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A nasty little short story…

March 9, 2014

This is one of the most horrible short stories I have written. Not sure why I did. Its definately a horror story. Triggers for mental illness, discussions of sexual violence and actual violence.


I remember very clearly the moment He moved in. It was sunny, a cool promising brightness after another interminable UK winter. I was in Starbucks, drinking the first iced coffee of the year. Not one of those blended abominations, all sugar and cream. No, this was a normal latte, full fat milk, extra shot of espresso, poured over ice. The ice burnt my teeth, and the caffeine hit my grateful bloodstream. I was pretending to read the news about potential World War III in Crimea. Not much I could do about that. I was actually contemplating the cute alternative girl with the laptop, which I could do something about. That latte, that newspaper, that beautiful girl. The last moment of peace I felt.

“Bet she’d be awesome to fuck? That pierced lip would look great on your cock. Is she pierced anywhere else, you think?” I started and looked around at the harsh voice. No one looked up from their transfusions of coffee and sugar.
“So the ruskies are invading that Ukrainian shithole again. Hope they starve the bastards. So funny last time, all those guys stumbling around like a remake of night of the living dead, flesh hanging off their bones… say what you like about Stalin but the man knew comedy…”
“What did you say?” I stood up, and turned wild-eyed to an grey-haired businessman behind me. My hands had made fists, outraged that someone, anyone would say such vile nonsense. I remember thinking that this shouldn’t happen in a Starbucks, as if that corporate smooth cosyness would repel such grossness like the inevitable cross in a vampire film.
“Nothing, no one said anything.” A soothing tone used for madmen and babies. He looked scared. But not as scared as me.
“Hey dickhead, it was me. You’re my new ride, fucko. So bend over and take it, like a good slut.” The laugh seemed to echo inside my head. I ran out that coffee shop but the laugh came with me.

First I lost my job. It was hard to concentrate on fixing servers with a constant stream of filth in my head. Then I lost my friends, after one too many cancelled nights outs and weird behaviour. Not to mention the drink and drugs I took to try to shut that bastard up. Then I lost my flat. My flatmate and landlord put his foot down when he found me in the kitchen trying to cut my ears off. Don’t blame him. I would have become one of those men who spend their nights in multi storey car parks and homeless shelters, except you can’t lose your Mum, not one like mine. She took me to doctors, to shrinks, made sure I took my medicine. Held my hand when they administered the electric shocks. She fed me, and I stayed on her couch. And still the harsh voice shouted poison in my head.
Schizophrenia they said it was. Or maybe Borderline Personality Disorder. But I didn’t really fit in any of the categories. And the days turned into weeks into months where nothing worked.
It was inevitable really. I tried to take all my pills, crammed them into my mouth hoping they would choke Him. He laughed.
He was still laughing when I woke up in hospital. The blue green light that infected those places made Mum look tired and old. She cried. So did I.
“Dr. Stevenson says there is one more thing to try.” She said, her northern accent stronger in her exhaustion.
“I thought that was the ECT. It didn’t work.” I was fed up of doctors. I was even angry at her. For hurting her. Logical thought had left me a while ago.
“I liked the way you jumped and your eyeballs rolled up in your head. Do you think that gave the doctor a stiffy? Do you think he fucked you while you were under?” He never shut up. I would go to sleep with His voice in my ear. It even seemed to worm its way into my dreams.
“There’s an operation. Not in this country. Abroad. I took out a loan. If you want to.”
She looked as if she was underwater. She was only just fifty, but I could see the flaps of flesh, the deep craters of wrinkles that ate at her eyes, her skin was paper. I tried to remember that last time she had laughed. I came up blank.
“OK.” I said.
“…that nurse has great tits, you should cut them off and mount them on your wall..”
“OK” I said. I closed my eyes.

So here I am. In a small clinic in a hot country where the police carry automatic weapons when they shake you down for the bribe. The sweat lingers in my chest hair, my arse open to the air in the green gown. Mum couldn’t come with me, not after paying for this operation and the hotel and airfare and everything. But I’m not alone.
The operation has turned out to be a lobotomy. I realise that I could lose a lot of my memories. My personality. Who I am. But it’s a price I am willing to pay. After all I have been a shadow of myself since He moved in. I take the anaesthetic gratefully and try to ignore that fact that none of the medical staff are wearing scrubs. Or that all the nurses are large muscular men with ‘don’t fuck with me’ scowls.
“Don’t forget the screaming from down the corridor, don’t think about that..”

I wake up. There’s a breeze that lifts the dingy white blinds and is refreshing on my face. I feel calm. The bed is hard, and there’s no sheet. I can’t move my arms, they seem to have been tied down. I am happy.
“Roomy in here, isn’t it?”


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