Wrote this when I was bored. Based on a dream my friend had.
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The air was painfully clean, like the way it feels chewing mint gum on a winter day. It made the boy’s lungs burn with each heavy intake, and a cloud of steam marked every outward gust. When he was younger, younger than he was now, at all of six years old, he would pretend to smoke a cigarette, and blow smoke rings into the air with the steam his condensed breath made. Now, of course, he was too old for that. He was in first grade. That was too old for baby games. He kicked the door of the walk-in freezer. This was a baby game, one the other schoolboys would play on him often. He had almost become used to this daily time in the cold. Sometimes he would feel around and move some boxes out of the way, and pretend to be in an igloo. He did that now, and sat between boxes of frozen tuna, feeling much like he imagined an Eskimo did. He was beginning to get very cold. Usually the other boys would let him out by now. He wasn’t usually in for more than five minutes. He sat on his hands in an attempt to warm them. If he had been slightly younger, slightly less mature, he would have blown imaginary smoke rings. For now he waited, shivering. Soon, he thought. They would open the door soon.
Suzanne Vega was beginning to grow anxious. It was now three thirty, and her son was always home by three twenty-five. She ran a hand through her hair. It was thin and brown now, but she styled it nicely. She had the air of someone who had once been beautiful before the tired pains of motherhood. She hadn’t completely given up on style. A smear of lipstick coated her mouth, smudged slightly at the corners. A thin line of brown liner was on her upper lid, a tribute to her year of beauty school. Then, her blue eyes had sparkled with anticipation for the future. Now they were lined and bleary with motherly worry. Johnny was never late. She tapped her fingernails, or what was left of them, chewed to the quick, on the fake marble countertop. She looked out the window, and tried to convince herself that she was simply overreacting. Children were late. Children made mistakes. Johnny would be home, soon enough.
At exactly seven o’clock the next morning, the police opened the door to the freezer. Inside, they found a large pile of meat, the floor stained brown from their bloody juices seeping out and freezing. Under the pile was a small boy, his face bloated and purple. His ears and nose were black with frostbite, and his tongue lolled in his mouth like a dead, wet leaf. His hair was coated with a crust of blood from the meat he had employed in a desperate attempt to keep warm. A quick check of his pulse revealed that he was not dead- not yet. His small heart beat slowly, desperately, hanging on to life.
*
TWO YEARS LATER
Johnny Vega sat in a corner. This had simply become the natural way of things. Jumping Johnny, they called him. The pale, ever so pale boy, who sat in a corner every day. It was third grade, and most of the boys were making friends, and most of the girls were forming cliques. Johnny sat in his corner, and did not talk. Nobody much minded. Johnny was as odd-looking as he was queer in behaviour. His face had never fully recovered from the frostbite of before, and his nose was still always tinged with purple. His ears were unidentifiable under a tangled mass of black hair. If anyone was to see his chest, they would see that it too was covered with the scars of yesteryear. But Johnny was a ghostly lump in his corner, a large black tee shirt covering most of his skin. If anyone had cared enough to get close to him, and perhaps talk to him, they would have noticed more about the boy. His eyes were sunken, and dark. They had once sparkled brown, much like his now-gone father. They had turned to black stones in his skull, staring out emotionlessly. They showed more pain than most eight year olds should know. If one had continued in their examination, they would have noticed the marks from frost bite were ever-prominent on the boy’s fingers. Black marks ran up his hands where his veins had once nearly frozen. They stopped at the top of his wrist. If his observer had been the painfully curious type and had flipped his wrist over, they would have seen far fresher scars. Red gashes ran up Johnny’s arms, stopping just before the elbow. Every so often, tears of blood would escape the wounds when he reopened them. Every since that day- that hellish day in the freezer covered with meat- Johnny hadn’t been able to get his mind off carving knives, and blood. When he closed his dark, tired eyes, his vision was red. The red that had once covered him- had once saved him- in that freezer.
Suzanne Vega had once been glamorous, and then pretty, and after that, still a mild face to look at. She was now a ghost of her former self. Her cheeks were gaunt and splotchy; her eyes no longer sparkled with motherly concern or anticipation. They were cold, dull grey. The grey of a sky when it’s too tried to storm and too lazy to let in the sunlight. Her lips were chapped from compulsive biting, and her nails were constantly a violent shade of red from biting the cuticles to shreds. Her hair, thinner than it had ever been, was pulled back into a sad bun. It couldn’t hold the shape, but it tried to look presentable. Her husband had once been the one who made her smile, who told her to put a bit of lipstick or rouge on that pretty face of hers. He had left two months after Johnny had been locked in the freezer, tired of the screams from the boy’s bedroom at night, and sick of Suzanne’s compulsive worrying. She had told Johnny he had died. It made things easier. Johnny never spoke much anymore, and to be honest, she was glad. When she had forced him to talk before, the words out of his mouth were always vile and bloody. Now, she typically sat on the couch with a cup of weak tea, a bottle of aspirin opened next to a bottle of antidepressants. Johnny would come home, and walk upstairs to his room. At exactly six o’clock, she could place a bowl of Campbell’s low-sodium chicken noodle soup outside his door, along with a glass of water and sometimes a cookie. Most days it came back uneaten. Today was one of those days. Suzanne placed the full bowl in the sink, and ran the water into it. She stared blankly as the yellow turned to a light shade of lemon and poured over the sides, the noodles slithering over the rim so much like snakes. After the soup had all been washed down the drain, she let the water continue running. The bowl overflowed continually, and she let it. As she grew bored of this activity, she turned to the knife drawer. She pulled it open slowly, and examined the blades inside. They were lined up neatly, and she picked up a small one. It gleamed softly in the dim kitchen light. She examined her wrist. Down the river, not across the stream. She placed it back in the drawer. Not today. Not yet. She noticed a gap in the spot where the carving knife usually was. She let her hand rest on the gap for a moment, and then turned to go upstairs. As she mounted the creaky steps, she popped three red pills into her mouth. She knocked on Johnny’s door at the top, to no answer. She opened it slowly.
Suzanne realized she hadn’t seen his room in a year, perhaps more. It looked much as it had when he was young. Faded wallpaper of cowboys shooting at indians lined the walls. The blue industrial carpet was covered in a thin layer of dust. A small double bed stood in the right corner by the door, and a dresser of scratched oak was at the foot. A tiny closet took up the majority of the left wall.
“Johnny?” She whispered, shivering at how her raspy voice filled the small space so easily. The closet door creaked open, and a small dark head peered out. “Come out from there, Johnny.” She said, beckoning. “What are you doing? Are you playing hide and seek?”
Johnny stepped out, his frail arms crossed firmly over his hallow chest. “Hide and seek is a baby game. I’m not a baby. The meat can tell you so.” He whispered. Suzanne took a step back.
“What were you doing in there, Johnny? I’m looking for my knife. Do you have it?” she began to step towards the closet.
“No! You stop. You can’t take it. It’s mine. I’m not a baby.” He said, stepping in front of the door.
Suzanne took a deep breath. “Get out of my way, Johnny.” She stepped up to him and put her hands on his shoulders, trying to budge him. His arms remained firmly crossed. “Johnny. Move.” She commanded. He stayed, his eyes closed and his feet set firmly. Suzanne had had enough. She grabbed his arms and wrenched them apart. “You listen to me, you...”
Suzanne trailed off as her hands turned red. She looked at the soft undersides of Johnny’s arms. They were covered with scratches, seeping blood. She pushed him out of the way, not hearing the thump as he hit the floor. She opened the closet. Inside was a nearly empty space, save her carving knife laying in the centre in a small pool of blood and something in the corner. It hummed and quivered slightly.
As Suzanne moved closer, she realized the object was not moving. It was covered with a layer of flies, feasting. It was a slab of meat, the size of a pillow. She screamed.
“What is that? What the hell.... oh my God...”
“It keeps me warm.” Johnny whispered from the carpet where he lay. “When everything else is cold.”
Suzanne grabbed him off the floor, and closed her eyes for a minute. “We’re going to take you to the hospital. And maybe they’ll help you there.” She said. She did not see him pick up the knife and slip it into the waistband of his oversized black pants.
Soon, she had hustled him into the car. She pulled out of the driveway, peering back at him through her mirror. Johnny sat on the threadbare seat, picking at the sparse fibres. They pulled out of the driveway, leaving the tiny red house behind as the old Volvo drove down the street. The night air leaked in through the permanently broken back windows.
Both sat in silence as lights from other cars flashed by the windows. Suzanne wrinkled her nose. “What is that... smell?” she mumbled to herself. It was sickening, and smelled like rot. She peered back. “God. It’s that meat. Take off your shirt.” She commanded. Johnny turned his head to her, his black eyes showing that he didn’t care. One of the car’s back wheels gave out with a screech, and she slammed on the breaks.
“Dammit!” she screamed, hitting the dashboard. “Take it off, you little shit. I swear...”
Johnny obediently took it off. His chest was a bluish white, like milk in the bottom of a bowl of cereal. Purple marks ran up and down it. Suzanne stepped out of the car with his shirt, throwing it to the wind. A truck pulled over.
“Looks like you’re having some trouble there, missy? Need some help?” A dark figure leaned out of the window.
“Sure as hell I do. I’m trying to take this kid to the hospital.” Suzanne didn’t notice as Johnny climbed out of the car, knife in hand. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him. But I need to get him there and...” the knife sunk into the thin flesh of her back. Suzanne shuddered.
“And... help him. He needs help. Help. Because really, he’s a good boy.” The knife descended on her again, this time sticking in far enough to exit out the front of her chest. “Really, a good boy. And how has your day been?” she croaked, still talking as the blade sliced through the fragile skin on the back of her neck. “Lovely, I’m...sure. Mine... mine... was... cold.” She whispered, and she sunk off into the oblivion of death. The dark figure screamed.
Johnny lowered the knife, bringing the scarlet blade to his lips.
“She’s not cold anymore.”
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Yupp. Title suggestions?
); IT'S REMARKABLE!!! You're imagination is limitless. I don't have anything evil to say to this and I have no idea how I would improve it. Though, no offense, I'm a little worried about your friend... :/
Love the descriptions here but you could maybe cut back on all the yesteryear and outside observer stuff a bit. I'd also like to see more showing, less describing. How does Johnny feel huddled in his corner? What does he do? What does he think? You've got a chance for more character development here so trim the physical description a little and give us more of what really counts.
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