MicroHorror

The fancy name of my fear of buttons is koumpounophobia. All my life I’ve had this thing about buttons. I’m not sure what they will do to me, but I’m certain that sometime, someplace, some button will get me. My shrink says this is some form of obsessive-compulsive behavior and doesn’t know what causes this fear. She believes the only way I will ever get over it is to expose myself to buttons. So I took this job, here in this shop that sells only buttons.

The shelves surrounding me in the small store are piled with boxes of buttons, each with a sample attached to the outside. The samples are like eyes, hundreds and hundreds of them, all watching me silently, monitoring my every move. I’ve looked at and touched them all although it had taken all my strength to do so. Mostly, they’re small and smooth to the touch, slimy, clinging to my fingers, eager to possess me. It’s easy to imagine them all over me, sliding effortlessly down my throat, blocking my windpipe, and closing it off as I choke to death.

Sometimes, when there is no one in the shop and it’s dark outside, I think I hear little movements in the boxes, tiny scratching sounds. I see the cardboard sides heave a little, as if the buttons have life. Soon, the sounds begin to get louder and the movements more obvious. The button eyes stare at me more and more intently. I can’t escape their gaze. Can they see into my soul? I wonder if they know how much I hate them.

I don’t feel like my shrink is taking me seriously. Whenever I start to tell her about my fears of buttons covering and suffocating me, I think I see a twitch of her lips. I’ve asked her not to wear those sweaters with the big buttons, but she seems to have one in every color. Is this her way of testing me? One day, she asked me to put on her sweater and button it up. I couldn’t even reach out to take the sweater from her. All my clothes are fastened with zippers and Velcro. Just the idea of touching buttons makes me tremble and want to vomit. I must wash my hands after every customer I’ve served, to make sure the slickness and the smell I feel coming from the buttons doesn’t stay on me.

Today, I went to see my shrink. To test me, and to see if I’ve dealt with my fear, she pulled a can of buttons out of her desk drawer and threw them all over me. It was like being suffocated by hundreds of cockroaches, slimy, slippery, whiskery things, sliding all over my body, into my ears, slithering into my screaming mouth. Scattered and fallen buttons watch me fixedly as I jump on her, put my hands around her throat, and choke her until she stops breathing.

“Elevator’s stuck between floors again,” says the cop to his partner, on duty in the lobby of the courthouse.

I’m crouched on the floor of the pitch black elevator, with my arms wrapped around my head so I can’t see the darkness. The elevator has stalled and the lights have gone out. It’s darker than anything I have ever imagined. Not just black, but a complete absence of light that presses on the eyeballs. I’m claustrophobic, so I’m sweating, my heart is racing like a greyhound, my legs are trembling so much I can’t stand up. I moan. There is an answering catch of breath. I’d forgotten the other person in here with me. A legal aid client, charged with attempted murder, this is the first time I’ve ever met him. When I interviewed him half an hour ago, he was completely out of it, monosyllabic. I decided he should plead “not guilty” at his arraignment–if we ever make it there and if I’m not a complete basket case by that time.

Through the fingers over my eyes, I suddenly see a flicker. Although the emergency light is on, it’s weak, and doesn’t lessen my fear of being entombed in a cramped metal cube where we’ll eventually run out of air.

My client is pressed against the opposite wall with his hands, in handcuffs, in front of him. He looks like an animal at bay, tense, ready to fight. His head is down. Suddenly he raises his head and glares at me. I am here with a man who took a deboning knife and attempted to murder three of his fellow workers. I have no idea why he did what he did. Was it an argument they had, or did he just go off his head?

I’m terrified. Although at six feet tall in my high heels, I tower over him, he has a compact frame. I think he could overpower me. I look at his hands. They’re strong, used to cutting through animal bones. I imagine him jumping me, pulling me down, kneeling on my back, getting those manacled hands over my head and garroting me. I start to shake and hyperventilate. There is no way I could escape. I watch for him to move. He pulls himself away from the wall and rubs his hands together, pulling the fingers and shaking them out. Pray God he’s not loosening them up. I carefully reach out for my heavy briefcase, with its metal corners.

The elevator suddenly jerks and as it does, the emergency light goes out. As the overhead lights come on, I see a movement.

“Holy shit, holy shit,” says the cop as the elevator doors open onto the courthouse lobby. “Christ almighty,” groans his partner.

I’ve always liked those chicken bone candies. You know, the shiny little ones that crunch when you bite into them. It’s not so much the taste I like but that feel when they splinter into pieces. I love the sound of them cracking, the sensation of the fragments in my mouth.

When I found real chicken bones in the garbage, I loved to stand on them, hear them break under my foot although it was better when I grew up and was strong enough to crack them with my hands. My dad punished me, but I didn’t care. It was harmless fun, like when you see kids throwing stones at frogs. I really liked to do it when my kid sister, Jenny was around. I can’t count the number of times I’ve scared her shitless by threatening to do the same to her puny legs. I’d just laugh at the little loser when she got upset.

When I was about sixteen, I noticed this girl, Lori, who lived in the neighborhood. Sure, there were girls in school, all big and fat, but I only liked the thin ones. She was tiny, so small she looked like a little girl. Thin face, narrow shoulders, poky little arms and skinny legs. Still, she walked and talked like a teen. We’ve been an item for a time now. I call her “chicken bones.” Jenny’s been mad as hell since I met Lori. It’s like she’s in love with me or something. She’s jealous and follows us everywhere. I’m getting tired of her.

She’s is in a dark room, her arms and legs spread and fastened to the posts of a bed. She’s scared out of her mind. What the fuck am I doing here, she thinks, what’s going to happen to me? It’s been hours since the figure tied her up, so she’s hungry and thirsty. She pulls on the ropes but they only get tighter.

Someone comes through the door, letting in some light from the hallway. She doesn’t know if it’s male or female, because she can’t see its face, but something in the way it walks is familiar. The figure lifts a baseball bat, and brings it down hard on her left ankle. There’s a cracking sound, and she shrieks in agony. It’s the worst pain she’s ever felt. The figure lifts the bat and brings it down again in the same place. The pain of it splintering roars through her. She screams “Why are you doing this?” The figure reaches over and starts to manipulate her ankle. In a low voice, it says “It’s so awesome when I can feel the bones all splintered and loose.” Just before she blacks out, she hears the figure say, “How do you like it now, chicken bones?”

When Dad and I arrive home from our fishing trip, we see that only the attic light is on. Which is strange, as Jenny, old scaredy-cat Jenny, is all alone for the first time.

“Where do you think she is?” asks Dad.

“Probably hiding under her bed,” I say.

We put our fishing gear down and go look for Jenny.