Masters of Horror: Damned if you don't
Page 5
Topsy
By F. Paul Wilson
I’m inna middle a chewin on dis giant lasagne noodle when Nurse Delores appears.
“Morning, Topsy!” she says as she marches inta da room in her white uniform.
Dey call me Topsy.
Don’t ax why dey call me dat. My name’s Bruno. But evybody here calls me Topsy.
“Oh, no!” she says. “You’ve been eating your sheets again!”
I look down an see she’s right. My sheets is all chewed up. I guess dat weren’t no giant lasagne noodle after all.
God I’m hungry.
“Ready for breakfast?” she says all bright an cheery.
Course I’m ready for breakfast—I’m dyin for breakfast—but I don’t say nuttin. Cause what dey call breakfast here ain’t. Ain’t lunch or dinner neither. Just liquid. Not even a shake. I amember when I useta eat diet shakes. Useta drink ten a dem fa breakfast. An anotha ten fa coffee break. Dey’re junk. I neva lost weight on dem. Not once.
But no shakes round here. Just dis clear glop. An here she comes wit a whole glass of it.
“Here, Topsy. Open your mouth and drink this,” she says, all Mary Sunshine poikiness.
If my hands wasn’t strapped to da side of da bed I’d grab her an make her drink it herself an see how much she likes dat shit.
She tilts da glass toward my lips but I turn away.
“Come on, Topsy,” she says. “I know you don’t like it, but it’s this or nothing.”
“No!”
“Come on, Topsy. Do it for Lenore. Don’t be mad at me. The protein hydrosylate isn’t my idea. It’s doctor’s orders. And it’s working. You’re down to twelve hundred and thirty pounds now.”
Still I don’t open.
“Come on, baby. It’s this or go hungry. Open up.”
Sometimes she calls me baby, but dat don’t make it taste better, believe me.
I open an pretend it’s a milk shake. A big double chocolate praline shake laced wit wet walnuts.
Don’t help. I gag an wanna barf it all ova da place but manage to choke it down. Gotta. It’s all I’ll get til lunch. An dat’ll only be a salad.
God I’m so hungry.
Dey don’t unnerstan aroun here. Don’t seemta realize dat I gotta eat. Dey say dey’re helpin me by stickin needles in my arms an feedin me teeny bits of veggies an barely a moutful of whole grain sumpin-or-otha an dis liquid protein shit, but dey ain’t helpin. Ain’t helpin me one bit.
Guy’s gotta eat.
Useta be so good when my brotha Sal an his wife Marie was takin care a me. I was happy den. Dat’s cause dey unnerstood. Dey knew I hadda eat. Boy could dey cook. No limit, man. Anyting I wanted, it was dere on da bed tray soon as I said.
Dey unnerstood me, know’m sayin?
Breakfast was da best. On regula days Marie’d whip me up a coupla dozen eggs over easy wit a coupla poundsa bacon an lotsa dose spicy Jimmy Dean sausage patties. Love dat Jimmy Dean sausage. Den she’d make me a gigantic stack a ten-inch pancakes swimmin in butta an Vermont maple syrup. An on special days, like Satadays an Sundays, she’d go all out an add in a whole platterful a eggs Benedict. Love eggs Benedict. All dat Hollandaise sauce over dose poached eggs on English muffins an Canadian bacon. Heaven, man. Absolute heaven.
Mid-mornings dere’d be Entenmann’s sugar crumb cake or cheeze babka or my favorite, All Butter French Crumb cake. Or sometimes lox an bagels wit cream cheese an herring in cream sauce.
Neva could tell what lunch was gonna be. Sometimes a coupla family-size buckets of da Colonel’s Extra Crispy fried chicken, but most times Sal’d bring me in tree or four sausage an pepperoni pizzas or half a dozen subs from Vinnie’s. Da subs were da best, man. Pepper an egg, veal parmesian, Italian delight, an da Kitchen Sink sub wit evyting on it.
Loved lunch, man.
Mid afternoons I’d do it kinda light. Jus some coffee an a coupla packages a Oreos. Or maybe some Little Debbie Satellite bars. When it was hot, Sal’d get me a gallon a Welsh Farms peanut butter swirl ice cream. He’d mix it up wit a can of Hershey’s chocolate syrup an I’d be in heaven, man.
Dinner’d start aroun five cause I couldn’t wait no longer. Marie’d cut me up a nice cold antipast while Sal’d broil up a coupla dozen garlic clams oreganata. Den da pasta—a coupla poundsa Marie’s super linguine wit white clam sauce, da noodles swimmin in butter an garlic, an da diced clams piled all over da top. Next da fish, usually a coupla tree-or four-pound lobsters or half a dozen pounds a shrimp done up scampi style. After dat, a meat, maybe steak or veal or a nice Krakus ham. For dessert, maybe anotha gallon a da peanut butter swirl or a nice cherry cheesecake, or a coupla peach pies ala mode wit some canoli onna side.
My bedtime snack was always candy. Sal’d let me have all da Snickers bars I wanted. He’d buy dem by da case an leave a whole box right by my bed so’s I could grab one anytime I got hungry. An let me tell you, I got hungry a lot durin da night. But I neva woke Sal or Marie. I knew dey needed deir sleep. I was a good guy. I hung on an starved till breakfast.
Sal an Marie knew how to take care of me. Dey knew what I needed. Dat I hadda eat. Dey understood about eatin, know’m sayin?
Evyting was great till dat day when dey was both out at once. Dey hardly ever left me alone. I mean sure dey went out togetha once inna while, but neva for long. Dis time dey was gone a long time. A coupla hours, maybe, an I was starvin. Not jus hungry, man. I mean starvin!
An I couldn’t get outta bed.
Wasn’t always dis big. I mean, like I was always big accordin to Ma. Born big an jus kept gettin bigger, she always said. But now I’m huge, man. Take up a whole damn king size bed. Can’t get outta bed on my own. Always needed help from Sal or Marie. Good ting Marie’s real strong—good Sicilian stock—or she’da been no help. But all I needed was for one of dem ta give me a little boost an someone to lean on while I shuffled to da batroom. Dey took off da doorframe but still I can barely turn aroun in dere. Lucky I only go twice a day. An it don’t matter if I’m doin number one or number two, man, I gotta sit. First of all, I can’t stand dat long. An second, well, I mean, I ain’t seen my dick in at least ten years, so da only way I can be sure I ain’t peein onna floor is to sit. An even den I sometimes miss da bowl. An when I take a dump...
Let’s not talk about dat.
Anyways, Sal an Marie was gone fa hours an I was starvin so I tried to get outta bed on my own. Took forever, but I managed to sit up by myself. Made me feel good. Hadn’t done dat on my own in years. Den by holdin onta da bedpost I somehow got myself to my feet. I started shufflin cross da bedroom, takin little teeny steps so’s I wouldn’t lose my balance. God, I din’t want to tink what would happena me if I toppled over an wound up onna floor. I mean, man, dey’d hafta bring in a crane or sumpin ta get me up again.
An jus as I was tinkin about it, it started happenin. I started swayin. Little sways at first, den bigger ones. I tell ya I was scared to det. I aimed myself for da doorway, figrin I could hold onta da jamb, but started teeterin as I stumbled an I slammed inna da doorway wit a awful crack. I saw da wallboard crack an heard da studs inside groan an creak, but da wall held an I was still on my feet. I hadn’t fallen!
But I was stuck. Usually I went troo dat door sideways. Now I was jammed inta it at a angle an no matter how I tried I couldn’t move out or in. I was scared. I started gettin pains in my chest an my heart started racin like crazy. I hadn’t been on my feet for dat long a time in more years dan I could amemba. Couldn’t breathe. I yelled fa help. Screamed my freakin lungs out, but not fa long. My chest was gettin all congested, like I was fillin up wit water or sometin. I couldn’t scream no more. Evyting got fuzzy, den evyting got black.
Next ting I knew I was in dis place.
It’s a hospital room. Actually it’s not a room, it’s what dey call a suite. Two rooms. I’m in da big room, but dere’s a smaller one straight ahead a me dat’s like a little kitchen wit a fridge an a microwave an stuff. An dere’s a batroom off to m
y right but in all da time I’m here I ain’t been in it yet. Dey told me what hospital I’m in but I forgot. Who cares, anyway? Da important ting is dey’re starvin’ me!
“Time for your bed bath,” Dolores says as she comes in carryin a basin a soapy water. She stops an stares at me. “Good Lord, Topsy! You’re eating your pillow!”
I look. Oh, yeah. I guess I am. I tought it was a big marshmallow.
I spit feathers.
“Never mind,” she says wit a sigh. “Let’s get to the ablutions.”
Most guys would get off bein washed down by a blonde dish like Delores, but I gotta admit I’m too hungry ta tink about anyting but food.
“Gimme a treat, Dolores.”
“Shush!” she says, glancin around my room. “What if one of the doctors heard you?”
“Don’t care. Need a treat.”
“After your bath.”
“No. Now. Gotta have sometin.”
“Oh, all right.”
As she reaches into her uniform pocket I can feel da juices pour into my mout. She pulls out one of dose little low-sugar caramels she sneaks in for me an unwraps it.
“Stop it, Topsy,” she says. “You’re droolin all over yourself. Open up.”
I open an she pops it into my mout, jerkin her fingers back real quick cause I accidently bit her once.
I taste da caramel. Da sweetness runs all over da inside of my mout.
OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGodohGodohGodohGOD!
I near start ta cry.
“Come on, Topsy,” Delores says, pattin my arm. She’s a good nurse. She feels for me. I can tell. “You’ll be all right.”
“Need food!”
“You need to lose weight, that’s what you need. You almost died of congestive heart failure back in your house. It’s lose weight or die, Topsy.”
I figure I’d ratha die, cause starvin like dis is worse dan det.
“Where’s Sal? Where’s Marie?”
“Do we have to go through that again?” Delores says as she starts rubbin a soapy wash cloth on my belly. I look down at my bare skin. Looks like acres a ice cream.
“Troo what again?”
“I know you don’t want to accept it, Topsy, but your brother and his wife have been indicted for attempted murder and they’re out on bail awaiting trial. They are forbidden by the court to come anywhere near you. They were trying to kill you, Topsy.”
“No. Dey treated me good! Dey fed me!”
“They were feeding you to death, that’s what they were doing. A nifty little scheme, I’ve got to admit. You kept signing checks so they could buy you food, big checks that allowed them to live high while they kept pumping you full of the worst kind of food you can imagine.”
“Good food,” I told her. “Da best!”
“The worst! High fat, high calorie. Your blood sugar and cholesterol and triglycerides were through the roof! And when they got you to fifteen hundred pounds, they left you for a day. They knew you’d try to get out of bed, and they figured you’d fall and die on the floor. Well, it almost worked. Lucky for you that you got stuck in the doorway and someone heard you yell. Even then you almost didn’t make it. By the time they broke through the wall of the house and hoisted you out, you were so far gone into heart failure you almost died in the back of the pickup truck they had to use to get you to the hospital. It almost worked, Topsy. The rats almost got your money.”
“Ain’t got no money.”
“Oh, really? Folks with no money can’t afford a private hospital suite like this. What do you call that twelve million dollars you won?”
Oh, yeah. Dat. I won dat inna State Lotto a few years ago. I forget tings sometimes. I amemba Sal an Marie bein real happy for me. Dat’s when dey moved in an started takin care a me. Dey treated me real good. Dey unnerstood dat I gotta eat.
I always hadda eat. Evyting I amemba bout bein a kid is food. Ma cooked for me alla time, an when she ran outta food I’d go over my fren’s houses an deir moms’d fix me stuff. I lost my first job as a kid makin deliveries for Angelo’s Grocery because I useta eat half da stuff along da way. An whateva job I had, I always spent da money on food.
Food was evyting ta me. I amemba how I useta give people directions back in da days when I could still get aroun. It’d be “Go down to da Dunkin Donuts an turn left, den go bout tree blocks an turn right at da Dairy Queen an it’s bout half a mile downa street, a block past Paisan’s Pizza.” All my landmarks hadda do wit food.
But afta I won da lotto an we moved out to Long Island, I got so fat dat my whole world became my bedroom, an time got measured by meals an TV shows.
Da TV’s on now. I useta love to watch TV. All da game shows an talk shows inna mornin, an da soaps inna aftanoon. Loved dem all. Now I hate ‘em. Not da shows—da commercials. Food! All dey seemta be sellin is freakin food! Like torture, man! I go crazy wit da little remote control but evytime I switch I see dis food bein shoved at me in livin color! I’m bout t’go crazy, know’m sayin? I mean, if it ain’t McDonald’s it’s Burger King or Wendy’s or Red Lobsta wit dose shrimp just oozin butta onna enda da fork. Or da Pillsbury Doughboy’s got some new cinnamon ting he’s pushin, or dere’s microwave chocolate cake or Reese’s Pieces or Eat Beef It’s Real Food or Domino’s Pizza or Peter Pan Peanut Butter or Holly Farms Chicken or Downyflake Waffles or Dorito Nacho Chips an on an on.
Know’m sayin?
Tell ya it ain’t fair, man. Guy could go crazy!
“Okay, Topsy,” Delores is sayin. “It’s time to do your back. Now I know you can’t turn over, but I want you to help me. I’m going to unstrap your right hand so I can do some of your back.”
Dey been keepin my hands strapped downta da bed frame. Dat’s cause da diet’s been makin me kinda goofy. I got bandages on da middle finger an pointer a my right hand cause I tried to eat dem.
Kid you not, man. I been goin a little squirrelly here. I mean, da otha night I really tought dose fingers was hot dogs. S’true. Jus like I tought my sheet was a big lasagne noodle an my pillow was a giant marshmallow, I coulda sworn dat night my two fingers was hot dogs. It was dark. I started chewin on dem an screamin at da same time. Da docs said I was hallucinatin. Closed me up wit ten stitches. Now dey keep my hands tied down so’s I don’t do it again.
Dey shouldn’t worry. I won’t. It hurt too much.
“Gimme a candy first,” I tell her.
“No,” Dolores says. “After, Topsy. After.”
“Okay,” I say. But I don’t really mean it.
When she unstraps my right wrist, I roll left, like I’m lettin her wash da part of my back she can reach. But while I’m twisted dat way, I work on da left strap an get it undone. Now I’m ready.
“Okay, Topsy,” she says. “Roll back now.”
I roll. An keep on rollin. As I rock to da right, I grab Delores.
“Candy!” I shout. “Gimme! Now!”
Delores squeals an twists away. She’s strong but I got a good grip on her. She pulls away but I stretch after her. Her feet slip an she goes down but I lean over da edge of da bed, keepin my grip, never lettin go, reachin wit my free hand for da pocket wit da caramels.
But suddenly I feel myself slippin. I mean da bed’s tiltin, da whole freakin hospital bed’s tippin ova wit me on it. An I’m headin right down on toppa Delores. I try to stop myself but I can’t. Da bed’s tilted too far. I’m outta control. I’m fallin. Dolores screams as I land on her.
It ain’t a long scream. More like a quick little yelp, like your pooch makes when you accidently step on its foot. Den she cuts off.
But she don’t stop movin. She’s strugglin an kickin an clawin unda me, tryna get out, tryna breathe. An I’m tryna get offa her, really an truly I am, but it’s so hard. Finally I edge myself back an to da side. It’s slow work, but finally I get offa her face.
Too late. Poor Delores has stopped strugglin by den. An when I manage to get a look at her face, it’s kinda blue. Real blue, in fact. I mean, like she’s sorta dead.
Which reminds me of her goody pocket. So while I’m cryin, I reach for her pocket. I push my hand inside but I can’t find no caramels. Not a one.
No way, man! I know dere’s candy in dere!
I push deeper inta da pocket but it’s empty, man! Freakin empty!
I’m kinda upset now. I pull on da pocket. I mean, I know dere’s candy in dere. Da pocket rips an still no caramels. I rip deepa, layer afta layer till I reach...
...skin.
Smooth white skin. It’s a leg. Turkey leg. Big white meat turkey leg. Never heard of such a ting, but here it is right in fronta me. Waitin for me. An I can’t resist. I take a bite—