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Posted: Oct 31 2016, 10:08 PM
Joined: 7-August 14
((I am very unaccustomed to writing horror... Sorry if it is just awful.))
The house shrieks of neglect early in the morning when the windows shudder with the disparity in temperature. As the insides war with the outsides, she nurses a hot tea and spots a mouse resting its tail through broken glass. She bets whether it would cut itself if she scared it on its way through, but figures the mess isn't worth the hassle. When the mouse peeks through, though, she rises and snaps at it to cower back and leave. It only peers back with blacker eyes than she remembers any rodent having, and chitters something incoherent to her ears. When it flees, it doesn't catch its tail and for this she mourns. So little excitement, so little sign of life.
What lumbers upstairs wheezes with the doors and clanks with the leaky roof. He stirs in his too small bed complaining it is a coffin for his failing body. When he shifts to stand on bad knees, he coughs out the dust of forty five years of bad luck. The broken mirror in the corner, never quite swept up to completion sneers back at his disfigurements and hunkers over while his spine spasms. In the wall blood leaks through the closet and down the floorboards over self same stains from ten years ago. He never replaced the carpet and wouldn't dare to now. What would be the point?
The metal of her cuff drags across the floor when she hears him descending, as if she could flee from the torrent of dust that is released into the air with every step. There’s a sneeze and a ‘whugh’ as particles are inhaled and expelled. She trips over her prosthetic and is prone to the floor when he opens the door. Without a complaint, he makes a pot of coffee, blood oozing from under his fingertips.
With concern, she pleas, “You’re skinnier than yesterday. Didn’t it satisfy you? When can I see my family?”
The mouse scurries from under the cabinets across her fingertips and she reacts numbly to its paws. It’s not the same one, she realizes, when she sees its stunted tail.
Redness dilutes into the coffee while he sits and waits for her to sit next to him. The scab on his face is starting to fall off and she resents the sight of what is underneath it. He isn’t wearing boots but there is dirt crusted on his feet and in between his toes. It scatters over the kitchen linoleum and she knows she will have to clean it up later. He whistles and the wind screeches back. The house pities her, but there hasn’t been a whiff of warmth between the walls longer than she has been alive, so it remains in quiet disobedience.
Sometimes he brings down his shovel with him. It’s sharp enough to work as an axe, she realized too late. And every time its metal gleams at her, she shudders from the inside along the incision that took her limbs. Even her phantom fingers twitch in anxiety. He snorts into his coffee and ignores her. It’s the same way it has been for a month now. And then he leaves to work.
Hours later, when the sun is diminished into darkness and she befriends a mouse just to harm it later for a snack, he returns with glimmering jewels and forces her to try them on one by one. When she rejects thinking of the dead flesh that touched them before he gave them over, he names the deceased one by one. “Mr. Hodges left a nice watch… Mrs. Delilah didn’t need this ruby pendant anymore.” He fusses with her hair roughly and catches her scalp with a rusty pin. When she pulls away, he licks his lips at the sight and parades her around the room, coyly complimenting the captive.
“Please let me see them,” she pleads to no avail. She disregards the bloodstain that pools over their heads like an atomic halo from hell from the ceiling that drips occasionally over the floor and furniture. When it splatters her cheek, she closes her eyes and prays to the demon that lords over him that God strike him down this instant for not killing her already. He touches her and she flinches away.
When he tells her how beautiful she used to be in school in the leering manner he always does, she backs away instinctively and ushers a mouse toward him with vengeance. It disobeys and finds the hole in the back of the fridge to hunker down in. She can’t remember when the scent of death didn’t pervade the room. He smells stronger of it and the touch of his flesh is inhuman enough to make her skin crawl.
He doesn’t remember when the house loved him. His parents owned it once, and his grandparents before it. The lineage is strong and yet it has been a long time since its renovation. When the ceiling starts to give in with a heavy sag and a soft spot, he moves her out of the room and down the hall into the sitting room. It smells the way old people do and the dead insects that populate the floor in ugly constellations make her stomach churn even while it growls.
“Didn’t I serve you?” She begs on her knees, the battered beetles crunching under them. Her prosthetic wipes clean but her jean leg is smeared with something embedded in the carpet. When she cries, she makes sure not to make the floor any moister. It feels wet without any reason. The mildew makes her vomit later.
She never thought she would survive. At the rate he robbed her of her limbs and of the time he spent rejecting her of permission to see her family, she knew the only way to see them would be in her death and theirs.
And she was right.
He ate her concisely the night he pinned her to the table and took his fork and knife out. While she suffered, it wasn’t unbearable after she fainted. That someone heard her wishes and left her unconscious was an act of a God above, but really, she didn’t know for sure.
When she woke up, robbed of another limb and fitting a sore limb into another socket, she bemoaned the lack of a good fit and stirred in the closet. Heaviness sat on her chest and pinned down her last remaining arm. He snored in the bedroom as she sulked and pushed and moaned. When a rotting hand fell off and a finger tumbled into her mouth, she screamed and choked on her mother’s wedding ring. Blood seeped into her clothes and she chewed down. Her right lung was pierced as she tried to breathe and found that it was no longer necessary.
When he opened the closet door later to get dressed, he saw the remains of her jaw fumbling about awkwardly, eating her father’s brains.
“You’ll always get to be with them.” he guffawed and wiped his mouth. He closed the door.
Later, she wakes up again. Her consciousness frayed by hunger.
He doesn’t come back for a week and when he does, he dumps more bodies in there for her. All that remains around her are bones and her mother’s jewels.
And one day, he doesn’t come back. But the hunger surmounts her weakened limbs as she jostles against the doorframe and stumbles into the sagging room. The retched stench of death hangs around the pools of blood and she follows the trails where they lead.
When she finds him, he’s kneeling over her limbs affixed to another’s torso— another’s head. Frankenstein sits on the table next to the body as he starts up the electrical table.
It’s not the first time by the sight and overwhelming smell of burning, charred flesh. Where he does not look is his fatal crux. She tears at his spinal chord first, rendering him paralyzed to watch her destroy his creation— consuming the flesh of her own limbs senselessly.
He dies a slow death and so does she when she starves through the bodies in the basement and the ones left in the graveyard outside the house in unmarked graves, clearly murdered by his hands. Even his family pet is consumed, the fur matting in her mouth. Her limbs wither away and her neck snaps when the bedroom finally collapses in the kitchen onto her. Her glassy eyes glare at the mouse, which, upon noticing her inability to move, begins to eat her flesh while staring back with its black, black eyes.