Ghost Post 9: All Right

Today’s post is a horrific bit of flash fiction by my husband. I think I’ll be sleeping in the guest room for a while.

All Right

by Punk

*Squelch.* The axe satisfyingly lodged in her scalp. *Pffffft* The newly formed fissure hissed a familiar sigh as the pressure in her head equalized with the atmosphere. Abruptly, her crying and yelling stopped. The little girl was pretty enough, and young, her hair like her momma’s. Dirty blonde scraps mottled with already drying blood and brain coagulated on that sharp axe blade.

 

Young. He remembered being young. Picked on, stuttering as cooler kids made fun of his attempts at reading. ‘T-T-T-Tom and m-m-m-me f-f-f-found the m-m-m-m-mmmmoney that the rrrrrob-b-b-bers h-h-id in the c-c-cave’. Hahahaha!

His large head and hefty frame made him a target. Sammy would routinely whack the edge of his skateboard on the back of Brian’s legs when no one was looking. ‘You retard, you stupid retard,’ Sammy would whisper. ‘I HATE you, Brian. You idiot.’ Brian, dropping to the floor in agony, hot tears and shame welling up, would sob, ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ 

You stupid retard.

‘He tripped, miss. It’s alright.’

’Are you ok ,Sammy? Get up, Brian!’

He could imagine Sammy’s eyes looking back at him, snickering. Brian the retard.

But that was years ago.

 

Her momma sat quietly on the kitchen floor. Her white nighty fanned out, sprays of blood like a crimson necklace erupting from her neck, the gouged slit an ear-to-ear grimace. Peaceful, unmoving. He stared into the sad, ghostly face. Brian shuddered and started to cry, realizing the sadness he would see in the mirror every day. He knew what she felt like, he KNEW. Laughing, laughing, in his head… ‘Brian’s a retard! Brian’s a retard!’

‘Why? Why are they so mean to me? What did I ever do to them?’ his eyes asked her. But she didn’t respond. She would never respond.

Shuffling across the kitchen into the bedroom, he could smell the sweet stench of pee and sweat. The man was still tied up in the chair. He was strong, but Brian had done a good job tying him up.

The man’s head was lowered. Sobbing, his muscles strained against the duct-tape cocoon. He’d spent his energy trying to save his family, spent it against the bonds Brian had put him in, to no avail.

Brian turned the light on and walked around, as the man’s muffled crying started again. Facing him, the man’s wide eyes stared at him in disbelief and rage. He couldn’t talk with the handkerchief stuffed in his mouth.

I HATE you, Brian.

“It’s alright,” said Brian, as he leaned down with the glinting scalpel and started slowly severing Sammy’s left calf muscle. ‘You used to s-say that a lot to me. I’m gonna m-m-make it all right.’