Gore Suspenstories

by Trevor R. Fairbanks

  The urgent wisps of dark were smeared all over his chest. And his nose was long. It was caked with snot. Past that snot he could still smell the night, the dirty sheets lingering against his skin. There was the strong sticky scent of sweat. There was the decay of unrepressed flatulence. And red. His skin was mocked and moddled with red, as if he had been clawed by a strange monster in the night.

  Garrit Simpson looked in to the mirror and it felt like he was having an acid flashback. Once again, he was on the worst trip of his life.

  The trip had no name. He had gone beyond to see it all. On that trip every cliché Hollywood has to offer danced before his eyes. He had seen the walls bleed. He listened to them vibrate as they breathed in their last few breaths before dying. He had walked with Jesus Christ and he had believed in God. He had been raped by the Devil until his asshole bled. Every single bad thing that had ever happened to him was right there in his mind. It unspooled like tape from a broken cassette and splayed out so that he could feel it all over again.

  It was a painful thing, that trip. It had changed his life. But had he changed for the better? Garrit Simpson looked at himself in the mirror and wondered.

  The sound of the toaster popping snapped him out of the flashback. He was shoved back into the modern world, the real world. A dim piece of him, a piece that had no voice and therefore could utter no opinion, was sad to be back.

  In another hour Garrit Simpson would be at his desk. He had to shave first and wrap a tie around his neck. He would need to eat breakfast. In the kitchen he could hear his wife’s soft shoes scraping at the linoleum tile. She was up early and already slaving away at a hot stove to make pancakes for the children. They would not eat unless she flipped them just right and the sounds of batter popping filled the small home.

  And there were the children themselves, beating at the kitchen table with their forks and knives in some obscene rhythm that he was too old to understand. They had already begun to learn the popular songs of the day and repeated them endlessly to create a slow form of torment. It had a good beat, he just could not bring himself to dance to it.

  Garrit combed whatever hair was left on his head. He pulled on his slacks and shirt and decided that he could not face them. Not today. So, he grabbed his briefcase and set himself like a wind sprinter. He shot through the kitchen like a bullet.

  Quick glimpse of his wife. Splash of his children. “I don’t have time for breakfast,” he mumbled and slipped on his tie. He adjusted his shirt and gave his wife a peck on the cheek, tasting the slight salt taste of morning sweat, and then he was headed for the door.

  “You don’t have to be at work for another forty-five minutes,” she called after him. He stopped but did not turn to face her. If he looked at her he would lose. “You really should eat something.”

  Fucking bitch.

  “I told Smith I would be in early today,” he muttered then finally turned around. “Bye honey. Bye kids.” He smiled briefly without any heart and then he was out the door. Into the cold morning sun.

  Once he was finally outside he took a deep breath. Garrit stared up at the blue sky and held his briefcase in a trembling, nervous hand. So cold. The world was so cold. Why did it feel so cold? It felt like a hang-over but he hadn’t put anything illegal into his body in years. He had a wife. He had children. There were two cars in his driveway and a mortgage payment to meet every month. Inside the house he had a new television set that he never got to watch. He had everything he wanted. He had everything he dreamed of.

  So why did he feel so alone? Why did he feel so empty? Why did he feel as if he had nothing? Why was he so tired of dreaming?

  With hate in his eyes he looked at the road that promised to take him to work. It was already filled with cars. The road was choked with people all rushing to different places that were the same.

  He thought about his life before. Back then if you didn’t have a car you rode the rails. The train was always free. Or you hitch hiked. That was a good way to meet people. It was also an excellent way to get laid. Back then being unemployed was the coolest thing you could be. It was a way of life and, more important, it was a way to live.

  Now he was looking at the car that would take him to work. It was ugly, but it ran smooth. It had a small engine, but it would get him to work and back without fail. It could also take him away from here, far way.

  Where would he go? He thought about New York. He had always wanted to see New York. And he thought about Canada. There was supposed to be porn over there the likes of which he had never seen. Porn and the rumors of porn.

  Only Garrit Simpson was late for work and there was no time to dream. He got into his car and left. He would be back.

  ***

  Another long day of work had come to an end. Garrit stood in the shadows of his driveway and enjoyed a cigarette. His wife did not like him smoking. She was so proud of him when he quit. Even the children were proud of him.

  They never even knew that he had started again only a few days after. Maybe they were just being naive. After all, they had to smell it on his clothes and on his breath. But then, he didn’t kiss them much anymore.

  Why had he started again? To deal with the pressures of work was the text book answer. That was the answer he gave himself. Yeah, smoking was bad, but he didn’t want to live forever. He didn’t even want to live to see tomorrow. The truth was he simply missed having something destructive inside his body. It felt good to be dying. It meant that there would be an ending. Someday.

  Garrit looked in to the window of his own home like a thief. It was like watching a weird collection of fish in a tank, seeing his family in there. The children were playing in front of the television, not even watching it. They were always playing. They were always laughing. Then there was his boring wife in the kitchen, cooking dinner. She was always cooking. She was always cleaning.

  He did not want to go inside. He stood and wanted to run. He wanted to grab a pair of jeans and some good sneakers then hit the road and disappear forever. Just head for somewhere, his brain whispered. Anywhere.

  But what would they do? Would she get a job? Would she find another husband? Would she try to support the children herself?

  No. Garrit knew his wife. She lived inside of this house and never left. He was their only tie to the rest of the world. And he knew that leaving them was practically handing them a death sentence. He hated them, but he did not want to see them die. Death was too good for them. He wanted his death to be a lonely thing. He did not want to meet them on the other side.

  So, he took another long pull on his grit and looked at the stars. Tonight, they seemed very far away. He dreamed of looking at these same stars but from somewhere else. They were clouded by the smoke billowing from his mouth.

  The stars began to dance.

  He watched them frolic and spin then fall from the sky. Tiny pin pricks of light surrounded him. They collected and assembled and stared back at him with glowing eyes. What was happening?

  Garrit sucked at his cigarette and assumed it was an acid flashback. What else could it be? Then one of the stars zipped in close and he could feel the heat on his face. It touched him on the nose.

  The cigarette tumbled from his lips into the damp grass.

  “We can help you.”

  The voice went right into his ear even though stars do not talk. He could feel tendrils of thought coasting around in his mind like a drifting idea. Listening to it was like smoking some good pot.

  “We want to be human.”

  It was an offering. The deal was on the table and he knew it was a deal because he could see it very clearly in his mind. These aliens would become him. They would be Garrit Simpson and the real Garrit Simpson ...

  He could be anything. He could go anywhere he wanted. He would finally be free and leave behind someone to take his place in the family.

  Garrit lit another cigarette and looked at them. “Can I come back?”

  “Yes,” the whisper said like steam sh
ooting out of a broken pipe. “Return when you wish. We only want your life for a short time.”

  “No deal.” Because Garrit knew he would never come back. They knew it, too. They had to. They were in his brain.

  “Then you don’t have to.”

  He nodded. He agreed.

  The collection shifted and sparkled with joy. “Give blood to us. Tasty DNA.”

  They wanted blood? That was weird. But it was worth it to finally be free. Sacrifices had to be made. He looked at his wife’s prized roses. She loved them, even though the Mexican gardener deserved all the credit. He plucked a nice big one with a very sharp thorn and shoved his thumb into it.

  Like a child proud of his first shit he turned around and showed the star collective the tiny droplet of blood. They swarmed around it like a precious ruby and he heard them giggle.

  A cosmic tongue reached out. The giggle turned into a scream.

  Garrit felt all the blood rush from his body. Instantly he was deflated, and his skin clung to his bones. He fell and felt himself dig into the soft grass. Somehow, he managed to look up.

  The blood was pouring from him. It danced like a beautiful woman before him. DNA. The make-up of the human body. Genetics. All that science crap he slept through in high school. Around him the star collective the blood congealed and solidified. Warm bones were formed then organs. Skin and hair, a face. The blood smeared and turned into muscle and toe-nails and teeth and everything else that made a human being a human being.

  It was like looking into a mirror. He was standing over himself.

  “You can leave now.”

  The being formerly known as Garrit Simpson nodded. A shell of a man shambled away into the night. He had to stop at the liquor store and get cigarettes.

  2007

  Tujunga, California

  about the author

  Trevor R. Fairbanks was born 2/18/1975 in Southern California. An avid skateboarder in his youth, after breaking his arm too many times he took up writing as a “safer” hobby. At the age of thirteen he met Ray Bradbury who was kind enough to give him the advice “Write Every Day.” He followed this advice for the next thirty years. After receiving rejection letters from every mainstream and independent publisher in America, he self-published his first novel “Scarwynd” under his own imprint, Raw Youth Press. Later, he began Telstar Literature to showcase mature works. When he isn’t writing he enjoys playing surf guitar, watching giant monster movies and collecting comic books.

  tr.fairbanks@gmail.com