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My Reflection

I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw my eyes narrow and a smile creep across my face. I saw myself punch the mirror, shattering the glass, though my arms had not moved from their sides. I looked down and saw blood drip from my motionless fist. My reflection picked up a shard. I cowered, thinking she would stab me. Instead, she stabbed herself, and blood began to seep from my shoulder. As I instinctively squeezed the cut, I saw a white handprint on her shoulder, as if someone was squeezing it. My reflection cut herself, on the face, on the chest, on the leg. I watched as blood poured out of me, from my face, from my chest from my leg. I cried out in agony each time the glass shard penetrated her skin. I begged her to stop, but my reflection was unrelenting. Unable to bear the pain any longer, I grabbed my gun, aimed, and watched as my reflection’s head seemed to explode for no reason.

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The Swan Song

They say a swan is mute its entire life, until the moment before it dies, when it lets out the most beautiful of all calls. That's why, when I realized my daughter never said her first words, I kept her in captivity, practicing music everyday. It would be far too depressing to find out that a mother lost her only child, so I made sure she never spoke. I kept her in the basement, having her practice the violin for six hours a day. She started when she was five. That was 15 years ago. Her playing skills improved so much in the first few years, I thought about sending her off to an institution for gifted musicians. Then I realized, no one knew I had a daughter and if they asked her, she may just sing. So, I kept her there in the basement where she was safe and could perfect her act. She would listen to old orchestral movements, study lines of music theory, practice until her fingers would bleed and the bow would snap. She was my little muse; I would have her play as I practiced my ballet steps from when I was her age. I will never forget the first time she saw the light of day. I was drinking a morning cup of coffee at the kitchen table when I noticed the basement door was ajar. I spilled the coffee all over my lap and bolted for the front door, knocking over my chair and a bookcase in the process. There she was, my beautiful daughter, arms open and spinning on the front lawn, singing a song for the angels. Forevermore shall you be singing for the angels. The time is now, my thoughts confirmed. So, I grabbed her by the neck and dragged her back inside. Wringing my hands around her vocal chords, I heard her choke and a weak snap! of her neck left her limp in my arms. I shed a tear; her voice was so beautiful!

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Alone

You awake after a long night's sleep, being exhaust from last night's work. You start noticing something being amiss, you can not move your body nor can you open your eyes. You try to scream but nothing happens, as you keep struggling to move you notice you can't hear or feel anything. You notice that you aren't even breathing, as if your mind has been separated from your body. Feeling no pain, hunger, nor discomfort, all you notice is the calmness, the dark void and all you can do is to think to your self and wait.

 This is what I imagine death is. Just being there in your body, your prison waiting. Someone walks into your room and sees your cold body. They scream and try and wake you but it's too late. You want to scream, say something, open your eyes but you can't. You experience it all, hear it but can't do anything about it. They open your eyes and shine a flash light in it. Time of death determined, you're put into a bag. You can feel everything. Then you remember you're an organ donor and told your family you wanted to be cremated.

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Feast

A farmer friend of mine came to visit today, and he brought a live chicken for lunch. The ensuing feast was indescribable: juicy and succulent meat, cooked rare so the blood ran as I bit into it. everything was cooked to perfection, the leaner meats, the innards, even the eyes, still rolling from the slaughter. I kept the choice cuts for myself, but decided not to be selfish and fed some scraps to the chicken. It enjoyed the taste almost as much as I did.

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Bruises

She walked in, bruises all over her body. I looked at her, astonished. They were all different sizes - everywhere, they were everywhere - and looked like they were made by all different kinds of things. I couldn't say anything. I couldn't even move. It felt like I had been sitting there for days, like I had no energy left in me. She slowly came forward. Her head was lowered, eyes cast down, like she couldn't even look at me. Then she spoke.

"No one has ever been kind to me. I've never been loved, or felt anything like it. It's terrible knowing you've never felt a feeling. It makes you do things you shouldn't, like date people who hurt you, or hurt yourself, or worse. Someone once said - or maybe wrote, I can't remember - that love is like kissing a bruise. That the most tender of actions, even the softest of lips, will still hurt when they're pressed against those spots. I just want to know that feeling." She started crying. "Just, for once. Will you help me? Will you be there for me? Please?"

She walked closer. I gasped for breath as she pulled the duct tape from around my mouth and nose. And with my hands and legs still tied together, blistered from the ropes, she pressed each and every bruise against my lips.

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The Concert

You are at a concert watching one of your favorite bands play. Their performance is excellent, but suddenly something goes wrong. The music skips. Like a record caught in reverse. This is a live band, you think. How is this possible? And it isn't only the music that skips. It's the performers themselves too. The people on stage wriggle and freeze artificially, like holograms. You now realize that the performance you've been watching this entire time is not real.

You feel your heart drop in your chest when you also realize that the massive audience surrounding you is beginning to glitch as well.

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Unseen

Technically, nobody actually "sees" anything; our brains translate reflected light into objects we can name. This usually works very well, through the countless small miracles of shared experience that keep us all grounded in the same reality. It's why so few of us choose to live alone. Deep down, we know that some things in this world don't become real until they're seen. And when another set of eyes is around, it's not so tempting to look for yourself.

When you come home and something's out of place, you can chalk it up to a messy roommate or a careless spouse or a mischievous pet. And that's exactly what you do. That way you don't have to look for something else. Something that can touch your belongings from where it waits, but can't get all the way in until it is seen. Something curious and lonely. And hungry.

But if you live alone, you can still stay safe. Even if your own curiosity makes you open every door and look behind the all curtains and the furniture. We've all done it, and most of us are just fine.

Because, while we're searching, we never let ourselves look up.

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Bad Dream

Jenny was having a horrible dream. She was stuck in a box, a coffin maybe. She scratched and scratched the top until her fingers bled. There was so much blood! It ran down her arms and soaked into her dress. How could all of this come from her fingers?

She woke suddenly to find her husband facing away from her, with his back clawed open.

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Domestic Dispute

He hits her again, harder this time. Her head rocks back; her eyes roll wildly. A wet gagging sound slides out of her leaking red mouth. She spits two molars onto the carpet.

"You BITCH!"

He is sobbing now, his shoulders heaving raggedly between punches. The living room walls echo the dull meat market sounds of fist against flesh. She looks him dead in the eye and spits out an incisor, another molar, a canine. Teeth lay scattered between them like dead constellations.

"Where is he? Oh God, where is my son?" This time the blow knocks her sprawling to the floor. She spits out two more incisors and a half-digested index finger.

And then this thing that looks like his wife just stares up at him and smiles with a mouthful of impossibly sharp teeth.

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I never lied.

Her mother came pouring back into my brain like a torrential downpour. My daughter kept reminiscing, pulling painting after painting from the box. I felt the shivers running down my spine, but I knew it was just my brain re-exploring long forgotten neural pathways, long forgotten feelings I had tried to unfeel.

She had just graduated. We were starting the college packing early - she was so excited - and she had discovered her box of old paintings. Her mother was a painter, and the two of them used to spend hours at it, even when she was only old enough to finger paint. She was still unbelievably talented, and she always said her mother's angel guided her brush, and fed her soul with an undying passion for the art.

"Daddy, do you remember this one?" She smiled. It was a scene of the lake, painted with the crude strokes of a six-year-old. "I made this one right after..." Right after her mother died. She was so upset. "Well...I remember you told me, you said, 'My little sweetheart, your mother will always be in your heart. Keep these paintings close, and she will always be by your side.' Do you remember that?" She smiled at the memory, a tear forming in her eye.

I kept the blood. Jars and jars of it. Dozens of them. I put some in that paint for years. Years. Hung up on the fridge, the walls, her door. She never noticed. How could she? I told her her mother would always be by her side. And I never lied.

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Watching

Marcus lived in a sub-urban town several miles from the mountains. He leads a regular life with a nice girlfriend and a dog. He had it all--and he knew it. The only downside was his sensitivity to other people around him.

Late one night, after dropping off his girlfriend, he decided to visit the park. The sun was setting and the park was empty except for the warm glow of the sunlight. He walked around and began to head home. Shivering, he looked around, the horrible feeling of being watched engulfed him in a dizzy flurry. He saw a tall man across from him, whom of which was smiling madly. Stepping back he peered closely. That wasn't a smile but simply a shadow.

Marcus wasn't being watched. The man had no face.

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Walks

I like to take my dog on walks at night, when the air is nice and cool, the wind barely moving and you can hear the buzzing and pop of bug zapper’s doing their sole duty. I sometimes talk to my dog, talk to him about life and death, but I know he doesn’t hear, he ignores me. He’ll sometimes go up to strangers and start licking them, like he were tasting them. I go up to them, apologize and start a conversation with them. It sounds dangerous, sure, starting conversations with a stranger in the dead of night, but I do it for the kicks. And the punches. And the hammer. Oh God, the hammer, its silver head shines off the moon in just the right angle and it could hypnotize someone.

My dog doesn’t seem to mind, he enjoys it now, actually. He’s even starting to like the taste.

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Imagination

You have always believed that your imagination was different from others, you always thought of it being more "frightening". Seeing that fast streak of darkness pass through your room in the corner of your eye, or the time you "thought" you heard something other than your heartbeat course through your body while in bed, head on the pillow. Yet you still came to the conclusion that it was all in your head. Well, you probably never thought that your imagination would be staring at you in the middle of the night with that menacing macabre smile.