MicroHorror

Did as she was told (didn’t she always?). Put a small clock in a blanket, and put them both in the basket of the vulnerable, wonderful little puppy. “Won’t feel lonely then,” she was told (and so she believed). “It will think the ticking is its mother’s heart beating.”

Frightened of the beating, since her father died, the girl left to be by her mother frightened, not by what she did, but what she may never do again (the mother, I mean).

The girl listening all night, with her head on her mother’s breast, listening to the sound of her mother’s heart beating, praying it would not stop. The girl ready to burst into action if it did…

Somehow she drifted into dreams of death being no dreams, just dark oblivion. Waking with alarm: her clock not going off.

She panicked, her pulse and imagination racing. Smelling a sickly sweet odor, overlaid with a stench like her brother had created when making a bad-egg stink bomb years ago, for a prank, with his junior chemistry set. A stench of innocence corrupted. “Mum?… Mum?” She shook the body, a bag of cruel tricks splitting at the seams. “Mum!”

The woman’s sparse hair dry and dead, on the head. Lying next to a meaty mess oozing noxious gases and juices, stewed in. The flesh of the corpse–putrid, perished: the bones seeming to be eating it away. Flesh no longer molded to the bone, just moldering. Maggots feasting on it: breakfast in bed. Dead, then. The girl had slept longer than she thought. Hellhound baying at the door.

Only occasionally took the dirty washing to the launderette; usually his old lady–his live-in squeeze–did. But, by staggering his visits–his duties–could get chatting (up) to different girls. He loitered and lingered as their skimpy lingerie got wet: his washing done quickly–covertly–secreting underpants secretions and all into washing machine–eyeing up the talent–after a tumble when washing done.

Took more than one encounter to get into a particular little darling’s knickers–lily-white. Helping out his “official” girlfriend–three Thursdays in a row (after noisy violent rows) doing washing and (sorry, forgot your stuff again: a dead giveaway) getting nowhere with the young “virgin.”

It was hard: (wasn’t it just!) to win launderette girl’s trust. She was shy and retiring (too young), unemployed, as was he. Third week in a row, “bumping into each other”–saw notice on the door: a job was going in the launderette. The woman in charge (sullen bitch) striking it rich, winning the lottery–washing underwear beneath her. He knew (thought he did) the owner of the launderette–though their paths hadn’t crossed for a long time, but being to idle to go for the job himself–he gallantly let the little cracker apply.

She became manageress, but he still could not get her knickers off–flirting–backing off–flirting; going round in circles, like the washing machine–and dryer (than his longtime girlfriend–frigid probably)–blowing hot and cold. He stayed away for a few weeks.

Then one day it happened. Launderette empty of people, but for the two of them: had a bit of a snog. Took her for a drink or three at lunchtime. Came back, putting closed sign on the door. Tipsy; heads spinning round and round, though not like machines (being hot-red-blooded)–screwing up against them–thrumming and vibrating.

And how did his live-in lover discover–uncover–the truth? Probably from the launderette owner, the proprietor, who had steamy fantasies about the matronly woman with the big tits–and had attack of conscience–sense of propriety–telling on her lover–with age. She came anyway–in a rage, another day with a huge black bin bag of his (and selected items of own) doing dirty washing in public: sticking it under young bimbo”s nose, starting with his smelly socks. Message loud and clear. You may have done him a service–wash, but the wedding should have been mine–your romance, a washout.

Dangerous sex–sheet stiff with semen–skid marks in “Marks and Sparks” underpants. Sperm in frilly knickers. And more worryingly than double cross dressing, was his irate missus (in her early sixties at least) out of the bag, whipping boxers covered–soaked with blood: (fight and what else lost?)

Sound of something solid–hard–in with the washing–thudding: should have been washed separately–irate shrieking butcher woman, off her head, turning air blue–water and whites turning red.

Ants in her pants, after the push–the fall. Hitting head already spinning–swimming in gin: blackness. Ants invading the gap (hairy lips sticky and red and thick with raspberry jam, and something else) in (sex) education. Dead drunk, she lay on her back, legs splayed. Author’s thought for the day: do ants sting? or bite? or spray poison?–itch in knickers anyway–seven years after breaking mirror, breath on it visible, but foul–as open drains, as open graves.

Ants all over her: carpenters–fire-red ants camouflaged in her red drying essence–and some flying, in face of goddess. Ants under her skin, under lids–eyes unblinking (what did they see in her?)–everywhere: every crevice, crack and gaping, stinking corrupted hole. Cover blown (a right Charlie) nose–tissue, bloody-torn: hanky-manky-panky–even worse since habit kicked: him getting his some other way–boot in–coming to a sickening crunch.

Body dismantled. Prime cuts drying up: no desire to eat, going off the very idea. Left the bits scattered. Caressed the sliced off breasts: did nothing for him–small and saggy, no milk, no humanity after murder (pure) tipped off–trophies. Milk nor blood flowing: her tits (as in life) shriveled like a starving, native African mother’s–or a would-be, couldn’t-be rapist’s prick–made to feel inadequate. Him losing face, while the corpse’s snotty, stuck-up nose cut off, lost to spite, not running down the road, but marching (followed by toes and cut and puckered nipples) right under the policeman’s nose: a regimented black line filing by…

Case and old wounds–reopened.

Lying, feeling like death–not suicide, as yet, but death warmed up. Lying alone in summer’s almost unbearable closeness, on the dodgy sun-lounger, in the non-flowering garden. She was suffering two kinds of hangovers: her mouth furred and stale and parched after a night on the dry wine; the other her pre-menstrual belly hanging over her cheap bikini bottoms–slack and shapeless.

It was hard work sunbathing after a night on the village, and she was browned off with everything. Feeling gross and delicate at the same time. She heard, instead of listened to, shrill birds–busy, feathery little fuckers–and horny bees and wasps buzzing her.

She felt she could lie here forever sweating. Not because she enjoyed it, but because she couldn’t be bothered to move, to sit up and beg questions. Lying red-raw, feeling like death, cold-blooded maybe again.

Somewhere, she heard a fat, slimy frog croaking. It could be herself talking, her voice bound to crack, if she dared to utter–utter rubbish, like the rubbish she had fed to her last night, by the prince of a man, turned into an odious toad, after the French kissing. She had told him to crawl back under his rock–then hit him with one.

She planned–if she ever moved herself again–to build a rockery: him planted under it, with Love-Lies-Bleeding and Forget-Me-Nots decorating it. The only headstone he deserved: the one that stove his brain in. Had his number all right–and his name on it. Such is fate.

She was too full on for him: needed his space–she would have to go.

Was both thick- and empty-headed–bullet, unbitten–blasting through, taking contents with it–spraying shattered cranium and grey matter–what did it matter? She was expendable: doing her a favor–a sad life ending, and a new lease on his, and wasn’t he horrible. Pulverized brain hitting the wall, with a sickening splat! and dripping down neck; rubbing his hands in glee, but it was just sick fantasy–all in the head.

Waiting for the train, anticipating the voice over the tannoy: “Mind the gap” and not doing that. Ankle and patella smashing–through raw flesh bone poking; skin ripped–stripped, torn ligaments exposing and femoral artery severed–a rush of panic and blood gushing–jetting warm and fresh. Would any of this happen, in such an accident waiting to happen: not waiting to find out, worrying about things that might never happen–experiencing before the event.

Meeting problem head-on: suddenly pushed from behind onto the line, train running over head–an instant before–crossing her mind: “I’m going to die” (wasn’t surprised). Head crushed–compacted–squashed flat–no gaps in memory (after life flashing by) no room for doubt: was dead.

Not fair–just received a Dear John letter. Knocked for six; he needed sex immediately to feel better.

Went to a pub, drinking on an empty belly–set off for a nightclub later.

Those days–discos all the rage, without the manic anger. He was well disguised. A cool guy behind dark glasses, knocking back glass after glass of neat vodka: dapper in white flairs and jacket.

The club was a dive. First time he’d been to one on his own, without drunken mates to give him support. Taking the plunge; he chatted up a girl at the bar–was knocked back; had another vodka.

Like a giant fairy grotto–the disco, bright colors flashing in the dark–and dark places where the pulsating lighting and the strobe did not reach at the edges of the “dance” floor. There was a giant plastic tree in the middle to dance round; the girls dancing round their handbags, all tarts in his eyes– behind the shades.

One girl smiled in his direction. He smiled back with an immediate erection. The hot, heavy, loud pounding music throbbing with his crotch, as he drank Scotch, like his last relationship–on the bloody rocks. Reckless, he winked at her.

They danced a slow dance together. She rubbed herself against him, gyrating her pelvis, rolling her hips. Their thumping hearts racing, beating the slow thump of the music. Getting on well, getting it on, till her girlfriend turned nasty.

“We don’t need you!” she sneered, having to raise her voice, coming between their bodies (though, I hasten to add, not having an orgasm as of yet–just wet in anticipation).

“Don’t want any trouble,” he said. “Don’t want to come between you.” This not quite true; he quite fancied a three-in-the-bed session.

“I don’t know her!” the girl he was with said, having to shout over the loud music. “I don’t know her. I only met her tonight!” Spittle flying–he pretended not to notice it, along with the exaggerated white of her far from perfect teeth, her bra and her dandruff.

“Feel I’ve known her for years,” the gooseberry said. “I want to be her true friend!”

Drunk and maudlin, the girl on his arm mumbled to her, “You are my best friend, come home with us, and I’ll cook for you.” And they ventured off into the dark and spinning night; at least one of them sick in the taxi.

When they all got back to the small and cluttered flat, they all fell on to the unmade bed. No plan, playing things by ear. His girl–he couldn’t remember her name–was a good dancer. She struggled up, put on some music, to show off. Her new friend clapping and rubbing her hands in delight. Looked like being quite a night. The dancer bumping and grinding to her KC and the Sunshine Band record–giving her all. Offering sex on a plate, but he passed out before he could accept her generosity.

When he awoke, her new friend held a tray of succulent roast meat before him–it smelled delicious. Then, when his eyes were opened properly, he lost all appetite–forever. She held the dancer’s roasted head on a platter, puckered blistered mouth offering oral sex, once the apple removed, and accepted. The waitress snaking closer to him, offering her bosom friend.

“Said you didn’t want her just for her body,” she grinned. “Feast your eyes on this,” she said, just before she gouged them out and devoured them.

At first it seemed like nothing was wrong; her father had nodded off in his armchair, reading glasses–and telly–still on, newspaper spread out before him on the floor, beside his shoes set aside, legs stretched out, socks with holes showing. His hands resting on beer belly, his head back, dentures having slipped, no snoring–something not right: death never far from mind.

“Dad!” Said it three times, loudly: no response. Couldn’t bring herself to reach out and touch him. Shaking, heart pounding–at thought of his having stopped–with trembling hands struggled to use the phone.

“Ambulance!”

“What address?”

Her mind going blank. Her mouth dry, tongue suddenly thick, like a lump of rubber; couldn’t talk, make herself understood.

“What address?”

Managed at last to stammer address out.

“Leave the door open for the paramedics.”

“Just come–hurry!”

Asked to calmly describe the problem. Told to put her father onto his back, to check his airways. Managed to move–trembling and panting–the dead (O God!) weight. The glasses fell off. She could not look him in the eye, in case the eyes were open, unblinking, staring at nothing–glazed. “No,” she thought; he had been asleep; if dead, had died peacefully.

Tipping his head back, and… ugh! He had a huge cold sore on his upper lip. She recoiled. Was asked over the phone if he was still breathing; thought she heard him groan–not sure. Part of her told herself he was all right, still alive; she hadn’t got to do anything, just put him in recovery position. Part of her said he was already long dead (though still warm), that she could do nothing for him; didn’t ring true. Be no good at it anyway–told herself–failed before tried. Had done “mouth to mouth” in the guides, but with a dummy, not something that could be dead–not her dad. Not someone with unsightly, infectious blemish: cold sores were associated with herpes–born of the sexual and dirty. She had to, must, give him “kiss of life,” overcome her distaste. This was her father, for God’s sake! She couldn’t, didn’t.

Could hear the disembodied voice on the phone, probably issuing instructions–and words of encouragement–head somewhere else–couldn’t follow. She said and did nothing. Sat watching her father dying, or already decomposing. In denial?–still prayed the ambulance would arrive in time.

Dropped home after the hospital, her mother hugged daughter and son-in-law goodbye: “I won’t kiss you. Got a cold sore coming.”

He was in his coffin. The family were watching; she felt obliged to plant a goodbye kiss on his… cheek: cold sore probably still there under all the makeup laid on thick. Bent over–leaned into the casket. In one fast movement an arm shot up, wrapped itself like a snake round her neck, her father dragging her face towards his. The reverse of what her Uncle Bert had done years before: he had tried to drag her auntie, his wife, out of her coffin.

Her lips parted to scream–was silenced, her mouth stuffed by a thick, bloated, greasy tongue–sliding round her teeth and gums, slithering down her throat, choking on. Could almost taste the malignancy, the corruption. Almost, but not quite.

“You’re all right!”

In bed with her husband. In cold morning light could see him looking down at her, down on her. Awake shaken, shaking him off, freeing herself from his arms.

“I’m okay…” Spotting the cold sore on his lip brought the full weight of her conscience, and the nearest thing to hand–the baby alarm–crashing down on his head!… again!… and… again!… and again!

Come across a deserted birthday bash abandoned. Perished balloons hanging like shriveled breasts; moldering foods on delicate, lacy, disintegrating paper plates; cobwebs and rodent droppings everywhere–and dusty cardboard party hats, not worn: all in all, shades of Miss Havisham; a mystery, what the Dickens?

The function room was like a huge tomb: but no bodies, no dead here to pay homage to. Had they upped and run out of sight, to die–crawled, one after another, in a conga line to curl up and die, invisibly? Perhaps the air had been poisoned by chemicals, or a dirty bomb, dropped nearby, leaving things untouched, as such, intact–before crumbling away–rotting slowly. Perhaps the wine–still, and once bubbly, on the long cluttered, dusty tables–had been laced with slow acting poison, or worse–God knows what hadn’t happened. Imagined champagne corks popping–like shotgun–wedding–some kind of celebration interrupted; God knows what by.

The sullen visitor, with a mask on, entering into the spirit of things–low and morbid. And in a small, musty, dusty side-room, was hit by foul (foul play?) stink of corruption, stumbled upon–a huge fake cake on a trolley–finally falling apart. TARRAA! A once saucy young girl busting out, naked, showing little flesh now–much had been eaten away, or was hidden by parasites–feeding. Fast going hairless, scalp crawling, alive with maggots and flies squirming–heaving–a sickening sight. Her bony gnawed arms flung wide to expose flaccid, nibbled breasts, jaw dropping working loose as she tried to yell–grubs pouring out what was left of her mouth, “SURRRRpRIsE!”

Some people don’t know they’re born–nor when they’re dead: nobody to inform this corpse. “HhaPpy BbbirThdAy,” it said.

Pig’s ear made of the piercing–a cheap affair, cost him dear; ear infected–back and to the hospital–wept and festered–his resentment taken out on his girlfriend: had had it done for her, along with growing his hair long and getting tattooed in her name; they were both starving artists, well, skint art students, reason for getting it done on the cheap. At one stage, thought he’d lost the (right) ear–but thankfully had not; nevertheless, was a bloody mess.

Waltzed into the jewelers’ to get another piercing. There was a long queue at the piercing booth–he had more important things to do. He pointed at the jokey (old, unoriginal joke) sign on the counter: “Ears pierced while you wait”–plonked a dirty hanky on the counter and unrolled it to reveal the ear that was dead. Thought he’d lost it. Had not–just mislaid it. Had come to get it done professionally, this time–fragile cartilage two huge abscesses (if burst, just imagine the pus!) to be avoided.

“Do your best,” the student artist said to the salesgirl. “Want it gift wrapped for the girlfriend.”

The ear–going rotten, smelled unpleasant, looked bloody disgusting, on the turn–a deaf ear to. The sales assistant turning green, unleashing a bloodcurdling, ear-piercing scream–just before she fainted.

Envied his mistress’s long silken tresses. So distressed himself, because he was losing his hair–receding, self-confidence ebbing. She was sympathetic at first, but his continual whining was winding her up. Enough’s a bloody nuff.

He was spending all their money in a hair transplant clinic. Clinically depressed, with stitches in his sore head, sparse tufts sprouting. Shouting and sobbing like a spoiled brat; having always to keep under his hat wispy hair failing to grow up.

Tightening the locks on chains and handcuffs, in barely human bondage. The mistress bound for fleeting fame in tabloid rags, her life in tatters.

Her auburn hair splayed across flat, yellowing prickly pillow. Stripped–he bit instead of kissed, pinching and squeezing instead of cuddling and caressing; slapping almost becoming hitting.

This was the only way he could express his sexual jealousy. She agreed to all this, because she was bored stiff, and usually very pissed. Room and head spinning, swimming in the dark, sinking–weighted down. This way he could satisfy himself quicker. “Get it over with,” she sighed, only wincing slightly at the hurt.

“Hurry up,” she had moaned, and he had gagged her with a filthy, snot-green hanky. Her hair wound in and around his fist, as he twisted it to make her writhe. She did not like the gag–tied too tight. Became a little frightened, choking back tears, as he became rougher–poking and scratching–claws unsheathed. Pain behind his eyes–as the violence intensified–as well as hers wide with naked, mortal terror.

For the first time in ages, their hearts were pounding in unison. Hard to tell which was the loudest. He lowered his head, opened his mouth to rip into her furry slit, savage out of control, biting her clitoris hard, blood dripping. Her whole body in agony, trembling not with pleasure–either of them. Her knee jerked up, caught him on his still tender, bandaged head. He snapped. Slapped. Left the room, and came back: coming twice.

Her best friend found her naked and spread-eagled, and still manacled and gagged on his wet, blood-soaked bed. No longer just a bottle redhead: raw and bleeding. Her friend had not the courage to free her, seeing and smelling her fear. The victim’s eyes widening, rolling in pain and useless warning as the door opened.

The lover had returned. His woman’s long hair covering his scalp, with a ribbon in it. Seeing the new visitor he whooped–a flash of cold steel–he swooped, like a bird of prey. Had always fancied himself as a brunette. Only gentlemen preferring blondes.