Sure, I could have scored stronger painkillers of the illicit sort, but the dealers are just as bad as the doctors. They cut their shit with real bad stuff–that’s why junkies die from drugs.

So what’s a sufferer to do? In my support group, there was a guy who’d get drunk–every day–then again at night so he could sleep. There was a flaky chick who tried the New Age healing crystal bit. There was an old guy dressed like a Hare Krishna who did meditation. I tried one of those pain management self-hypnosis CDs. It didn’t work.

Then one day, a slick-looking man in a dark suit and sunglasses came to meet the group. He told us he represented a major pharmaceutical company. He asked us if we wanted to test out a brand new prescription medication for sufferers of myalgic something-or-other.

The answer was yes–hell yes!

It’s a new world with NuWorld…

God, I hate that commercial.

The thing about NuWorld (nuteriole) was that it actually worked. At the end of the first week, there were major improvements. My muscles felt like they’d been kneaded by a master masseuse. Instead of grinding pain, there was a deep feeling of warm relief. After the first month, the only pains I felt were slight aches and dull needle pricks.

Three months into my treatment with NuWorld, myalgic something-or-other was a distant memory, and would be so long as I took my medication. I got my strength back. I slept better. Not well, but better than I used to.

Meanwhile, with the FDA’s approval, NuWorld hit the streets. That annoying commercial played on TV damn near 24/7.

Then the strangeness started. Cindy (the healing crystal chick from my support group) got pulled over by a cop for speeding. He asked for her license and registration. She smiled, opened her glove box, and pulled out a gun. The cop never saw it coming. Then she ran through the streets, screaming and firing indiscriminately.

Jack (the old guy who looked like a Hare Krishna) freaked out at a Starbucks. After the kid behind the counter served him his soy latte, Jack sipped it, threw it in the kid’s face, and strangled him.

It’s too HOT! TOO FUCKING HOT, YOU LITTLE PRICK!

By then, NuWorld was being used to treat other inflammatory diseases. It worked for those sufferers, too.

They changed the commercial. Side effects may include unexplained aggression, hallucination, and depression with thoughts of suicide. If you experience these effects, stop taking NuWorld and see your doctor.

I haven’t seen mine, but I have stopped taking NuWorld. Now I welcome the pain, the unrestful sleep, the fatigue, and the churning bowels. I’m not afraid of myalgic something-or-other anymore.

What scares me are all the news reports about ordinary people suddenly freaking out and committing acts of violence. Most of them don’t even know what they’ve done.

What scares me even more is the butcher knife I found in my clothes hamper, rolled up in a blood-soaked T-shirt.

It wasn’t my blood.

I hated Mrs. McDermott’s dog. Everyone in the neighborhood did. He was a pit bull, and his name was Cuddles. Why do people give mean dogs cutesy names? Mrs. McDermott should have called him Killer.

Cuddles would have killed someone, if he wasn’t dead. They still don’t know who did it. Someone had snuck into Mrs. McDermott’s yard when Cuddles wasn’t there and put rat poison in his food.

One day, my friend Matt walked past Mrs. McDermott’s yard. Cuddles tore out of his house, barking and growling, then got into another fight with his rope. This time, he won. He chewed through it and chased Matt all over the neighborhood. Matt was lucky. He lost Cuddles and ran home. His parents got mad and called Mrs. McDermott, but she was a mean old witch. She said Matt probably teased the poor dog.

Cuddles’ rope was replaced with a chain. Not a strong chain–it was the kind of chain you’d use for a leash. I’d see him fight with it. He’d pull it with his teeth and bend the little links. I knew he’d break it someday.

He did. Right when Sean Spearman delivered Mrs. McDermott’s Sunday paper. Sean ran, but Cuddles caught him and bit him. Some people came out and chased Cuddles away. Sean was lucky. He only got bitten once, on the leg.

Cuddles was supposed to be put to sleep for biting Sean, but he wasn’t. Matt told me that Mrs. McDermott’s son was a policeman (I knew that) and he fixed it so his mother could keep her dog.

I asked my dad, and he said, “These things happen. People are supposed to follow the rules, but sometimes, they can break the rules and get away with it because they know someone.”

“That’s not fair! And what if Cuddles bites another kid?”

Dad shrugged. He’s not the type to get involved. The neighbors didn’t want to get involved, either. They didn’t want any trouble with the police.

So someone else got involved.

I was in the back yard playing when I heard Mrs. McDermott scream out her dog’s name. I snuck over and took a peek. There was a puddle of puke in front of Cuddles’ doghouse. It was smeared all over his face and on Mrs. McDermott’s flowery housecoat. She held him and petted him and sobbed his name over and over again.

The next day, a mean-looking, square-jawed policeman banged on our door. It was Sgt. McDermott. He was looking for whoever poisoned Cuddles. My dad told him that we didn’t know.

Mrs. McDermott didn’t get another dog. That winter, she fell and broke her hip while she was shoveling out her driveway. She had money, but was too cheap to pay someone to shovel her out. Now she’s in a nursing home.

Bad things come to bad people. That’s what my grandma says.

At least Mrs. McDermott isn’t dead like her dog–or Tucker Vance.

Tucker doesn’t sound like a bully’s name, but he was a bully all right–a big, fat, ugly, nasty bully. He was a fifth-grader, I’m in fourth, but he was three years older. He’d slap the little kids around, push them down, and take their lunch money.

He got away with it because his mother was on the school board.

It was like Mrs. McDermott’s dog all over again. The teachers didn’t want to get involved. The principal didn’t want to get involved.

So someone else got involved.

Last week, for the first time, someone pushed Tucker Vance down. Pushed him down the stairs. When he hit the bottom, his head split open. His neck was bent funny.

The police aren’t looking for anyone because they think it was an accident.

Whenever I come into her room and she’s not asleep, my baby squeals, sits up in her crib and reaches out with her little arms, fingers grasping, in the hope that I’ll pick her up and play with her. And of course, I do. What I can I say? She’s Daddy’s girl. And all I have left of her mother.

It seems like only yesterday that I met Ezter. I was sitting at my usual table at the coffee house, when this stunning brunette asks if she can sit with me. I stammered out my consent.

Ezter’s lovely brown eyes sparkled like fine amber. Her dark hair flowed down in waves and caressed her bare shoulders. She spoke with an accent, but her English was perfect. She told me she was Hungarian. I knew it–she had that Slavic beauty. Ezter was born in Visegrad, a village on the Danube that was the capital of Hungary in medieval times. As a little girl, she and her family moved up into the nearby Pilis Mountains, where she and her brothers and sisters loved to roam.

I told Ezter about myself: IS guy turned aspiring poet and writer publishes a few pieces and thinks he’s one of the literati, so he spends his empty nights in a coffee house listening to other wannabes read their works, hoping that one day, he’ll be on top of the New York Times bestseller list. I tried to be funny and charming, but not at the expense of honesty. I hate guys who lie to women. Of course, they get the girls and I don’t.

But Ezter seemed to like me. After the readings were over, she said she wanted to see me again. We exchanged phone numbers. One date turned into another and another. Then we became lovers. Ezter was the first woman to really make love to me. And she taught me how to make love to her.

I had found the perfect girl, and I wasn’t about to lose her. So I asked her to marry me. Tears welled in her eyes. “You are the only man who ever truly loved me,” she said. Her other boyfriends always found fault with her and ended up dumping her. I couldn’t imagine why.

We were married for a couple years when I brought up the subject of children. Ezter confessed tearfully that she couldn’t get pregnant. I didn’t feel betrayed. I felt sorry for her. I did some research on adoption, but before I could approach Ezter about the subject, she threw her arms around me and told me we were going to have a baby. It was like a miracle.

Ezter’s pregnancy and childbirth couldn’t have been more normal. Anna was born perfectly healthy. She looked so much like her mommy. Who could have imagined that Ezter would be dead barely a year after bringing Anna into the world? She had been enjoying one of her nightly runs when a hunter’s bullet ended her life. The redneck was so drunk that he’d accidentally loaded his rifle with the silver bullet he’d won in a marksmanship contest.

If it weren’t for Anna, I don’t know how I’d have gotten through the funeral. I don’t know how I’d have been able to get up every morning. I need her as much as she needs me. That reminds me, it’s getting dark, and the moon will be full tonight. It’s time to put Anna to bed and keep her safe. Since she’s starting to eat finger foods, I usually give her some little bits of raw hamburger after she’s gone through the change. She loves it. She gobbles it up, licks her paws, and squeals with delight.

Kids grow up so fast. Soon, she’ll be able to control the change as easily as she can use the toilet.

But no matter how old she is, she’ll always be Daddy’s girl.

My poor Emily. You’re the last person I’d expect to see here on my stainless steel table. I can’t say I’m glad you’re here, but I was touched that your mother and sister came to me to make arrangements. They knew I loved you. You were the best friend I ever had.

Did I scare you? I have to wear this mask, respirator, and protective suit because the chemicals I work with are highly toxic. Working with formaldehyde-preserved specimens in our high school biology class is one thing; this is another. Don’t worry, Emily. I’ll talk you through it all so you’ll know what to expect.

There. Your sponge bath is done. Your skin is clean and disinfected. Now, I’ll give you a massage. I’m just going to flex your arms and legs and massage the muscles. That makes it easier to pose you later. Okay. We’ve finished the prep work. Now comes the most important part.

I’ve made two incisions in your neck: one in the carotid artery, one in the jugular vein. I’m going to insert a tube into each incision. One is connected to my fluid pump; the other is the drain tube. When I turn on the pump, embalming fluid will move through your veins and push the blood out through the drain tube and down the drain of my special sink.

I can legally dispose of blood this way. It’s perfectly safe. When embalming fluid mixes with blood, it destroys any viruses and contaminants present. Let’s turn on the pump. We’ll talk while it does its job.

Emily, I still can’t believe you’re here. How did things go so wrong with Frank? I was at your wedding–I could tell how much you loved him, and he sure seemed to love you. Your sister Linda told me a different story. How a man could ever hit a woman he claims to love is beyond me. Why did you stay with him? How did you become a victim?

When we were children, you always defended me. The other kids called me Creepy Charlie. They hit me, kicked me, pushed me down, even rubbed my face in dog shit. You were my only friend. I loved you so much. I wanted to tell you, but I knew you could never love me that way. You needed someone tall, dark, and handsome–not a geek like me.

The pumping’s done. Let’s move on to the cavity embalming. I’m going to make an incision right here–just above your bellybutton. There. Now, I’m going to insert this long needle called a trocar into your abdomen and thoracic cavities. It’s connected to a suction pump that removes air and leftover blood. When that’s done, I’ll inject a concentrated embalming fluid. It provides a more thorough means of disinfection and preservation.

All done. I’ve sewn up the incisions. You get another sponge bath, then I’ll wash your hair. I see you’ve got some color back in your cheeks. That’s the dye in the embalming fluid. After I wash your hair, I’ll rub your hands and face with a special moisturizer. Then I’ll dress you and do your makeup.

Emily, I promise you’ll look beautiful. I’ll fix the dent in your skull and add extra hair. I can’t believe the police bought Frank’s story. You just fell and hit your head. Yeah, right.

Let’s get you into the makeup room. I’ve got everything I need in here–cosmetics, wigs, latex, prosthetics of all sorts. You wouldn’t believe the condition that some people arrive in. We morticians are real artists. We have to be.

There, you’re all fixed. Let’s get you dressed and made up. Your calling hours are tomorrow, your funeral the day after that, but I’ll be done with you in time for dinner.

After I eat, I’ll come back for Frank.

I’ve got him locked inside one of my caskets.

It’s not airtight, so he’ll live.

Until I embalm him.