MicroHorror

They awoke to find that the tape had been taken. They ran downstairs following the hauntingly familiar memory. It stirred anger and shame into their collective hearts. Anger that someone would steal something so necessary to their very being and shame that they let it happen. They found the tape playing in Ray and Lisa’s old tape deck, worn and covered in a thick layer of dust. Amber spoke before Todd, “You stupid meth-head FUCKS!!!”

Lisa kept staring at the wall and Ray barely flinched, at Amber’s sudden outburst, the hatred of the words seeming to cover every filthy, discarded, fast food wrapper and bloody piece of clothing, cling to every molecule. They seemed hypnotized by the notes that seeped from the garbage speakers. And they stayed that way while Todd, silent rage building, pulled out a large bowie knife from a sheath strapped to his belt and dived the blade straight into the two dustheads’ ribs, blood and gristle splashing onto his still emotionless face. The garbage speakers oozed out the words, “The night has risen but the sunshine feels heavy like lead…” and into Todd and Amber’s hearts.

The trees cast shadows that seemed to swirl into grotesque figures, figures that seemed to reach and grab for her. She shivered and wrapped her coat tighter around herself. She religiously stayed on the path, walking on a wide cement tightrope. Even though she felt soul-killing terror a perverse side of her wanted to throw herself into the gaping maws of the shadowy daemons, slowly sapping her of the life she decided that was not hers any longer.

She wanted to throw her soul to the wayside, let it float gently down the River Styx. She no longer wanted to have to deal with the tedium and the embarrassment of her life.

As she left the park and crossed the street, the opposing shadow of the ancient apartments she lived in hung like a cloak around her shoulders. The sound of traffic and sirens roared and squealed but they never reached her ears, all sound muffled, shielded by her nightmares. To her it was silent and she waited for the crescendo, the upswing, the spike of sound that would bring hell down all around her. And she waited to welcome it with open arms.

And she waited, she waited as she unlocked the door, she waited as she walked up the ten flights of stairs, the elevator didn’t work, never had. And she waited as she unlocked the door to her apartment and walked in.

He woke up with the sun pouring through the large window, almost filling the room with sunlight. He moaned and pulled down the blinds. It didn’t help, the sun still streamed through. He grabbed a dark blue comforter and stuck it into the blinds, creating makeshift curtains. It stopped the sunlight and he looked a lot less tense.

It wasn’t that the sunlight actually burned, but it sure felt like it. He sat down at the small breakfast table, in near darkness and lit a cigarette. He tried to remember why the comforter wasn’t there in the first place. He always put it up before he fell asleep. The sunlight, strong and fierce, still burned in his mind.

He threw on some clothes, maybe clean, maybe not, and left his building. He stuck close to the large brick building, slowly creeping in the shadow. He had to watch a couple of places but was pretty sure which one he was going to do. It was a small apartment, but the owner was a trust fund kid and kept regular hours. If he was lucky there would be a plasma TV and he could eat well for a couple of more weeks. Human flesh wasn’t cheap.

He slowly walked through the apartment with a large suitcase, the kind with rollers, and carefully looked through each of the rooms. It was what he regularly did, checked every room for valuables and then rushed through grabbing what he had already marked worthy. The gun tucked into his jeans kept scratching his back. He adjusted it and headed back towards the living room.

She unlocked the door and walked in. A man was standing there unhooking her Tivo. He turned and she waited, he pulled the gun and she still waited. And then the crescendo arrived, the cacophony of sound blasted through the small apartment, the stab of strings as the horror monster attacks and she waited no longer.

And he could feed.

He felt like he was in pieces, and then he realized he was.

He was put back together by soft, gentle, loving hands and wrapped in plastic wrap. He was set carefully at the bottom, juice box settling on his chest. A small bag of Cheetos and it was dark again.

Light, his casket was opened. The Cheetos were clawed away, along with the juice box. He was spared, no one wanted him.

Rustling, a high pitched whine. The sneering, tinny voices, daring, double daring. Small, grubby fingers grabbed for him, his plastic covering. Ripping, tearing. He could see. A blender. His death.

The blades cut him. Sheared bits of him off, but he did not bleed.

The spit always burned. Like acid. And he knew what acid felt like; China started using it to exterminate dissidents in the mid-21st century. But he always hated when he was a pedophile. There was only shame in the execution.

The electric chair. He laughed. The two guards flanking him looked surprised, bewildered. He glared at them and returned to his thoughts. Well, at least it wasn’t a flaming stake.

Thinking back to all the times he made the same somber walk to oblivion, he wished it was the guillotine. He loved the guillotine; it was a clean, glorious death, and he got to be royalty.

Their black beady eyes always scared me, dear. I’ve wanted to catch one for a long time, crush its furry head beneath my shoe. Pressure, pressure until its eyes popped out and its brain was nothing but jelly. Could you catch one for me, dearie?

Oh, you got one! Thank you, dear. You always were such a nice boy. Take this dollar and go back home now, nice boys don’t need to see things like this.

Oh, ho, ho, it’s just me and you now, you twitchy piece of shit. Time for you to die.

Bright light, blinding almost. A deep voice, soothing, warning that it may hurt a bit.

Rolled sleeves. White scars on pale skin, like a new constellation. Explanations, Grandpa’s cigarettes taught him about pain.