Masters of Horror (8 page)

Know’m sayin?

Tell ya it ain’t fair, man. Guy could go
crazy!

“
Okay, Topsy,” Delores is sayin. “It’s time to do your back. Now I know you can’t turn over, but I want you to help me. I’m going to unstrap your right hand so I can do some of your back.”

Dey been keepin my hands strapped downta da bed frame. Dat’s cause da diet’s been makin me kinda goofy. I got bandages on da middle finger an pointer a my right hand cause I tried to eat dem.

Kid you not, man. I been goin a little squirrelly here. I mean, da otha night I really tought dose fingers was hot dogs. S’true. Jus like I tought my sheet was a big lasagne noodle an my pillow was a giant marshmallow, I coulda sworn dat night my two fingers was hot dogs. It was dark. I started chewin on dem an screamin at da same time. Da docs said I was hallucinatin. Closed me up wit ten stitches. Now dey keep my hands tied down so’s I don’t do it again.

Dey shouldn’t worry. I won’t. It hurt too much.

“
Gimme a candy first,” I tell her.

“
No,” Dolores says. “After, Topsy.
After
.”

“
Okay,” I say. But I don’t really mean it.

When she unstraps my right wrist, I roll left, like I’m lettin her wash da part of my back she can reach. But while I’m twisted dat way, I work on da left strap an get it undone. Now I’m ready.

“
Okay, Topsy,” she says. “Roll back now.”

I roll. An keep on rollin. As I rock to da right, I grab Delores.

“
Candy!” I shout. “Gimme!
Now
!”

Delores squeals an twists away. She’s strong but I got a good grip on her. She pulls away but I stretch after her. Her feet slip an she goes down but I lean over da edge of da bed, keepin my grip, never lettin go, reachin wit my free hand for da pocket wit da caramels.

But suddenly I feel myself slippin. I mean da bed’s tiltin, da whole freakin hospital bed’s tippin ova wit me on it. An I’m headin right down on toppa Delores. I try to stop myself but I can’t. Da bed’s tilted too far. I’m outta control. I’m fallin. Dolores screams as I land on her.

It ain’t a long scream. More like a quick little yelp, like your pooch makes when you accidently step on its foot. Den she cuts off.

But she don’t stop movin. She’s strugglin an kickin an clawin unda me, tryna get out, tryna breathe. An I’m tryna get offa her, really an truly I am, but it’s so hard. Finally I edge myself back an to da side. It’s slow work, but finally I get offa her face.

Too late. Poor Delores has stopped strugglin by den. An when I manage to get a look at her face, it’s kinda blue. Real blue, in fact. I mean, like she’s sorta dead.

I like start ta cry. I can’t help it. I loved Delores an now she’s gone. I specially loved her caramels.

Which reminds me of her goody pocket. So while I’m cryin, I reach for her pocket. I push my hand inside but I can’t find no caramels. Not a one.

No way, man! I know dere’s candy in dere!

I push deeper inta da pocket but it’s empty, man! Freakin
empty
!

I’m kinda upset now. I pull on da pocket. I mean, I
know
dere’s candy in dere. Da pocket rips an still no caramels. I rip deepa, layer afta layer till I reach...

...skin.

Smooth white skin. It’s a leg. Turkey leg. Big white meat turkey leg. Never heard of such a ting, but here it is right in fronta me. Waitin for me. An I can’t resist. I take a bite—

Gaa!
Ain’t cooked. Raw an bloody. God, I’m freakin hungry but I can’t eat raw turkey!

I look up an around. Da utility room is only a dozen or so feet away. If I can make it to da microwave...

Back to TOC

Between “Topsy” and Stephen King’s “Survivor Type”, I blithely assumed that nothing more horrific could be written on the subject of eating disorders. Was I ever wrong. When Lee sent me this story from Scott Goriscak (the author of ‘
Home Sweet Home
’ from the first MASTERS OF HORROR anthology), I wrote back: Oh. My. God.

Fair warning: if you’ve just now finished a decent meal, skip ahead to one of the other stories before reading…

EASY TO DIGEST

By Scott M. Goriscak

Jake wasn’t the best looking guy in school: he was tall, gaunt, and pale but he could always be found in the middle of a crowded room surrounded by the ladies. His popularity could be attributed to the fact his parents traveled often leaving him home alone, which gave him the perfect opportunity to throw all the parties he wanted; and these gatherings were legendary. Everyone in school quickly gravitated to the young man for this very reason. His parties replaced the empty void that used to be—a weekend at home replaced with a place to go and socialize with their classmates. They thought that Jake was great for providing his classmates a haven for them to gather, party, and socialize. He was the perfect host, greeting everyone at the front door of his house armed with cold mugs of beer in his hands, a table brimming with food, and an endless selection of beautiful ladies. This may have seemed like the perfect way to spend the evening but Jake had ulterior motives for hosting these gatherings.

Tonight was no different. The music was loud and the beer was flowing freely. The ladies moved provocatively on the dance floor as the alcohol pickled their inhibitions. Jake roamed the party filling empty glasses and serving food—the perfect host. After he made his rounds Jake would always return to the company of the ladies, sometimes expanding on his duties if one of them needed to have her hair held back as she vomited in the community puke barrel.

The puke barrel was the one rule that guests were required to obey. All party-goers, new or veteran, needed to know what it was, where it was, and why it existed. It was a fifty gallon barrel that resided on the patio. If anyone was going to be sick they were expected to use the barrel and not the bathroom. The bathroom was farther away than the open back door. The party-goers didn’t seem to have an issue with the only rule of the party. They had been to too many parties before where the person attempting make it to the bathroom ended up either christening everything on the way or showered the bathroom in vomit. This rule was a small concession to abide by in exchange for a place to have a good time. It was easy to relate to their host’s concerns since they had either witnessed someone or had been that anxious person at a previous party running across the crowded room in search of the restroom. Some parties when Jake wasn’t hanging with the women he was out back watching over the puke barrel. Most people thought this was his way to make sure that no one dumped the horrible swill across the patio. At one party a few volunteers decided to help clean up after everyone went home and while moving the heavy barrel they accidently spilled it. Jake looked both angry and tearful at the sight of the gelatinous soup splashing across the patio into the grass. Thinking that they were responding properly to their clumsiness they grabbed a garden hose and flooded the surface to wash the remainder of the smelly fluid from settling into the brick and sand. Jake fought to hold back the tears as he watched the fruits of his labors wash away. He was careful to never let that happen again. At the end of each party he refused any and all offers to help clean up, tonight was no different. As he was escorting everyone out the front door he would politely turn down any offer of help until the last person exited and he closed the door behind them. This is the time of the night that Jake looked forward to. He walked outside to the barrel on the patio. There he stood looking down into the half filled barrel of foam, lumps of food and beer. His mouth watered.

He grabbed a half filled mug of beer from the ground abandoned by one of his guests. He turned it over pouring out the remaining beer from it into the grass. He took the mug and submerged it into the barrel of vomit filling it to the top. He raised it to his mouth heartily drinking it till the mug was empty. He refilled his mug and continued to consume the swill until he could feel the nourishing effect fill his belly. When he finished the second mug full of regurgitated slime he went back inside and sat down at the dining room table to feed. He had waited for this all week. He ate until his shirt grew tight around his belly. He leaned back in his chair and in a quiet voice said, “Ah.” He was full and his belly happily accepted his vile sacrificial potion so in return it allowed him to keep the food that followed.

Everyone envied the life Jake appeared to be living, if they only knew the personal hell he was living and what his real motive was for being the life of the party.

Three years earlier, Jake had been a healthy young man. He was active in many school clubs and participated in a sport every season. One day at lunch in the cafeteria Jake’s life changed forever. He had just finished eating his lunch when he felt his stomach rumble. He paid no attention to it until it transformed into painful cramping. The pain developed into a feeling he had never experienced before. He belched loudly and his friends laughed thinking that he was showing off. He doubled over placing his forehead on the table. His friends grew concerned and came in close asking him if he was all right. Jake lifted his head and vomited violently across the table. Unfortunately his projectile vomit drenched
his friend that sat directly across from him from head to toe in Jake’s masticated spaghetti and meatballs. Everyone was shocked for the moment, but then broke out in laughter as they saw the kid with puke dripping from his face. The laughter stopped abruptly as Jake passed out and fell backwards off his stool. The next thing Jake remembered was waking up in the hospital, lying in bed wired to beeping monitors and tubes to intravenous bags, surrounded by doctors and his parents. They seemed very concerned with how hard he had hit his head when he had fallen as they pelted him with questions about how he felt. His response was, “hungry.” Relieved smiles came across their faces. Moments later an orderly entered the room carrying a food tray. He placed it on a small rolling table and placed it over Jake’s lap as he adjusted the bed for him to sit upright. Jake was so hungry he could feel the emptiness in his belly from not having retained his lunch and now it being so late in the day. He devoured his meal, ignoring his mother’s plea to slow down. He finished his meal and was beginning to eat the green jello dessert when he suddenly felt the familiar rumbling and cramping growing in his innards. Looking at his painful expression his mother asked him what was wrong. His answer came in the form of a loud violent fountain of vomit. His mother went to the doorway and called out for the doctor to return. The nurses and doctor returned to find Jake bathed in his own vomit. From that lunch forward Jake’s body rejected all forms of solid food.

Over the next week Jake underwent every test imaginable to find an answer to his body’s inability to digest food to no avail. The only option left was to keep Jake on intravenous nourishment, which kept him alive but caused him to shed his athletic body and grow thin.

Weeks passed and Jake was released from the hospital. He was put on a stringent diet of fluids, all given to him through the tube in his arm. He quickly got tired of being at home and returned to school. Not much was different except lunch time. When all his friends went to the cafeteria for lunch he went to the nurse’s office to have his liquid lunch poured through is feeding apparatus. He hated his existence.

It wasn’t until he made his peace with God and accepted the reality that he wasn’t going to live to see his twenty-first birthday that he had an epiphany of his life to come.

He was babysitting his ten month old nephew when he had just finished feeding him his lunch of formula mixed with oatmeal. He burped the baby over his shoulder then went over to the couch with his nephew. Jake lay on his back while he held his nephew above him. The baby squealed out in gleeful laughter as he looked down on his uncle. Jake began to press the child up and then down to his chest. The more Jake lifted and lowered the baby, the more they both giggled until the child became ill. Jake was mid-laugh when the infant’s projectile vomit rained downward. The mixture of formula and oatmeal flooded his mouth in a way that he had no choice but to swallow the stream of goo, choke, or suffocate. He assumed that he would be choking or gagging the meal that he had just been forced fed.

Jake quickly sat up, still holding the child in his arms and unable to react normally to what had just happened fearing a quick response could injure his nephew accidently. He thought rationally and calmly. He placed the child on the floor and being thoroughly grossed out by what had just happened made a beeline for the bathroom. There he stood over the toilet expecting his body to reject the baby vomit but it didn’t
.
His body oddly embraced the meal without the expected nausea or cramping. He was puzzled by the warm feeling in his belly that had escaped him for so long. He vaguely remembered this satisfying feeling from when he was able to eat normally.