MicroHorror

Johnny awoke from his world of sleep. Another day to be alive. But for what? Another day at work to be harassed by the same boss and coworkers? Another night spent alone for dinner? A few hours of watching television to waste away the passing hours of his life? A few minutes in the shower to wash a body that had no purpose? Then back to the same bed to start the exasperating routine all over again? No, Johnny thought. What’s the point?

He thought about all the ways to end his painful, empty existence. Pills and alcohol. A gunshot to the head. A razor blade against the wrist. Jumping off a building. With so many choices he couldn’t decide.

What was this game of life all about? Johnny knew that he was a player and life was the game, but he felt he missed getting directions on how to play. And what did you have to do to win? And what did you win? He was overwhelmed by it all. Johnny rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t make any sense of it.

He came to the dark conclusion that he was a mere pile of nothing. A pile of nothing that no one would miss. Life to Johnny was like a sickly spinning merry-go-round, constantly jerking him up and down and moving him in the same monotonous circle with no real direction, no purpose. All he wanted to do was stop the nauseating ride and get off.

Permanently.

He needed to end the pain inside his head. Life just hurt too much.

He remembered Charlie, a friend of his. A friend of his that owned a gun.

***

Johnny watched Charlie remove the black revolver from under his mattress. He rubbed the smooth black metal with his fingers as Charlie held it.

“Is it loaded?” Johnny asked.

“Never know when you’re going to need it.”

Johnny smiled. “Right, right.” His eyes glazed. “You never know.”

Charlie slid the gun back under the mattress.

“You want a beer?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah.”

When Charlie left the room, Johnny knew what he had to do. He pulled the black revolver out from under the mattress and slid it inside his coat pocket. It was the only way to do it. He wanted to exit the house, exit everything, exit himself.

A moment later, Charlie entered the room and handed the beer to Johnny.

He quickly guzzled it down. “Sorry, but I gotta go.”

At dusk, Johnny started back to his same old house in the same old direction.

He waited at a traffic light with a lady and her young son. Suddenly, the boy ran out into the intersection before the light turned green.

Johnny saw a speeding Camaro approaching, and quickly darted out into the road, grabbed the boy’s shirt and yanked him back onto the sidewalk.

Then the woman approached him.

“I don’t know how to thank you for saving my son,” she said. Then she walked away.

As he stood there, he experienced an epiphany that revealed to him that his body, mind and being had a purpose. He had saved a boy’s life. The woman’s voice confirmed it.

Johnny’s view of life had dramatically changed in just a few seconds. He no longer felt the pain inside his head, the sickly merry-go-round of life had vanished, and he no longer felt like a pile of nothingness.

He remembered Charlie’s gun.

Johnny’s new purpose now was to preserve life, not to end it. He smiled about his new feelings, his new beginning.

He had to bring back Charlie’s gun. Now.

He walked back, feeling for the gun inside his coat pocket. He suddenly stopped. There was no gun to be found. He frantically searched his clothing. Every pocket, every opening.

Johnny twirled around as a voice yelled out to him.

“Hey, mister, did you drop this?”

The echo of a fired bullet pierced the silent night air.

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot

“C’mon, Marge, we don’t want to keep the doctor waiting.”

As Velma trudged through the lonely parking lot, her footsteps echoed off the pavement. She suddenly felt someone jerk her arm.

“Give me your money,” the voice demanded.

Velma slowly turned around, holding her purse in front of her.

“I’m old, gray, and feeble,” she commented. “I would make a good target.” She stared at the young punk with her old green eyes. “Isn’t that right?”

Her purse was quickly grabbed from her wrinkled arms.

“Well, I can see you have no manners.”

“Shut up,” he snarled, looking through her purse.

“I wouldn’t talk like that if I were you. Looks can be deceiving. I’m sure you’ve heard that one before.”

He continued to search her purse.

“Do you still want to rob an old feeble woman like me?” she asked. “Are you going to give me my purse back?”

“It’s my purse now, bitch.”

“Don’t you have a weapon?”

“I don’t need a weapon with an old bag like you.”

“Oh,” she said. “Then I guess I’m no threat?”

He looked up at her, his eyes hardened. “That’s right.”

She knew she had to act quickly while he was busy searching the contents of her purse. She slowly slid her hand under her dress and pulled out a small dagger from her garter.

Thoughts of rage filled her head. So I’m no threat, her mind yelled out. How dare he speak to me like that, how dare he pick on an old woman.

Suddenly, Velma quickly plunged her dagger into his gut area. Swiftly in and out. Fury. Swiftly in and out. Anger. Swiftly in and out. Revenge.

No time to be slow now.

“You’ve picked the wrong victim today, young man.”

The robber grasped his stomach. “You fucking bitch,” he said, as he collapsed to his knees.

Fire burned in her green eyes, making them more intense.

“I’m gonna make sure you never do this again.”

Velma went for his eyes.

He screamed.

Velma collected her purse and casually strolled away.

“Velma, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know, Marge,” she said to the voice in her head. “You know how I get caught up in these darn incidents.” She smiled. “Three this month already.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot

I watched her through my bedroom window as usual. Today she was holding a clear plastic bag that held her dead canary. She looked sad. She bent down next to her door and dug a hole and covered it with dirt. Oh, how I wanted that bird. That small dead bird. When she left, I sneaked over to its small grave and dug it up, carefully carrying it back with me. Because it was hers.

I loved her but she didn’t know it.

I knew her comings and goings. Her schedule was firmly planted into my head. I even knew what time she took out her trash. I could identify them by the way she tied them. That was a moment that excited me. I could find things of hers that she touched, used, handled. I found an empty tube of vanilla lotion. An empty plastic water bottle that her lips had touched. I was jealous of that stupid water bottle because it had touched her lips and not mine. But I still kept it. A reminder of what could become reality.

I loved her but she didn’t know it.

That night, she came home with somebody. A man. No, I thought. I knew what kind of plans he had because I had the same. And now he was ahead of me. And I wasn’t going to allow it. I was crazy with thoughts of him touching her. I had to stop it.

The next morning, Alicia came over as usual. I didn’t come out of my room. I waited for her to come upstairs to me.

I loved her but she didn’t know it. And now I had to tell her. What if she rejected me? I was afraid.

She entered my bedroom, smiling.

“So, Ben, what are we going to do today while your Mom’s at work?”

I proudly presented her a pile of things that I had collected from her life and carefully laid them on my bed.

“What’s this?” she said, looking through the things that I had secretly kept. “What have you done?” Her eyes widened. “You even dug up my bird?”

She was upset about it, not happy at all. I thought she would be impressed that I highly valued these personal possessions of hers.

She angrily shoved them onto the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“You have no right to go through my things.”

“I bet that man goes through your things,” I said, staring at her. “Are you his?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“But it is,” I said firmly. “I love you.”

“Ben, you’re only twelve.”

“So,” I said. “I still love you.”

She shook her head and left my bedroom.

I followed her. “Don’t you believe me?”

“You don’t know what real love is at twelve years old.”

I stood in front of her. “How do you know?” I asked.

I tried to kiss her. Suddenly, she slapped my face.

“I’m going to call your mother,” she said as she quickly walked down the stairs.

“No, please,” I pleaded.

She turned around and looked up at me. “Then you’re going to have to stop this nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” I sadly asked her as I looked down at her. I pointed my arm back towards my bedroom. “Didn’t you see all your treasures I have collected? They’re a part of you.” I paused. “It was all I had.” I paused again. “Because I didn’t have you.”

I waited for a reply. But there was no answer.

“Do you love me?” I asked with hope in my voice.

“I’m sorry, Ben, I don’t.”

“So, I’ve been rejected.” My eyes filled with tears. “You have chosen the other man.”
I swallowed hard. “He has won.”

Every beat of my heart thumped rejection, rejection, rejection.

I loved her and now she knew it.

I allowed myself to freely fall headfirst down the stairs.

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot

“She’s not going to make it.”

“Don’t say that, Charlie,” Jenny said, as they stood outside of Mabel’s bedroom.

“The doctors said her brain tumor is inoperable.” He wept.

Jenny closed her eyes as she shook her head. She quietly left and walked outside towards Mabel’s tree.

“Doesn’t look promising,” she said to the tree, as she stared at the cold grass. She held her face in her cupped hands. “No hope left.”

Then Jenny felt it. Raindrops falling upon her and all around her. But it wasn’t rain, she realized. It was tears from the tree. It was expressing its outpouring of mourning. Even the tree’s bark oozed tears. Jenny cried too as they shared their moment of grief together. She hugged the tree with her long arms and smeared her own tears upon its bark.

She wiped back the damp hair from her face and slowly walked back towards Mabel’s house.

Jenny entered Mabel’s bedroom and slumped down in a chair next to her bed. She took her left hand and held it, her voice silent, not knowing how to say goodbye.

As Jenny sat next to Mabel, she heard an unusual sound. Something was coming up through the hardwood bedroom floor. Large tree roots cracked apart the wooden flooring. They were curled and twisted like antennae and they slid towards Mabel.

Jenny quickly stood up and backed into Charlie.

The roots of the tree sensed where Mabel lay and started to slither between her arms and legs, cradling her nearly lifeless body.

“No!” Charlie shouted.

“Wait,” Jenny said, holding Charlie back.

They both stood there and watched in silence as the tree rocked Mabel to and fro.

Then the tree stopped. It waited there. Holding Mabel.

Jenny sensed it. She saw through her tear-streaked eyes that Mabel was exhaling her last breath. And she knew the tree had sensed it too.

Here was an incredible tree that Mabel had loved all her life, Jenny thought. A tree that had been a significant part of her childhood. A tree that had supported tire swings and tree houses. A tree that had been home base in games of stickball and hide-and-seek. And especially when she felt alone, she would find comfort in being with the tree. Jenny knew about this unusual and sensitive tree. The kind of tree you couldn’t carve words into or it would cry.

A deep silence came over Mabel’s bedroom. Jenny knew that Mabel had left them, all of them, for good.

The tree root clasped Mabel’s limp body as it slid back under the broken bedroom floor.

“No,” Jenny said, her eyes still wet. “Not this way.”

The root continued its trail back to its origin as it tenderly carried Mabel along with it.

Jenny and Charlie ran outside to where the tree had stood for so many years. They frantically dug around its base searching for Mabel’s body.

A small root crawled towards Jenny’s hand and held it. Jenny sucked in a breath.

“Mabel?”

The root nudged her hand.

She realized that Mabel and the tree were inseparable. All those long years formed a bond with no end. One could not go on without the other. Jenny saw that Mabel and the tree had somehow merged together. Each one of them keeping the other alive in some strange way. Even in death.

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot

Gary dried the kitchen knife and returned it to its holder. As he reached over to turn off the light he noticed a large cockroach clinging to the wall.

He stopped his hand movement, slowly drawing it back.

He reached for a newspaper and folded it over, and slapped the arthropod with a quick direct hit. Repulsion filled his face.

Later that night, Gary heard noises. Hundreds of little legs in unison, as if in some large army. And the noise of them became closer. Gary clicked on his bedroom lamp. He looked beyond the foot of his bed and no longer saw the carpet, but a living, moving mass of cockroaches. They ascended his bedspread, amassing at the foot of his bed.

Gary’s body was still. Very still. His voice silent. His eyes filled with panic. His breathing shallow.

Then one cockroach stepped out from the others and stood before him.

“What?” The cockroach seemed to speak. “No respect for life?”

“Well, I…”

“A life for a life.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your infant son.”

“No,” Gary said firmly. “We’ll have to make another deal.”

“Well, then, we’ll need your whole house for breeding purposes and shelter,” the leader said. “And leave the garbage in the container; we’ll take care of that.”

What had he done? He thought. Killing one little cockroach, no big deal. Or was it? And here was a whole army ready to defend its death.

The following night, Gary ate a bowl of soup at the kitchen table. The kitchen was alive, decorated with moving cockroaches. Every crack and crevice was full of them. Eating, breeding, grooming themselves, whatever cockroaches do. He didn’t want to know.

Gary watched a mother cockroach and her three little babies scurry across the table near his soup bowl. His face began to burn with anger. He couldn’t live like this anymore, he thought. He slammed his fist on the table.

But something was wrong. He looked at his hand. Hanging off of the end of it was the third baby cockroach. Mutilated, dead. His eyes grew wide. It was a mistake, he thought. He didn’t mean it. The clumsy little thing just got in the way. His mind raced. Would such a small creature be missed out of hundreds? Gary closed his eyes tightly. Yes, he thought. The mother cockroach would know. She would report it to the others. But it wasn’t intentional, just an honest accident. They would have to excuse him.

The first death, yes, was intentional, but this one was an honest accident.

They would have to pardon him.

He sat there, frozen, waiting for the coming of them.

And come they did, covering the linoleum kitchen floor.

“It was an honest accident,” he pleaded, his face sweating.

“But this one,” the leader said, “was in the nymph stage, only a child.”

“I had no intention of harm.” His eyes welled up with tears of fear. “I was eating my soup and… it got in the way… by my hand and… it was an innocent mistake.” His voice quivered.

“But you cannot prove your innocent mistake,” the leader said.

Gary opened his mouth to speak, but no words were uttered.

Hundreds of cockroaches swiftly crawled towards his son’s bedroom.

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

Tammy lay beside her husband, stewing with rage. I swear I’m going to kill him, she promised herself silently. “Every single night! Munching a bowl of those crunchy little things. Is it ever going to end?”

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

“Do you mind?” she said out loud. “I’m trying to enjoy the program.”

“Sorry,” he said, spraying tiny bits of masticated food onto the bedspread. “These things are so damn tasty.” He held the bowl out to her.

“No, thank you,” she said, pushing the treats away. “Just try and keep it down, please.”

“I will.” Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Tammy sighed and tried to focus on the television. He wasn’t like this when we were dating, she thought. He was so well mannered, sophisticated even. Now he’s become a total pig. Belching and farting in front of company. Eating with his mouth open. And now this obsession with those horrible crunchy little things. I don’t know if I can take it much longer.

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

“Shut up!” Tammy practically screamed.

“Okay,” her husband said meekly, placing the bowl on the bed stand next to him.

“Why don’t you put the rest in a freezer bag and finish them tomorrow?”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted, eyes glued to the television.

Tammy knew he wouldn’t. Give the slob ten minutes and he’ll have his hands right back in the bowl. The man has no self-control. But he is a good provider, she reasoned. He is the only man that could ever give me what I really desire. The only one who has ever really understood me. Where would I ever find a person like that again? So I guess I couldn’t really kill him. I would be all alone. And we do have a lot of fun together. She rolled over slightly, smiling at her husband. “I love you, Harold.”

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

“WILL YOU GIVE IT A BREAK?”

Harold wiped his mouth with his pajama sleeve, leaving a noticeable streak of red and green, and rolled out of bed.

“Hit pause, will you? I’ve gotta take a dump.”

“Boor,” Tammy said under her breath, as she watched the love of her life saunter off to the bathroom. “Finally, a few moments of peace.”

She reached over to the candy dish on her side of the bed, picked out a fresh blue eyeball, and daintily popped it into her mouth.

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot

“Hello, right wrist. How are you today?” Jeff asked.

“Excuse me? No, I don’t like razor blades and I wish you would stop asking for one.
You look nice the way you are. Smooth tanned skin. You’re in pain? From what?”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Oh, life again.”

His right wrist began to shake.

“Now, stop that, I don’t like it when you get angry.”

“Yes, I know the blades are in the medicine cabinet and that’s where they’re gonna stay.”

Later, Jeff awoke from his nap and found his bed sheets damp with blood.

He quickly looked over at his right wrist. “What have you done?”

He noticed the box of razor blades next to him.

“How did you get into these? Shame on you! I told you no. How many times must I tell you? Now look at what you’ve done. The bed is a mess.”

He grabbed an old towel from the bathroom and put pressure on his right wrist.

“You just don’t understand the word ‘no,’ do you?”

Jeff walked over to the medicine cabinet and pulled out a roll of gauze.

He began to wrap the gauze around the right wrist several times.

“Do you see all the work you’re making me do here?”

Jeff exhaled a loud breath.

“This is the third time this month. Why do you like to upset me like this? No, I don’t want to talk to you right now. You’re just going to lie here and be quiet.”

A moment of silence went by.

“No,” Jeff said again as he looked over at his right wrist. “I told you not to talk to me right now. What? That’s not you?” He laughed. “Who else could it be?”

He slowly glanced over at his left wrist.

“It can’t be him. He has never talked to me before, only you.”

“What does he want?” he whispered to his right wrist.

“A razor blade? Why is it always razor blades? Can’t it be something nice like watches and bracelets?”

“He’s in pain too, huh? What is it with you two? You’re never happy; I don’t like you being unhappy. What can I do to make you both happy for once?”

***As Jeff lay in his bed, slowly slipping into darkness, he looked up at the ceiling and sighed a heavy sigh.

“Well, I hope you’re both happy now.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot

As Sarah tightly gripped the gun in her hand she thought of her tormented life.

Her alcoholic husband, his constant battle with its addicting poison had
traumatized her and all his options for help were exhausted.

The criticizing mother that constantly reminded her for years how Sarah never did anything right and it echoed in her head like a ticking clock, never leaving her mind.

Her bipolar son who had all the medical help in the world at his side and refused to use any part of it forced her to watch him slowly waste away from his health and mental problems.

Sarah was in pain, neck deep. She couldn’t bear to watch or hear any more of it.

She put the gun against the side of her head as her tears of pain streamed down the sides of her cheeks.

She closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. A loud bang was heard, then silence. Sarah felt like she was floating in some black void in some unknown place.

She slowly opened her eyes, bright lights glaring above her. She turned her head left then right trying to comprehend her situation.

She couldn’t identify the several blurred figures that surrounded her.

“Doctor?” she asked. No answer.

She looked over at another blurred figure. “Nurse?” she asked again. No answer.

Sarah’s sight grew clearer.

“How could you do this to us?” the voices asked in a horrible unison.

Sarah screamed as she touched the side of her bandaged head.

Her hands frantically patted her bed for the gun.

“No, it can’t be… I’m dead,” she said loudly, her tormented thoughts remembering her hand pointing the gun against her head. “I’m dead… I shot myself, aren’t I dead?” she yelled.

Her eyes shining with disbelief.

“You can’t be here if I’m dead!”

She stared at the figures as her breathing grew heavy. The alcoholic husband, the criticizing mother, the bipolar son.

Suddenly, all of the figures turned simultaneously to their left as if in a police lineup.

Sarah’s mouth dropped open, her eyes wide in shock.

Each one of them had a gunshot wound to the side of their head.

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot

Diane read in the book of Judges, “When he reached home, he took a knife and cut up his concubine, limb by limb, into twelve parts and sent them into all the areas of Israel.”
 
She closed her Bible and pushed it away. Man was made in God’s image, how could he allow this grisly action? God could have found another way. Her mind became disillusioned, something was wrong.
 
Diane remembered the horrible nights when the small black figures would appear in her bedroom, encircle her, and raise her above her bed. They stretched out her body so tight that she couldn’t move any part of herself, arms or legs, and she felt some evil presence above her.

She was so frightened that she could barely utter any words.  
 
“In… the… name… of… Je… sus… Christ,” she struggled.
 
She repeated it three times. By the third time, she felt her body being slowly lowered back onto the bed and the sweaty bed sheet that was wrapped around her had loosened.       
 
Another night the small black figures would come again and gather around her and she could feel their limbs slide underneath her body.
 
The next night she would feel them tugging at her right arm. What did they want? Her mind was traumatized by the events, that’s when she started using a nightlight before bed.   
 
She realized that when these events happened she believed in them.
 
The Devil and his demons.
 
By her belief in them she created an open connection to them. She was terrified by this thought and she had to find a way to end these dark traumas.     
 
Diane started to do research on her faith because these horrible experiences made her efforts more immediate. 
 
Her research became a horror in itself. The murdering of human beings for the sake of religion. The crusades, the inquisition, the witch hunts, the Nazi Holocaust, the Jonestown genocide. 
 
Diane sucked in a deep breath.  
 
David Koresh, the Serb/Croat/Muslim massacres, Northern Ireland, public beheadings of blasphemers.  
 
Tears of fear streamed down her face.
 
September 11th, Heaven’s Gate, abortion clinic bombings, suicide bombers, children dying because their parents’ religion didn’t believe in medical treatment.    
 
Her breathing became uneasy.  
 
There seemed to be no end to her discovery, it was everywhere.   
 
Diane was shocked by how religion divided people, murdered people, controlled people, poisoned their minds to kill for the sake of God Himself, and it still continued to this day.
 
She shook her head.
 
After all these years it still continued. Her stomach became nauseous.
 
Has man truly matured after all these years? Did he learn anything about his past mistakes? No, she decided. Man had matured very little and he did not use his brain at all. Then man is doomed. She leaned her forehead against her hand. Man is doomed to repeat the past.
 
If this was religion Diane no longer wanted to be involved. She was repulsed by being a part of its inhumanity and being linked to its insanity. 
 
She wiped away more tears from her face.
 
Diane stopped attending church, stopped reading her Bible, stopped praying, anything that was spiritual she ended it.
 
What about the demons that terrified her? She had made a final decision to stop her belief in them. By doing this she found that she closed the connection that had tied her to them and because of that decision she never saw the black figures again.
 
She was relieved that her own horror had ended but it gave birth to another.
 
She still had to witness, to watch, to see, to hear about its poisoning of other human minds and the horror of what religion made people do to each other in the name of God. And for the rest of her life that horror never left her.

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot