by A. R. Braun
Useless, these assemblies. Why couldn’t they go home? Terrin cut class so much—every sunny day, in fact—he was surprised the principal hadn’t thrown him out of high school yet, but he knew that nasty surprise lurked around the corner. Depressing, like everything else.
Then she walked in.
Terrin hadn’t noticed her before; no one else noticed her, either. Her black hair, matted to her head; her pale complexion, skin like bleached bones, so inviting he wanted to eat her up, right there, right now—but oh, what a mistake; her nerdy clothes, not a fashion hog; and that haunting tune she played on her iPod: they all told the tale of her loneliness. She had the volume turned up to blow-your-brains-out level in her ear buds. To Terrin, it was as loud as a concert. He tried to focus on the music, not the thundering heartbeats of everyone in the gym.
Filled with hope and love of life—a plane he used to traverse—her dove’s eyes fixed on him. “Didn’t you used to go to Grace Baptist?” she chirped, her voice a singsong. It blew the tune on her iPod away.
As if stage lighting had shined on him and the director had yelled “Action,” he was on.
“I had a falling out with your parish,” Terrin answered in a bass voice. “I loved rock n’ roll more than the gospel. Heh.”
She just stared at him.
He feared he’d gone too far. Terrin turned toward the boobs-and-buns cheerleaders who jumped and swaggered to the crappy school band.
Salty, succulent meat.
Stop that!
“My parents make me go,” she said.
Terrin turned toward her. He’d always admired girls’ voices. The femmes were the songbirds he’d never be. It got his mind off her pulse, pounding in his head like a sledgehammer.
“Isn’t that always the way,” he answered.
She stuck her hand out. “Theresa.”
He clutched her warm, soft flesh. “Terrin.”
Theresa released his hand. “Hey, I remember when you played guitar in the church’s talent show. You wailed like nobody’s business.”
Like a man possessed.
So was the hellish road of one unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time: an alley, late at night, with a human beast that promised the end of his misfit’s existence, only for Terrin to find out the cure was worse than the illness. How he hated the singer of that screamo band. Why’d they have to stop at Mowquakwa, Illinois, on their tour?
“You played a heavy-metal song,” Theresa continued, “then said it was only a warm-up tune.”
Terrin shook his head. “I have too many hobbies.”
“Oh.” She pretended to watch the assembly, every now and then eyeballing him out of the corner of her lovely eye.
“My parents let me do whatever I want,” he added. “They’d better, if they know what’s good for them.”
Theresa snapped her head his way. “Dang. I can’t wait till I’m old and tough enough to control my parents.”
“I can show you how.”
Theresa leaned toward him. “Really?”
He had her now, like the spider who’d invited the fly into his parlor.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” he continued.
Theresa furrowed her brow. “You mean skip assembly?”
He shrugged. “Who’ll notice? We’re just a couple of outcasts in a sea of polyester.”
She shrugged. “Why not? I’m bored to death.”
Not yet.
Cut it out!
With that, they were off, two slugs slinking into the refuse of the rainclouds.
***
As soon as they reached the barren football field, he took flight, and how she screamed as his long-nailed fingers gripped her tender flesh. Her shrieks turned to cries of excitement, then a pummeled gasp as he spirited her to his apartment above his parents’ garage, through the open window.
Terrin set her on the couch. He went to the fridge to get an I.V. bag of sustenance and sat across from her. His father, the medicine man, worked at a hospital. Terrin stuck a straw into it and sipped, simply looking at her and waiting for a reaction.
“My God, like a little bird,” Theresa breathed. “That was the coolest thing that ever happened to me.” She regarded him intently. “Hey, are you drinking blood?”
Terrin snickered and nodded. “Red cells and plasma, mostly. It’s like a healthy diet instead of junk food: smart, but not as satisfying.”
“You’re a—”
“Please don’t bore me with the V-word.”
Instead of shock, an ear-to-ear grin, the fool. “My dream come true.” Theresa gushed. ”I’ve always had a crush on you.”
“And now, here you are.”
Unlike at the pep rally, Terrin relished how her heart pounded like a speed-metal beat and how her blood flowed, an ocean at high tide.
“Pity,” he said drily.
“What?” she asked.
“Like we’re compatible.”
Theresa’s face went blank. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Terrin threw the bag onto the floor, and the crimson mess stained the carpet. “Talk about not having anything in common! I can’t go out in the sun! I don’t want to rob you of your life. You should get a boyfriend whose heart beats—from your church—and live a normal life.” He hadn’t meant that; he’d rather go straight to the hell that awaited him than hand her over to another swinging dick.
Theresa reached out, her soft, comforting hand caressing his muscles. “I don’t want a normal life,” she almost whispered.
Terrin pulled her into the easy chair, putting his arm around her.
My panacea.
No! Don’t go there!
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he lied. Terrin gingerly touched her cheek. “I couldn’t bear to cause you pain.” He gingerly bent forward, then picked up the bag and sipped. He’d have to mop and sop that spill later, though he cleaned perfunctorily. When one didn’t age, one didn’t learn that cleanliness was next to, oh, the crap the church fed to Theresa.
Her gaze wandered from his. “I actually do want to go to the potluck at the park this Saturday.” She locked eyes with him. “It’s a rare, non-boring church activity.”
Terrin rose. He planted her on the couch, stomped over to the fridge, and put the bag of blood away. “Then go to your churchy shit. Go home, while you’re at it.”
She bounded to her feet. “Well, I’ve got everything to live for! I’m young. I can’t become undead.” Her cheeks had gone beet-red.
Theresa was right, of course; she was also the closest he’d probably get to a soulmate.
“I don’t want to burn eternally, either,” she added. “Not when I really think about it.”
“Sweet Theresa,” Terrin said. “How could I condemn you by making you a creature of the night?”
Then he was on her; he could control his beastly hunger no more.
***
Terrin knew, as he walked desultorily on that stormy day that, as the rain was dumped from the clouds, so his existence would slip away.
He’d drunk Theresa till she’d wilted, the vivacious flower now a dried husk.
Terrin was, after all, a monster.
He’d murdered his best candidate for a girlfriend; better that than to condemn her to live in death; now he’d take his own life. Terrin would fall on his sword like King Saul in Theresa’s ever-loving Bible. He was no Jesus Christ, no life-giver. He “gifted” souls with a plague—the damnation of hell. And he couldn’t stand his loner’s existence one more day.
Shivering in the cold, misty air, Terrin made his way home; no hurry, his walk like a convict’s as he approached the table where the lethal injection awaited him. Onward and downward. The thumps of the car, van, and truck tires going over potholes were Theresa’s trampling of his heart. The roars of vehicle engines, the devil in lion’s form roaring in his face, allowing no joy. The chilly air that made him tremble so much he thought he’d go into a seizure—his own cold, dark heart. Orange glows fro
m the windows of the houses he passed: Halloween overcoming Christmas. Yellow illumination from high-rise apartment buildings? As bruises on his heart. Rainwater’s fresh scent? Life’s end.
Finally, he arrived at home and white-knuckled the sword his father had passed on to him. With an anguished cry that echoed through the neighborhood, Terrin fell on the blade so that it went through his heart. He landed next to Theresa’s paper-like skin.
But in hell, he burned alone.
Six-Word Horror Story No. 2
A world of possibilities: rapists, murderers.
Too Good to Be True
Lyle Rid had met his match. When Cali North moved into the building, all reason went out the window.
A twenty-seven-year-old woman with a severely gorgeous face that looked like she was always giving you the evil eye—a true representation of the gangbanger generation—Cali had a thin body; small, natural breasts; and short brown hair that hung over her head like a minx. Lyle didn’t usually go for women without long hair and below-average breasts, but somehow, he was under her spell.
Cali had already turned down the other men in the building. Lyle had the idea that perhaps she wouldn’t turn him down; he could do what they’d failed to do. He’d worked with a young man who’d turned a lesbian straight, and his conscience nagged at him to step up and do something similar.
His father’s advice endeavored to haunt him: “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is.” But, invested in Cali by now, Lyle shrugged the advice off. His dad had neglected him since his teens—as soon as the going got hard, the non-tough went running—and settled for unattractive wives with mustaches, both his mother and his stepmom. Lyle wanted to outdo his father, to prove him wrong, since the old man wasn’t there for him.
Yet the decaying years of middle age had started. As a young man, Lyle could’ve had any woman he’d wanted, with his head of brown hair that turned blond and red in the sun, his flat abs, and his thin-but-muscular body. But now . . . well, he’d lost his hair, developed a paunch, and lugged around a toe stricken with osteoarthritis.
Lyle had heard tales of Cali wearing nothing but a robe that barely covered her luscious body as she sat outside in the morning on warm days. He’d finally gone out back to find out what the hullaballoo was about. He’d met her as he’d sat around the chat circle outside of his apartment building and found her quiet, charming, and the antithesis of materialistic.
She’d said hello first, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Lyle was surprised when she agreed to a date for Friday night. Usually, he had to get to know a woman first before he earned that.
This was . . . well . . . too good to be true.
“She lives a door down from me,” his buddy Terry had told him as they’d sucked up the sun in May, the weather just starting to get warm enough. “One time, we were drinking, and she told me to get my camera phone and take a picture of her tits. I did, but when I made my move, she said she didn’t want a relationship.”
Terry was an enigma personified, wearing either a cowboy hat because he idolized Clint Eastwood or a fedora like a mobster, plus all-black clothing. A gray-haired man with a heavyweight build, he’d been Lyle’s best friend since he’d moved in. Terry spoke with a scratchy drawl, his voice beginning to give way to old age. A devil worshiper, Terry never turned down a chance to indulge in the flesh, ingesting ungodly amounts of booze and pills; whether going to Xanland or taking advantage of Vicodin’s promise of numbness, he found a way to get dope whether it had been prescribed to him or not.
Dan, a hippie that wasn’t good for much of anything except small talk, had also tried to get with Cali. One of the reasons Lyle didn’t like him: Dan had kept his head of hair and his flat stomach though he was middle-aged. His teeth were rotting out of his head, at least there was that, and streaks of gray ran through the short curls that surrounded his ears. He’d been in Cali’s apartment and had brought up a porno site on her computer when she’d excused herself to go to the bathroom. He’d been sharply rebuked and tossed out.
Now it was Lyle’s chance. He’d been quite the stud when young, and he didn’t intend to stop now.
***
Friday night, Lyle walked into the elevator to find Cali waiting for him in an Aéropostale sweater and blue jeans, along with Sketcher tennies. What happened to the anti-materialism?
She smiled. “I was just coming down to your apartment to get you.” Her high voice had a bit of a slow drawl, as if she were . . . mildly retarded? But that couldn’t be.
Lyle said, “I was headed up to your place. Apartment six, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Don’t have your daughter today?”
Cali had a baby girl named Kiara, a blond princess. She always got the kid on the weekends.
“We’ve been having a hard time getting along lately. My ex said if I couldn’t play nice with her, then I wasn’t going to get her.”
That struck him as a strange situation for an adult mother to be in.
“She’s such a brat, crying and whining constantly,” she added. “It would be a shame if something were to happen to her.”
Even stranger. “What would happen to her?”
Cali shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just talkin’. An accident, I guess.”
Even more curious. Lyle decided to take her at her word, though. What was that old cliché about looking a gift horse in the mouth? Especially with lovelies like Cali.
The elevator dinged, they walked off, and Cali grinned as she unlocked her door. “Have a seat on the couch. I bought a Blu-ray of horror films. I’ll fix us some pizza.”
Lyle plopped down on the plush davenport. Her apartment carried her sweet, intoxicating scent.
“My last boyfriend bought me that TV. Great, isn’t it?”
“You bet.”
What wasn’t to love? A big wide-screen that lit the living room in high-def colors spotlighted him. Again, he wondered where her anti-materialism had gone. Cali had the curtains drawn and no lights on. The last hint of daylight struggled to survive through the cracks of the curtains.
“The Blu-ray’s in front of the TV,” she added, raising her voice a bit from the kitchen.
The apartments in the building were small, and this was no exception. The couch, blue and probably new, carried the smell of a furniture store. In the other half of the living room, a new Dell computer took up most of a small table. On the walls, a picture of Jesus, a cross, and photos of Cali when she’d been younger and had long hair, as well as various photos of her daughter, dominated the space.
She came in holding two plates of pizza. She handed him one and he thanked her, asking if she had anything to drink. Apparently, she’d forgotten the other half of the equation. She nodded and returned to the kitchen. Lyle would’ve loved to take her to dinner, but he didn’t get paid till Tuesday. He’d already mentioned treating her to Chinese food next week.
She came back in with a Sun Drop soda for him and a Coca-Cola for her. Somehow, he felt cheated.
“I haven’t eaten in two days.” Her enchanting, hazel eyes accentuated with eyeliner and blush found him and pinned him in place. “I’m starving.”
“Two days?” Lyle wondered if she was a religious fanatic trying to do herself in. “Why not?”
She finished chewing her food and washed it down. “I know, right? I’ve been depressed. My ex broke up with me because I brought a girlfriend home, but she didn’t have a place to stay. What was I supposed to do?”
Prioritize and get rid of the girlfriend. Your flat’s not a mission.
Cali devoured the rest of her slice. She washed it down. “You probably heard I didn’t want a relationship with Dan or Terry. Dan tried to put porn on my computer, the pervert, and Terry gave me a book of witchcraft, which offended me. I really tried to be their friend. I gave away food, lent them money, and hung out with them all the time when I first moved in. But when I didn’t want a relationship, they quit answering my calls. Stinking m
en.”
Lyle stared at his plate. She’d bought cheap pizza and cut the slice too big. Not wanting to be rude, he bit into it, and the taste didn’t appeal to him; like he suspected, cheap. She couldn’t spring for DiGiorno, or at least Jack’s?
Cali returned with another slice, took a couple bites, then washed it down. Her haunting eyes met his. “I’ve been on video dating sites, but the guys just want a piece of ass. I told one guy I hope his dick rots off, and he said I needed to get some help.”
Wonderful. “What about the man who bought your TV?”
“He was angry because I wouldn’t sleep with him after a month of dating.”
I don’t blame him. Lyle pondered a subtle way to get what he had to say across. “Can I ask why you never want a relationship or sex? It’s a normal human drive, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “They’re all small dicks, I can tell. Besides, when I make love to a guy, I want it to be special, not just to get laid. Oh, and I have HIV, I cut my tongue, and I spit on your slice of pizza.”
Lyle spat the soda out of his mouth and dropped his plate. He coughed for a few minutes. Cali didn’t pat his back, offer to help, or anything. She glared at him out of the corner of her eye, and now he noticed the steak knife in her hand, streaked with a thin layer of blood as she stuck her lacerated tongue out at him.
“Excuse me? Tell me you didn’t just say what I thought you said.”
She grinned evilly. “This way, I don’t have to tell you I don’t want a relationship and go through the heartache of being dumped because you didn’t get what you wanted. I’m tired of being taken advantage of by guys.” She lost the smile and sat up straight, her face positively glowing. “Did I tell you I was bi-polar?” She finished her pizza and soda. “Oh, I guess I left that tidbit out. Well, no matter. I’ve got HIV, I’m probably going to die of AIDS, and all because I wanted a man. Now you’ll die, too.