MicroHorror

Breanna tightened her scrunchie around her ponytail and picked up the tray of food. Her scowl of disparagement and depression was wiped away with the swinging of the door, and she was out of the kitchen and into the dining area. Her smile was faked, but the customers couldn’t tell that. She walked over to the corner table with the steak and fries, and placed them in front of the man sitting there with a smile and a nod. “Is there anything else I can get you sir?” The silent shake of his head told her all she needed to know. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, just let me know.” She began to walk away.

“Hey, um… Breanna?”

She turned around, flashing that beautiful façade of a smile. “Yes sir?”

He arose from the table and a conniving grin appeared on his face. “Actually, there is something you can do for me.”

She cocked her head confusingly and reluctantly responded, “Y-yes, what is it?”

She hardly had the sentence out when he was upon her with a steak knife, stabbing at her body with great force and vehemence. A cackling sound emitted from his lips as he plunged the knife deep into her soft flesh. Even after she was dead, he still stabbed and stabbed.

By now the entire restaurant had erupted into the sounds of horrific screams and chairs being tossed to the side for a quick escape. One man sat in a booth, his work shirt covered in sauce and ketchup. As he rose, the knife-wielding murderer noticed his nametag; his name was Frank.

Frank approached, a heroic inspiration about him. “Boy, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank was an impressively sized man, so he felt talking down to this asshole was not below him. “What’s your name, psycho?”

His eyes were glazed, narrow, and had an intent stare in them. “My name is John,” he said, with a slight tone of vilification. “And you’re in my way.” With that, he slid the knife in between his lips, wiping the memory of Breanna from the knife. The knife was not satisfied. It wanted more.

A patron took a wrong turn and ran too close to John, making that the last mistake he would make. John guided the hungry blade through the eye socket and straight to the brain of the poor soul, killing him instantly, then shoved him to the ground. He then raised his eyes to Frank. “Bring it, cocksucker.”

Frank began to run at John, but didn’t expect the pistol in John’s belt. Two bullets to the head dropped him and ended his life. There weren’t a lot of people left in the restaurant, but ones who were continued to be subjected to torture and death…

“Sir!”

John shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. “Uh, nothing; I’m fine. Thank you, Breanna.” He smiled nervously, and started to cut his steak. Breanna turned and walked away, passed through the door to the kitchen, and rolled her eyes.

John continued to eat, savoring every bite of the perfectly grilled steak. The fries were dipped into steak sauce; he enjoyed them that way. His meal was devoured quickly, and he finished it up with the rest of his soda.

He stood in the middle of the destruction, laughing wildly out loud. He waited for the inevitable firefight with the police. Everyone he could possibly hurt would feel the torture and pain he felt in himself. He ran out into the haze of red and blue lights, gun blazing.

He left a tip of four dollars on the table, and went to the counter to pay for his ticket. Then John stepped out into the sunlight, staring across the street at the convenience store. He wondered how many people were in there that would succumb to his murderous rampage.

That and he had a craving for a donut.

His face was somewhat attractive. He stared at the mirror into his own eyes. He didn’t think he was ugly. Why did he hate himself so much? He cocked his head slightly to the side and back upright. He dug his fingernail into his cheek. His face was now completely numb. The empty needle in the sink took care of that. He stared down at the sink for several seconds, second-guessing himself. No, it had gone too far now. He had to finish.

His life was not wasted in any way. He was a successful attorney, had a nice car, spacious apartment, and was never a stranger to the ladies. On the surface, he lived the perfect life. Underneath, however, was a completely different monster. A monster that was never satisfied, that had broken down every shred of humanity possible. He was so fucking ugly underneath his skin, it was now time to show the world his true face.

And with that he got to cutting his flesh. Scissors started it off, snipping at his lips in triangles and rectangles, the fat pieces of flesh slapping the sink with sickening thuds. He worked fast, knowing full well what he would feel when the drugs wore off. It hurt like hell, burned even, but was nothing compared to what was really happening, and his mission needed to be done before that pain was fully realized. After both of his lips were nothing more than piles of bloody meat in the sink, he stopped to take a look in the mirror. Technically, his mission had been accomplished, as no one would ever look at him the same way again. He wasn’t even sure if one could survive for long like this. But he wasn’t done.

Next, he took a filet knife and scalped himself. It hurt a lot more now, and it wasn’t because the drugs were wearing off. No matter what you’re on, it’s impossible to do this and not feel it. He felt it, but it turned him on. The women at the bar would flock to him if they saw the erection he was carrying right now. Then three cuts down the front of the face and he resembled a chart in a Biology class.

The scissors came back for the ears, clipping them down to little stubs on the side of his head, resembling radio knobs. If only he could’ve tuned these in to another station years ago. He then sliced his nostrils up to the eyes, letting the flaps of skin slap him in the face.

The pain came rushing now; he had to finish. He hadn’t prepared himself for this. Tears poured from his eyes, mixing with the blood and splashing on his hands, sink, and floor. He screamed louder than he ever had before, and was so mad at himself for sounding like a girl. If nothing else, he figured his last vocalization would be somewhat manlike.

He had to abort; he couldn’t stand it. He said his goodbyes to his pistol as it entered his mouth and blew his brains onto the wall behind him. The pain was immense. His head hit the toilet, throwing out more chunks of brain matter, and he slumped on the floor. He could feel the blood encompassing his dying body. Then, he felt nothing.