Meathead
Short horror...
My severed head laid helplessly upon the kitchen counter as blood dripped into a puddle on the floor. Unable to blink, I watched my killer standing over the sink with my leg in one hand and an electric knife in the other. On through the wee hours he hacked and sawed my limbs into smaller and smaller pieces. Then he wrapped them into wax paper and neatly stacked them into his icebox.
I remembered that voice inside my head. The nagging voice that so often goes unheard. It told me not to get in that car. But I was desperate. He offered me fifty dollars in exchange for certain services that I don't care to mention. When you've been living under an overpass for two weeks, you become very agreeable. But it wasn't till I saw the ax, leaning in the corner of his bedroom, that I knew that he had something different in mind.
Finally his gruesome task was completed. He wiped the floor with old dirty shop rags and rinsed out the sink. He then lifted my head up to his, by my scalp and gave me a deep, cold stare. His eyes were every bit as lifeless as mine. Soon I discovered a satisfying grin hiding behind his thick, blond mustache. I knew then that he could still see me. Somewhere within the black pools of my eyes, I was there looking back at him.
Pleased with himself, he carried me over to the icebox and put my head into the freezer, next to a frozen pizza and a stack of empty ice cube trays. A scream of dreadful hopelessness echoed within my skull as he closed the door. There... I slept in silence, with only the chattering of the freezer fan to comfort me.
The next morning, he retrieved my head and placed down on the kitchen table. I could hear him humming softly, as he unwrapped a package of meat and fried it in a skillet of my own fat. As the greased crackled and spit fired, smoke lingered in the air. I wondered with part of me it was. I was soon to find out. He fumbled in the cabinets for a plate. Then sat down in front of me with the platter between us. "Mmmm, smells good don't it, Meat head?" he remarked. Meathead was my new nickname.
With a knife and fork he carved, what I will only describe as my most valued member of manhood, into little bite size pieces. Never once did he take his eyes off me, as he shoveled food into his mouth. He intentionally chewed with his mouth open, revealing the tiny slivers of meat between his middle-aged teeth.
He wanted to show me... He wanted me to sit there helpless, with my thoughts detached from my heart. I could see and hear everything... but felt nothing. This is what its like to be him. Existence without emotions. This ritual continued every morning, until the packages were all gone.
He discarded my head into a trash bag, along with some coffee grounds, cigarette butts and a few adult magazines. Then tossed it into a dumpster, behind an old sawmill. My head was destined to be found upon a trash heap, ripening beneath the burning sun. Hoards of flies swarmed around while sea gulls pecked at the maggots that crawled from every orifice. Yet somehow I am still conscious. I see the world now through very different eyes now. And what was done to me, I see done to others... time and time again.
I like to think that I'm a part of him now. He tells himself that I'm not there, inside his head. But I hear every thought. I know every secret. And in his dreams, I am as real as stone. And I pursue him through many fantastic and hellish landscapes. From dark vacant alleys, and dank forests where frog lingers like guilt. No matter where he runs... I am always just one step behind. For you see, a cannibal and his prey share a special bond... A very special bond indeed.
END...
I remembered that voice inside my head. The nagging voice that so often goes unheard. It told me not to get in that car. But I was desperate. He offered me fifty dollars in exchange for certain services that I don't care to mention. When you've been living under an overpass for two weeks, you become very agreeable. But it wasn't till I saw the ax, leaning in the corner of his bedroom, that I knew that he had something different in mind.
Finally his gruesome task was completed. He wiped the floor with old dirty shop rags and rinsed out the sink. He then lifted my head up to his, by my scalp and gave me a deep, cold stare. His eyes were every bit as lifeless as mine. Soon I discovered a satisfying grin hiding behind his thick, blond mustache. I knew then that he could still see me. Somewhere within the black pools of my eyes, I was there looking back at him.
Pleased with himself, he carried me over to the icebox and put my head into the freezer, next to a frozen pizza and a stack of empty ice cube trays. A scream of dreadful hopelessness echoed within my skull as he closed the door. There... I slept in silence, with only the chattering of the freezer fan to comfort me.
The next morning, he retrieved my head and placed down on the kitchen table. I could hear him humming softly, as he unwrapped a package of meat and fried it in a skillet of my own fat. As the greased crackled and spit fired, smoke lingered in the air. I wondered with part of me it was. I was soon to find out. He fumbled in the cabinets for a plate. Then sat down in front of me with the platter between us. "Mmmm, smells good don't it, Meat head?" he remarked. Meathead was my new nickname.
With a knife and fork he carved, what I will only describe as my most valued member of manhood, into little bite size pieces. Never once did he take his eyes off me, as he shoveled food into his mouth. He intentionally chewed with his mouth open, revealing the tiny slivers of meat between his middle-aged teeth.
He wanted to show me... He wanted me to sit there helpless, with my thoughts detached from my heart. I could see and hear everything... but felt nothing. This is what its like to be him. Existence without emotions. This ritual continued every morning, until the packages were all gone.
He discarded my head into a trash bag, along with some coffee grounds, cigarette butts and a few adult magazines. Then tossed it into a dumpster, behind an old sawmill. My head was destined to be found upon a trash heap, ripening beneath the burning sun. Hoards of flies swarmed around while sea gulls pecked at the maggots that crawled from every orifice. Yet somehow I am still conscious. I see the world now through very different eyes now. And what was done to me, I see done to others... time and time again.
I like to think that I'm a part of him now. He tells himself that I'm not there, inside his head. But I hear every thought. I know every secret. And in his dreams, I am as real as stone. And I pursue him through many fantastic and hellish landscapes. From dark vacant alleys, and dank forests where frog lingers like guilt. No matter where he runs... I am always just one step behind. For you see, a cannibal and his prey share a special bond... A very special bond indeed.
END...
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