MicroHorror

Angelina knelt on the kitchen floor, the carving knife in her hand. The names her mother called her fought for a front row seat in Angelina’s brain—Lardo, Laggard, Lollygagger, as if her mother was one to talk. The fat slob. Angelina stared at the body, like an onlooker at a crime scene, waiting for her mother to awaken. A Beatles song played on the radio.

Mother Mary comes to me…

“She’s comin’ all right, bitch.” She’d never called her mother that, not to her face, not until now.

“Bitch!”

Angelina’s stomach tightened. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth.

“Twenty-six years you kept me in this house.” The words fell like tiny spit grenades on her mother’s bruised face. “Twenty-six years of tellin’ me how ugly I was, twenty-six years of makin’ your problems mine, twenty-six years of puttin’ me down. Well no more—bitch.”

Angelina sat on her heels, placed her hands over her ears, and rocked back and forth, waiting. She forced her breathing to slow. Her mother’s words echoed through Angelina’s brain. She lowered her hands to allow the words to escape. They didn’t. She rocked faster.

“You told me I was evil. I guess you was right. Did you see it in my eyes? Did you? Right before that skillet rearranged your ugly face—bitch?”

Angelina raised the knife over her head with both hands. Her lips parted, her eyes widened. The rage overtaking her, Angelina rocked back one last time before driving the knife into her mother’s forehead. She yanked the blade back and plunged it into the bloodied body—again, and again, and again—but her mother’s voice wouldn’t stop.

Bernard joked that his faith was like a roasted marshmallow–crispy on the outside, mushy in the middle. In truth, he wasn’t a religious man at all. He simply desired to belong.

The blackened outside of his eagerness to please prevailed twice each year during the equinox, when the sacrifice took place. And as foreseen by the Ancient, tonight was Bernard’s turn on the altar.

Flames flickered on bamboo poles. Incense tinged wooded air. Tall pines observed friends, neighbors, and unknowns wearing gray, hooded robes and sandals as they circled and intoned, fingers interlaced at their waists. The Ancient, dressed in tainted white, shadows concealing his face, held the rapier high.

Bernard stared at the glinting steel, calm, accepting, and realized he was wrong about the depth of his faith. To prove this to the others, he closed his eyes when the priest’s prayer ended and performed his duty in silence and without regret.

It says V. Westerman on her mailbox. I call her Victoria. She moved into the apartment above mine eight months ago, and my life’s been one long symphonic poem ever since. If it wasn’t for Frank, I would’ve asked her out by now.

She’s standing at the head of the line waiting for the bus with her friend A. Zelnick. They’re both tall. They have slim builds, dark hair, and their voices remind me of Julie Andrews. They could be sisters, but they’re not. I remember the day shortly after Victoria moved in when they met at the mailboxes and introduced themselves. I stood off to one side and acted like I was reading my mail while I inhaled Victoria’s fragrance and listened to her genteel laugh.

They work in a legal office in the high-rise across the street from where I toil as the director of the local arts council. I know this because I rode up the elevator with them one day. Victoria acted like she didn’t recognize me. I waited for her to press a button and then selected 12, two floors above hers. The door opened, and they stepped into an area that contained the offices of Klein, Armour, Franks and Celeste, Attorneys at Law. I assume Victoria and A are paralegals. They don’t dress in suits or carry the kinds of briefcases I associate with lawyers. Someday when A’s not around, I’ll ask Victoria.

It’s been six days since Frank’s been in her apartment. Maybe they’re not seeing each other any longer. He’s not right for her anyway. Unlike my Victoria, he’s a horny rabbit.

One Saturday, I awoke to the sounds of her mattress squeaking and two people moaning. I looked at the clock on the table next to my bed. It was 7:53. I pulled the pillow and covers over my head and went back to sleep. The adagio movement of their erotic symphony started at 9:30 and lasted almost an hour. When the rondo commenced at 1:30, I went to a matinee. I returned home after dinner and saw them kissing in front of the elevators. His hands were all over my Victoria, like an orchestra conductor urging the musicians to a Wagnerian climax.

When I entered my apartment, I heard the introduction to the final allegro in progress, and left for another movie. A spirited encore was underway when I returned. Poor Victoria. Why didn’t he leave her alone?

The sounds of squealing brakes interrupt my reverie when the bus pulls up to the stop. The doors open and the melody in my heart strikes a dissonant chord when Frank exits. He and Victoria look at each other for a few seconds before she melts into his arms like butter on a hot English muffin, and they lock lips.

Damn, I guess Frank isn’t as ex as I thought. Oh well, one fish does not an ocean make, as my mother used to say whenever I told her about another lost love. I avert my eyes to A, look her over and wonder if she might make a worthy partner for my next pas de deux.

Why won’t they leave me alone? It’s the same every day. Ken and Maurice, dressed in white, escort me to Dr. Johanson’s office. They tell jokes and laugh while I stumble down the hall feeling like I’m going to throw up.

Dr. Johanson’s nice. She and I chat about how I’m doing and why I’m here. Well, I do most of the talking. It’s all very serious, and that’s fine with me. Dr. Johanson tells me I must have experienced a trauma when I was a child that made me this way.

I tell her about the time Matthew Peters picked on me for not laughing at his jokes.

“Let’s see you do better,” Matthew says, crossing his arms on his chest. “Come on, Duh-wayne, make me laugh.” The girls standing near us giggle, the boys chant Duh-wayne, Duh-wayne. Mr. Grant, my Algebra teacher, smiles as he hands over his meal card to be punched.

I try to move away, but two boys block my path. My mouth is dry. I need something to drink. Water spots form on my shirt as the sweat soaks through. One of the boys notices and says milk is leaking from my tits. The kids laugh. Mr. Grant’s teeth make an appearance. My body starts shaking. I scream and attack Matthew, punching and kicking as hard as I can.

“That’s enough,” Dr. Johanson says. “You need to calm down.”

I look at Dr. Johanson. She’s pretty. I wonder if she’s an alien.

She asks me if I think that’s when my problem started. I don’t answer. I look out the window instead. She asks me again, and I say I don’t think so. It’s the first time in eight months I haven’t replied I don’t know.

The look on Dr. Johanson’s face changes. She leans forward. A gap forms between the buttons of her black blouse. More black shows, bruises, just like Mommy. Tell me what happened, she says.

I’m calm now. I know there won’t be any laughter.

“Please,” I hear myself say. “Please don’t hurt Mommy.” I watch as he rips her blouse, pushes up her skirt and yanks her underwear down. Mommy struggles underneath him. “Please, Daddy.” I grab his leg and try to pull him away, but he’s too strong. He carries me out of the room and closes the door. I sit outside, helpless, listening to Mommy cry.

My dad’s been away. Mommy told me he was in the Army. Once I heard Aunt Joyce ask when he was coming home from prison.

Daddy groans. I hear him say how good it was and how much he missed my mom and how she should be ready for more in a little while. And then he laughs.

Dearest Sara,

It’s been ten years since we communicated last. I’ll never forget that day you screamed you never wanted to speak to your father or me again, and then raced out the door. I know you didn’t mean it. You were so pretty that day. Do you still wear your hair in a ponytail? I tried writing you many times, but your father found my letters and ran them through the shredder. He said you’d disgraced the family by running away. Not that it mattered since I didn’t know your address. If it hadn’t been for the news item on the television, I wouldn’t have known where to write now.

My fingers stopped mid-purl when I saw you standing next to that District Attorney and heard him tell everyone about the case you’d won. You’re skinny like your father, you know, and when did you dye your hair blond? I agree with you. It’s too bad Florida suspended its death penalty law.

I know you think I’m weak for allowing your father to abuse me the way he did. I hope you realize I did it for you. The beatings were bearable as long as I was saving you from his horrible ways. My God, you were only seventeen.

He might not have been the best father, but he was a good man until he was passed over a third time for the promotion he wanted. After that he was always so angry. I’ve thought about leaving him many times, but he’s extra nice to me when he’s sober. My one prayer all these years was that you’d call and ask me to live with you once you got settled. Maybe you will when you hear my news.

The doctors give your father three months to live. It’s pancreatic cancer. I learned how to administer his medications so the nurse doesn’t have to come here all the time. It’s not that difficult.

I sleep in your room with Cuddly. You remember your teddy bear, don’t you? You father’s in quite a bit of pain, and the walls muffle his moans. I kept your clothes, too. I tried on one of your dresses last week. It was a little tight, but for that moment, I was seventeen again. I even put ribbons in my hair. Your father would feel better if I’d stop withholding his pain medicine, but it only seems right that he suffer a little after all I went through.

I guess that’s all I have to say for this letter. It would please me to hear back from you if you have the time.

With all my love, your mother,

Brenda

Pandora stood on the hilltop, hugging the jar to her breasts. Tears zigzagged down her cheeks. She opened her eyes and surveyed the struggle below, as the evils she’d unleashed spread amongst the mortals. She rocked from side to side agonizing over her inability to defy temptation and prayed for guidance from the Gods on how to undo what she had brought on mankind.

Startled when the jar began to buzz, she stepped away. Was there something else in there? she wondered. Her body convulsed at the thought. She’d created Hell for the mortals by opening the jar once. What more would she do by uncapping it again?

Her hands wet with sweat, she turned and walked towards the village. The jar beckoned. She tried to ignore it, but couldn’t. Her daemon, curiosity, surrounded her and forbade her from leaving. Pandora returned to the container and rested her hand on the top. She hesitated, fought the urge to continue, and found she was helpless to do otherwise.

She opened the lid the smallest amount and snapped it shut without looking inside. A vile wind came from the mountain followed by a pounding rain. Pandora braced herself against the forces. She pressed the top harder against the ceramic urn, and felt it fight back. She closed her eyes and prayed for the strength to leave the lid down and walk away. Her body shook with fear. She yelled to the heavens for guidance. Zeus’ laughter was the only reply.

Unable to resist temptation any longer, she opened the jar. Without warning, the ills that had been loosed before raced through the wind and rain on blue, green, and yellow streamers and reentered the container. The smells of famine, pestilence, and death filled the air. Once the last evil had returned to the vessel and the lid was closed, the wind and rain subsided.

Pandora opened her eyes with great anticipation and gazed down upon the mortals. What she saw made her scream in despair. For in the valley below, the fires had gone out, the land was dark, and the mortals found themselves cold and hungry once again.

Josie limped along the sidewalk, pushing her belongings in a rusted shopping cart. Wary eyes swept the adjacent park until she spotted the donut bag and to-go coffee cup perched on the rotting bench.

She sat, looked around for the owner, and seeing no one nearby, opened the bag—one glazed, one cream-filled and one chocolate, her favorite. Warmth radiated through the palms of her fingerless gloves when she picked up the cup and drank in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

These haven’t been here long, she thought.

“Wonder what happened, Irene,” Josie said. “You think someone killed the donut man and dragged him into the bushes?”

Irene didn’t answer.

Josie closed the bag and looked around. A young mother pushed a stroller on the opposite side of the lake. A jogger ran past her and smiled. Josie wondered if he winked at the mother.

“Just like a man to do that. Right, Irene?” Josie shook her head. “Next he’ll run off with some shameless floozy and leave his wife destitute. Somebody should kick that jogger in the balls. Bet he wouldn’t wink then.” Josie laughed and heard Irene guffaw.

Her eyes followed the jogger as he rounded the lake. Was he a rapist who used the park to find his victims? Was the mother his target? What about Irene? Josie knew Irene wouldn’t survive another rape. They’d have to put her in an institution.

Placing the donuts and coffee on the bench, she grinned, her plump face looking like a jack-o-lantern, as the jogger raced by. Josie watched him leave the park and climb the stairs of an apartment building across Jefferson Street. She let out her breath, retrieved the bag and took out the glazed donut. She’d save the chocolate one for last. She wiped five rogue ants from the pastry and put it to her mouth. She glanced from side-to-side before slowly biting into the sweet delight and thought about what she would write in her journal tonight.

Dear Diary: Irene and I had a good day today. Nobody raped us, and we shared a chocolate donut.

“So when are you starting your diet, Sam?”

Sam and Dorothy sat opposite each other in a booth with red leather seats, eating their favorite lunch.

“I did.” He watched a spoonful disappear into her mouth as he anticipated the moment when Dorothy was full, and he’d get to finish her meal.

Sam was a fanatic for Dryer’s ice cream. He’d converted the kitchen of their single-story home into an old-fashioned soda shop, complete with black and white tile floor, black-topped counter with four matching stools, and a Dryer’s sign he found at a flea market. A Coke machine stood in one corner. The other was occupied by an authentic 1950s jukebox. Bobby Darin, Sam’s favorite, serenaded them with “Splish Splash” as they scooped gobs of Mocha Almond Fudge and Cherry Chocolate Chip topped with whipped cream and walnuts into their greedy mouths.

“Doesn’t look like it to me.”

Sam wagged one index finger at Dorothy and pointed to his chin with the other. His eyes followed a piece of cherry surrounded by vanilla as it dripped down her chin. “No, use your tongue,” he said with his head tilted back. “It’s too good to waste on a napkin.”

Dorothy captured what she could with her tongue, then used her finger to wipe off the rest. Sam watched as she sucked the pudgy digit into her mouth and licked off the sweet delight. He stared at her bowl with lustful eyes. His heartbeat quickened as he remembered the time he got to lick leftovers off her fleshy lips.

“I’m dieting at dinner.” Sam gave her a shut-up-and-let-me-eat look.

“But it’s the ice cream that’s killing you. That’s what the doctor said.”

“Doc’s a quack.” Sam put two scoops of creamy deliciousness in his mouth and waited for it to ooze over his tongue and down his throat.

“Well, you just better still be here come Christmas. I want another present like last year.”

Sam gazed into his bowl and thought about last Christmas. How could he top winning a lifetime supply of Dryer’s Grand Ice Cream and a tour of the factory? Why, poor Dorothy about wet her grannies when he showed her the prize certificate and plane tickets. Too bad the factory samples were so small. They offered bigger tastes of their new Slow Churned brand, but as far as Sam was concerned light ice cream was a waste of milk.

He licked the remaining ice cream from his bowl and looked up to see Dorothy face-first in vanilla gold.

“Dorothy? You all right?” He reached over and touched her shoulder. “Sweetums?” Nothing. “You’re wasting it, hon.”

He reached across the table, grabbed a handful of red hair and lifted her head, pulled the bowl away and let go. He watched her head bounce once on the table as he scooped a big helping of her leftovers. He hated soupy ice cream. He’d call 911 as soon as he finished.

Jason slammed his palette to the floor. He prided himself on his ability to become his subjects, to feel what they felt, know what they knew, suffer what they suffered. That was the magical touch that made the people in his paintings stand out. But this time…

“Eight months, and I still can’t get it right.”

Disgusted, he walked onto the balcony of his seventh-story loft, put a choke-hold on the metal railing and wondered if he’d ever paint again.

Am I my father, after all? The result of a generation less tolerant than today? Is that why I can’t paint the face of a black man? Or is it a myth that my generation is more accepting?

Jason screamed to cover the voice trying to provide him with answers, and shook the railing, the force of his movements increasing with the volume of his protest. He never noticed the widening arc of the railing. Never heard the screws pull from the brick. Never felt his feet leave the tiled floor.

“And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” Grace intoned as she sat on the bench outside the courthouse waiting for her bus. The tears were gone. The foreman’s “not guilty” permanently engraved in her mind.

She didn’t understand how they could let him go. His lawyer said he had no reason to commit the crime. Who needed a reason these days? He’d killed her grandson. She knew it, and God knew it.

“For thine is the kingdom…” The squeal of the bus’s brakes interrupted her prayer. She walked to the back, not because she had to, like in the old days, but because she wanted to be alone.

She sat in the last row and took her knitting out of the oversized bag. She heard the sound of nylon-encased legs approaching and smiled at the woman who slid into the window seat of the row across from her. The woman smiled back, but nothing about her face indicated she recognized Grace.

“Say, weren’t you on the jury for that murder case that just ended?”

The woman looked at her, but didn’t answer.

“Sure you were. I remember your hat. Mind if I ask you a question?” Grace said as she slid across the aisle to join the juror.

“I guess it’s okay now that the trial’s over.”

“How did you determine that that young man was innocent of killing my… his friend?”

“Well, the lack of a weapon played a part in our decision, and we didn’t believe much of what the prosecutor said. You know how many people are wrongly convicted every year? Besides, the defendant appeared to be such a nice young man, clean shaven, wearing a cross on a chain. He didn’t look like the kind of person who would stab someone.”

Grace watched stoically as the bus pulled up to her stop. She looked at each of the passengers waiting to get on, wondering which one would find the plump juror with the knitting needle stuck in her chest. Not that Grace cared. She did what she had to do. An eye for an eye, she thought, as she stepped off the bus and began the two-block walk to her apartment.