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Every Time

9/30/2014

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One morning I woke up and couldn’t open my eyes. Something held the lids down. A thick, sticky substance. I reached hands over my face only to feel hundreds of sharp stings driving into my palms. Teeth snatching for bites at the soft flesh. Voracious mouths protecting the slime from any chance of removal. “Mommy!” I shouted. “Daddy, help me!” No answer. Their room just down the hall wasn’t that far away. They had to have heard me. No matter how many times or how loud I cried out, they didn’t come.

Blinded and alone, the blood soaked tears pooled in my eyes bulging against the skin. Pressure grew beneath the sealed lids. Minuscule claws punctured upper and lower tissue refusing to lose hold. My eyeballs wriggled back and forth attempting to find any escape from the increasing tension. A handful of droplets seeped through between pairs of viciously strong legs only to be slurped in again by what I can only describe as tongues stretching over the curve of my cheekbone.

Leaping out of bed, my sightless feet stumbled over toys dropped carelessly on my red, white and blue carpet the night before. Sharp plastic corners of building blocks and electronic race tracks gouged deep lines into my shins and stomach as I fell. Crashing into the floor and nearest wall, I grunted. The sound of my voice muffled beneath the chuntering of high pitched growls racing into my ears.

I slapped the sides of my head flicking at the tiny demons with stinging fingers. Swarms of them dug tenaciously under fingernails biting at the raw nerves below. My arms burning with their venom’s fire. Running every direction I crashed into walls that seemed to move closer with each step.

“Come back to sleep.” A thousand voices whispered together.

I woke shivering under my mother’s hand.

“Wake up kiddo.” Her lips pressed comfortingly on my forehead. I opened my eyes gulping down the image of her smiling face. “You’re having a nightmare.”

Thirty years later that dream comes back now and then. Every time I wake screaming covered in sweat. Every time my eyes open thankful they can still see the cottage cheese patterns in the ceiling when I switch on my bedside lamp. Every time I hold my breath until I examine myself in the mirror for the bite marks and find nothing.

Every time until this time.

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He was beautiful - TerrorTuesday 9-23-14

9/23/2014

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Uncle Hershel & His Chocolate Egg Cream by Travis Louie
09.23.14

He was beautiful.

Was.

Traffic stopped when he passed.

Point of fact, it still does.

Only for the opposite of reasons.

His body so chiseled to perfection, a nun once catcalled through her habit.

Now when people whistle, it’s mostly from fear. And from a distance.

That day he chose not to shave, allowing nature to follow its path through the pores of skin covering his perfectly structured cheek bones. That day the hair came first in thin sprouts feather soft to the touch. Once it framed the chin dimple and upper lip dark enough to be seen beyond close mirror inspections, he picked up his razor again.

But then was too late.

That first time the sharp too many bladed razor sliced through the bristle tips, blood sheeted down the curves of the porcelain white sink. The stinging nerve response elicited a wince of pain and a palm to cover the cheek.

His bloody hand print pressed to the faucet as he stared closely into the reflection providing a view of the remaining hair writhing as it retreated back into his face. Each follicle alive. Afraid. Pissed off.

The next morning, longer. He could no longer see any skin. Even the previous day’s cuts reached through into the air again. Freshly tipped with moist, circular breathers. At the mere motion of his hand toward the razor, his face reared back hissing with defensive instincts.

The beard grew.

His neck front no longer present or accounted for. Nose buried beneath a flap of tentacles in constant motion. In order to reach his mouth, the feelers would raise up and part leaving space for the glass of water or spoonful of cereal to reach inside.

Dressed in his finest suit, usually saved for weddings or funerals, he would walk the street aware of the difference in people staring. The children hiding behind protective mother arm shields. Tires squealing on the road in attempts to brake or turn quickly in the other direction.

He sits alone in the darkest corner of the bar. Top hat slightly skewed on his speckled bald head. Beard limbs grip and lift the mug to his mouth. He drinks his beer. Unshaven.

#TerrorTuesday

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    i live. i breathe. i write.
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