The voices will not
stop. I see blood everywhere; violent images
encompass my every waking thought. At
the grocery store, I approach the meat counter.
I ask the butcher for some pork chops.
That is when I see it. The
butcher does not bring out a cut of succulent pig, no, it’s an infant. The butcher brings his cleaver down on the
squirming pink child; a scream is cut short as he lops off its head.
I vomit, there on the
floor. It splashes on my shoes. The baby murderer is once again just a man,
with cuts of pork. “Are you alright sir,
can I get you some water?”
The blood splattered
apron, the smell of entrails. It is too
much. I clasp my hand over my mouth,
trying to stop the fresh spew of bile. It
comes anyway, dripping from my fingers and running down the front of my shirt.
“Sir…?” The man behind the counter questioned. I wipe my hand on my pants and make for a
hasty retreat, leaving him with the task of cleaning up my mess. I walk quickly towards the aisles of canned
goods. It is free of customers. I sit on the floor and begin to rock back and
forth. Groceries can wait, I need to get
home. Rising from the floor, I head for
the front of the store. I grab a bottle
of water out of the soda cooler and go to the register.
The pretty young
cashier asks if I found everything alright.
She tries not to notice my disheveled appearance. Suddenly her face erupts into a mass of
bloody flesh. Her eyes glow and horns
sprout from the top of her head. “I will
kill you, you fucking piece of shit.”
The five dollar bill drops from my hand onto the floor. Fuck the water, I run towards the door.
“Sir, your water…”
I hit the door,
hard. I feel my nose crunch and a warm
stream flow from it. Drops of blood mix
with the mess on my shirt; I wipe my arm across my face and leave a smear down
my sleeve. I make it outside. The sunlight burns my eyes and I fumble for
my sunglasses. They were bent out of
shape from the fight with the door. I
put them on anyway; they helped to shield my burning retinas.
Walking down the
sidewalk, drips of blood continue to fall.
As they splash onto the concrete they turn into spiders, fat, black
spiders. I feel it pop and crunch as I
squash one beneath my tennis shoe. I
hate spiders.
I reach the bus
stop. An old woman is sitting on the
bench. As I watch she ages, her bones
turn to dust beneath my gaze. “What are
you gawking at, boy?” I quickly turn
away, not wishing to have any further communication with the
dust-that-used-to-be-human.
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