MicroHorror

I hate the table arrangement. I got it from my boyfriend the day he broke up with me. I thought it’d last a lot longer, but it’s turned ugly.

It’s strange, you know. The flowers still aren’t so bad; it’s the vase that’s all icky and shrivelly now. Silly me, I guess I didn’t use enough formaldehyde.

It’s started to smell, and his eyes are all buggy. If I didn’t still love him and want some part of him
around, I would have thrown his head out days ago, I think.

“Don’t drink that!” he shouted. His stomach hurt, and it made him irritable. His son lowered his can of juice with a look.

“You gotta be careful what you drink in India,” he said angrily, grabbing the juice and tossing it out onto the ground. The vendor, an old Indian guy, shook his head.

“Yeah, whatta you lookin’ at?” he growled and rubbed his belly. He pulled out his canteen and offered it to his son, who refused it with a look of disgust.

He pulled off the cork anyway, took a plug. His belly was killing him. There were little chunks in the water, probably rust from the inside of the canteen, but at least he knew where it came from. He’d stored the water for ten years since his last trip to make sure it was safe.

He went to wipe his mouth and tasted blood on his fingers. His son was looking at him.

“What–,” he said, looking down. There was a hole in his belly, and a massive worm hanging outside with a circle of sharp teeth. It bit him and thrashed to pull itself out of his belly. The other worms were waiting to get out.

The snow-ice along the path was speckled with black-gray soot and grit, and melted on top like little mountains. It was March in Ottawa, and the wide Rideau river was thawing.

Nao stopped. The ice over the river was crackling and booming somewhere far in the distance. There was a musical question-response quality to the sound, as though it were coming from here, now there, and it was getting louder and closer, like the footsteps of some unseen giant stamping towards her.

She started to run, but much too late.

“It’s a bit sweet,” Harold said. He cut the cake with his fork, but didn’t immediately lift the piece to his lips.

“So you don’t like it?” Mary asked.

“I didn’t say that,” he answered and brought a small piece to his mouth. He tried hard not to grimace, and, after swallowing quickly, ran his tongue over his teeth. They felt grimy and horrible.

“Really?” Mary asked smiling. “You’re such a dear when you want something from me.”

Harold forced another bite and a smile. “So you’ve signed the papers?” His teeth felt sticky, like they were rotting. There was something hard in his mouth.

“No.”

Harold opened his mouth, and a tooth clattered onto his plate. It was brown. He heaved and more of his teeth were clinking onto the plate like a rain of Chiclets. Pink red dripping flesh from his gums trailed after, viscuously dripping from his mouth.

“I would never leave my husband.”

His throat was full of spit and dissolved flesh. He was choking.

“Unless he were to die and leave me–”

He hit the table with a gurgle.

“–his life insurance.”