The Stairway to Hell
By: Mike Irace
I must preface by clarifying, no amount of reasoning could rationalize my actions. I am not seeking empathy or forgiveness; I’m simply trying to expel my thoughts to this page before the continuum of internal reflection drives me to complete madness.
I have no proof or evidence of the doom which currently stalks me, nor any explanation regarding the monstrosity living in that tomb, sunken halfway to the land of fire and brimstone. Any description of said monstrosity will be that of brief analogy and comparison to avoid the snapping of my already distorted sanity.
A brief summary of my childhood would depict a happy boy with the privilege and resources granted by the upper middle-class. The endeavors of my livelihood began in the ladder years of college, through the influence of my roommate, Edward.
Edward and I were friendly the first few months, though our relationship dissipated outside the boundaries of our dorm room walls; we lacked mutual hobbies and friends. Things would’ve remained that way and Edward would have been but a fading memory in the years to come, had I not awoken one night feeling confrontingly curious.
Edward had been staying out till the brink of dusk quite regularly, never failing to return coated in the distinctive stench of love. While these images lacked the unusual, the fresh mud stains on his clothes crossed the line to which I demanded an explanation.
I’ve been told my whole life I have trustworthy eyes; it was these eyes in which Edward gazed as he confined in me his most deprived and repulsive endeavors. I reciprocated with an outright insistence on joining him the following night.
To be perfectly honest, it was the human remains themselves which drew me in, alongside the grim, gothic nature of the endeavor as a whole. The unholiness gave a feeling I can only attempt to confine within the hindering brackets of arousal. That was the only connection Edward and I had, our one commonality, though it was hungry enough to provide an unbreakable bond and priority over anyone else in either of our lives.
To indulge in our deepest desires was as beautiful as one would imagine, transcending to a level of pleasure not achievable in any other circumstance without the assistance of a chemical catalyst. I love my life, I always have, but for the brief hours when night was darkest, my consideration for anything besides the soulless shell in the grip of my hot flesh was as vacant as for the blades of grass I’d severed with the shovel to reach it.
Naturally as the months grew on, Edward and I needed to up the ante; aesthetics alone were no longer satisfying our growling appetites. We became violent, treating our findings no longer with respect, but aggression. As nights wrapped and we achieved satisfaction, the end products which laid before us were no more than a fine dust. What posed an even greater concern, however, was we were running out of bodies.
Within 8 months’ time, we’d cycled through the entire cemetery. The ritual of digging up a coffin, knowing nothing of what was to come, mattered greatly in both experience and performance, a factor Edward agreed whole heartedly. We’d comb the land, finding gravestones hidden away in the obscurest of shadows, some not having seen sunlight in well over a century. It was a night of this intent, we found It.
We originally passed it off as a sewer, though upon closer examination it was a door; a hatchway to a crypt. A discovery of this kind was new to us, therefore we exerted adequate excitement and avidity as we struggled to crack open the door. With great strain, we managed not long after to reveal a set of stairs descending to a blackness in which all light was swallowed whole. We began the pitch downward with nothing but cigarette lighters to guide us, which performed better than anticipated due to the contrast of unforgiving darkness.
While I’ve no indication as to how long we ventured down, I can reference the spiders and rodents cowering in the shadows were of the biggest I’d ever seen, most of which exerted deep, pulsating heartbeats. As we finally reached even ground, looking upward granted no distant image of moonlight, only the pure blackness we’d met when first peering down.
Edward gave heave to the wooden door before us, which concaved upon his first attempt. We could see nothing but space, but after groping the walls for a brief moment, we discovered torches bolted symmetrically on opposing sides of the door. As flames grew and visibility illuminated, our vision adjusted to reveal a bare chamber of no more than twenty feet.
An elevated slab of marble perched directly center.
Resting on the marble, we saw It.
It does little justice, though it provides as much insight as my very eyes could process. It had arms and legs, sure, a torso and a head, but that is all I can really describe with accuracy. Its features were completely smooth, resembling a doll that an artist would pose and draw, though the way it laid lacked any correlation to physics or biology was truly surreal. It couldn’t possibly have existed, especially not with that face, at least I think it was a face; it was a collage of eyes, though not a single eye could be seen, it had the presence, the power of an eye, but the way it was twisted, the way it was mangled, the color I can’t even name…
I’m afraid I can’t go further with details.
Needless to say, this was not the prize Edward and I had expected, nor wanted. Whatever this sickening thing before us was, we couldn’t enjoy, we didn’t know how to enjoy. Whether induced through insanity or rage, Edward began his episode with a tirade of obscenities and concluded with a coordinated heave of his shovel targeted directly center of the marble slab. A clean slice slammed the thing’s arm (if it even was an arm) to the cold, stone ground. My hand on his shoulder, the darkness young, I convinced him of other possibilities.
A dripping sound brought our attention from the never-ending staircase to the decapitated appendage sprawled lifelessly, a drop of red contrasting the undecipherable color. A brief scan of Edward’s body revealed no open wounds, our attention shifted slowly to the dreadful reality neither of us wanted to acknowledge; It was bleeding. We left immediately, the ascent back to earth lasting two or three centuries. Edward and I never said a word about it. Even if we wished to, it would have been nearly impossible.
Not long after, our semester ended and we moved on with our lives. There was no communication between the two of us after our final handshake. This was no tragedy. Since the crypt, Edward had changed. He grew paranoid, always looking frantically in every which direction. He would ramble on about the nightmares he’d have, the arm finding him and dragging him to hell through a set of cement steps. It was no surprise when I heard of his confinement to a padded room, though the letter I’d received following his death made up for it.
Half a decade following our final goodbye and considerable silence, I received a letter from Castle Creek Hospital. My mother sent me a newspaper clipping of his obituary a week prior and I’d been going through a spiral. They found him, a bloody mess, with a foreign object of “unidentifiable color” protruding halfway through his mouth. While the naive Doctors sent it for testing, I knew damn well what it was, and I haven’t slept a night since, every time I close my eyes I see the monstrosity contorting and convulsing as it’s arm wriggles in a pool of blood…
God, help me!
I swear, they’ll never find the answers they need. The only answer is in that crypt! The only answer is halfway to hell!
The letter, oh lord, the letter. Most of it non transcribable scribbles of a madman, but the last sentence, the words that have taken control of my life: “it hasn’t forgotten about you.”
Here I am, it’s been a week and I’m aggressively jotting to this page like a sitting duck. It’s a matter of time and there’s nothing I can do about it. I haven’t left my home. I have no food. I can’t live like this. I feel sanity escaping with every lingering second. I have a shotgun in my arms at all hours of the day, not for It, but for me.
The only thing keeping me from the sweet relief of death, the one detail of this torturous sentence leading to the slow and painful implosion of my brain…
I have never been more erect.
The Eye
By: Mike Irace
“I’ll be damned!”
My trembling hand raises the forceps to the lamp, the dislodged orb oozing equal parts blood and brain matter.
“What is it, Doctor?” The naive colleague to my right whispers, wiping perspiration from my quivering brow.
My response -- a hysterical, uncontrollable cackle – serves as a warning call to all the nurses residing in my operating chamber; my psychotic breakdown is finally rearing its ugly head.
It began three months ago; the night of my last drink. Hostility gripped the reins of my drunken stoop as I returned from the bar, equipped with a dozen or so degradations anticipating Emma.
The letter on our bed read brief but concise. The shakey handwriting declared a conclusion to our three-year relationship. Even in my intoxicated distortion of reality, I recognized myself as the villain in this tragic situation; the free-spirited beauty had finally escaped her boyfriend’s pessimistic undertow of alcohol abuse, violent outbursts, and unrelenting pressure.
Nausea prevented me from finishing the letter, though what I’d read played on continuum as my chest violently heaved into the kitchen sink. Sweat dripped from every pour, tears from every eyelash, my vomit a cocktailed rendition of pure human suffering.
Hissssssssss!
Emma’s cat perched on the counter beside the faucet; abandoned in favor of a brighter future. I’d never shared such desire for companionship as that moment. As my hand wobbled to the cat’s mystical black fur, it snarled and slashed its razor-sharp claws through my flesh with a level rage as if meticulously preconceived from the shadows. It was that very strike which resurrected my once overpowering hostility.
The creature stood its ground, staring at me with its menacing, commanding, green eyes. Those eyes had seen every blunder, every regret.
The eyes would never forgive.
The eyes would never forget.
I fucking loathe those eyes!
As red poured through my fresh wound, I snatched the spitting creature by its scruff and slammed it against the granite, my free hand digging a knife into its right orbit. The emerald marble bounced across the countertop as the creature twisted free, pounced to the fire escape, and morphed into one of the many shadows of the night.
I finished Emma’s letter as soon as my eyes adjusted to the morning sun, receiving an unexpected glimmer of hope.
“When you reach one month of sobriety,” she penned, “we can rekindle our once promising relationship.”
Disposing of the vomit in the sink, the eye glared from behind the toaster. The pupil had now dilated, swallowing every speck of emerald which once ruled majority. No creature deserved punishment so foul. I tossed it from the fire escape, hoping the cat would recover it and forgive my sins.
I treated the cruelest of the withdrawal symptoms with a brief leave of absence, returning to work with a mere nail-biting habit and hair triggered irritability. I hadn’t enjoyed my work to that degree since the transition out of night shifts; the catalyst which turned my dependence for drinking to an outright lust.
To celebrate two months off the wagon, I treat myself to an expensive steak dinner.
As the waiter presented my meal and asked if I’d like anything else, something glistened from the corner of the booth. My fingers retrieve the pure black orb, fluid continuously perspirating my fingers with metallic tears.
As I nauseously enquired my discovery to the waiter, he merely snickered and offered,
“Our Double Yellowstone Bourbon Sour compliments our cuts exquisitely. Shall I grab you one?”
While relapse aroused every hair on my body, I just couldn’t will myself to under the presence of that eye; I could not grant such satisfaction to the wretched apparition.
Within a blink of dismissing the devils offer, the eye spirited away as abruptly as it appeared. The only thing to remain in my booth was the tormented soul of a recovering alcoholic.
While temptation lingered the following two months, the achievements of my work gained me peak notoriety and respect within the neurosurgeon community. I began to receive offers from the most prestigious of hospitals across the country. I decided I was finally the man Emma deserved. The phone call, beginning with tears, grew into a three-hour voyage of remanence and laughter.
Just as the topic of rejuvenance entered the receivers, it was back.
It perched on Emma’s side of the bed, metallic tears defecating through the bed sheets. What should have been a moment of warmth and love became one of shivering, bleak, helplessness. I had no choice but to end our call, the future of our relationship in the cosmos; the eye had won once again.
I reasoned the first sighting as a warning, a guardian angel protecting me from the dark lures of temptation, but this time I knew; It fed from my suffering.
Visits of the eye became a daily recurrence from then on out: in my food, in my pockets, on my pillow. To maintain my sanity, I reasoned it was in fact trying to help me, as the eye appeared everywhere except the operating room. Despite the suffering, the lack of sleep, the lack of eating, I was still granted the privilege of helping people. By God, I could be redeemed! I prayed every night to that sweet, sweet eye. I thanked it for the opportunity to serve others, and begged it, I begged it for Christ’s sake, to grant me the sole hours of peace while operating, all other seconds of my life I pledge to it for my rightful suffering.
Then it stopped.
It just disappeared.
For the past week, my soul was barren of the voyeur leeching off my existence.
My punishment must be over!
My debt has been repaid!
It’s now that I realize, my punishment has just begun.
I just-
I-
Why God! What have I done to deserve this living hell!
Those naive fucking nurses are cowering in the corner, grant them this burden, not me!
It’s taken everything from me! I have nothing anymore!
Eye of the devil cat, by God, you’ve taken my soul! You win!
I present to you my eye!
My soul!
Here it is, gouged from my damned socket, presented to you on the forceps I extend to the heavens!
It’s yours, beautiful eye of the almighty ruler!
There’s Something About Anne
By: Mike Irace
Anne Sullivan went missing.
One normal morning, in late September, her husband, John Sullivan, woke up next to her as he’d done countless times, kissed her on the forehead, made himself breakfast, then left for the office. When he returned on this particular September day however, Anne was nowhere to be seen.
He didn’t panic at first, knowing there had to be an explanation. She was probably grabbing dinner with her girlfriends or visiting her mother. It wasn’t until he entered their bedroom, and saw the sheets still tossed about from the previous night, that he called the police.
The next few days for John were a blur. The police said they’d find her, but he knew, deep down, that he may never see his wife again. Each waking minute was pain, and he felt as though life wasn’t worth living. The only thing that motivated him to get through each day was the chance of receiving the call that they found her alive and well, but each day his hopes grew smaller and smaller.
The neighbors, one by one stopped by and gave John their well wishes and condolences, but that only made him feel worse. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, he could barely survive without Anne. He thought he had lost the love of his life forever.
Until she came back.
About a week and a half after disappearing, Anne Sullivan was seen walking through main street. John was in his living room at the time, listening to their song on the radio and cradling their cat Mitzie, when he heard a knock at the door.
Anne, the woman he’d loved since sophomore year of high school, stood before him once again. All his grief disappeared, and he wanted to squeeze her tight and never let her go, but her appearance caused him to hesitate, his worry and confusion reinstated.
Anne’s hair was all knotted and frizzed, her clothes torn and stained, and her skin dry and chapped, yet moist and reflective at the same time. She had dark circles around her eyes, and though she looked at John, he swore she was staring right through him.
John tried to ask where she’d been and what’d happened to her, but her only response was how tired she was.
The two went to bed, Anne sleeping in John’s arms, where he noticed immediately how cold she was. It was still the best night of sleep John Sullivan ever had.
The alarm clock sounded bright and early the next morning, though John had no intentions of going to work that morning, he wanted to make Anne her favorite breakfast: French toast and hash browns, with maybe a little bacon for himself.
As he got up, he leaned over and gave Anne her morning kiss. Her skin was still cold, but now thin and ripe, almost like a freshly healed blister. She also had the unmistakable stench of low tide. It didn’t bother John however, she’d been gone for over a week with no shower, it’d be weird if she didn’t smell bad. Of course… a shower upon arriving home would have made sense.
John was about halfway through breakfast when Anne slowly creeped into the kitchen. John cheerfully greeted her and told her he had breakfast on the way. He said he wanted to talk about where she’d been and what had happened to her, as she scooped the purring Mitze off the floor. Anne examined the cat for a few seconds, then bit off her head. She chewed loudly, her teeth clashing with the bones in Mitzie’s skull.
John stared at his wife, and his now decapitated cat, and smiled.
“You always were more of a dog person, Honey!”
Pendulum
By: Mike Irace
It’s a feeling like no other, digging into the cold hard dirt on a winter’s night. I always find myself in a zone where I can think about absolutely anything; a form of meditation is what it is. Whatever problem or predicament I’m in always has a way of resorting itself once I begin my descent to a casket.
“Hey!”
A hushed shout pulled me back into reality. I could’ve ignored the voice and continued with my, already three foot deep, hole, but I may have had to do some explaining. A man was standing a couple feet away from me, his clothes stained with what I hoped was dirt, and an eyebrow raised. I could feel his superiority complex immediately. A brief couple seconds passed with neither of us saying anything, just staring. Given that it wasn’t a cop, I decided to forget about the strange man and began to dig again, until he called to me once more.
“Come with me.”
This got my attention. I stuck my shovel in the dirt and climbed out of the hole, hoping my height would scare him away. As I guessed, he was only about 5’6.
“What the fuck do you want?”
The man wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.
“I found something I think you’d be interested in. Just up the hill.”
He then turns and points to the hill about 20 feet away which just barley blocked the moon.
“Not interested.”
Once again, I was as intimidating as I could possibly be, but it just wasn’t enough for this little man.
“I know this is strange, but if you help me open a door, I’ll give you half of what’s inside.”
“You can’t get the lid off?”
“I didn’t say a lid…”
He turned and began to walk up the hill. Had he said anything else I would’ve let him go, but the bastard had me. I grabbed my shovel, just in case, and began to walk after him.
The Mockingbird Heights cemetery is not only one of the biggest in the country, but the oldest, established in the late 1600s. Half of the headstones are deteriorated and nothing more than stumps of granite in the dirt. Although people are still being buried in it to this day, the maintenance is awful, leaving vandals and people like me to take advantage. Unfortunately it’s a 50/50 chance the casket you’ve spent the past 2 hours digging up has already been raided, in which case the nights unprofitable, but like I said, I enjoy the journey over than the reward.
We reached the very top of the hill, and the view was eerily beautiful. Headstones spawned as far as the eye could see down below, in every direction, with the moonlight quilted over it all.
I cautiously stepped up to the hole and shined my flashlight inside. He was right. Instead of a casket, I was met with a square slab of marble which resembled a door.
“I wouldn’t have asked for your help but I had no choice… and I just HAVE to see what was inside. This is the find of the century!”
“I know what you mean.”
We jumped inside, standing on the 3-foot patch of matted dirt next to the door. His craftsmanship on the hole was quite impressive to be perfectly honest. We each grabbed the handle and on the count of 3, pulled as hard as we could.
It didn’t budge.
We took a couple second break then tried again, feeling it slightly give. We tried again after clearing some access dirt off the top and finally opened it enough to slip our fingers underneath and force it open. This happens all the time, coffin lids aren’t exactly light.
The first thing we noticed was the atrocious smell, which although expected, was way worse than anticipated.
“Good lord!”
The man pulled his shirt up and covered his nose, gaging briefly. Wasn’t so cocky anymore.
He flicked on his flashlight and aimed it down, revealing a set of cement stairs half hidden by cobwebs and some of the biggest spiders I had ever seen.
“This isn’t going to be fun. You first?”
“Wait a minute…”
My hair stood on end.
“What?”
“Turn your flashlight off for a second.”
He did, and after our eyes adjusted, we looked at each other in straight confusion. At the bottom of the stairs, a small beam of light was visible.
“How’s that possible? The grave said 1831, there’s no one down there.”
I didn’t respond, I just swabbed the spiders away with my shovel and began my descent down the steepest stairs I’d ever climbed, the man following close behind me.
Our eyes weren’t deceiving us. At the bottom of the stairs was a closed wooden door; yellow light seeped through the bottom. The smell was god awful at this point, and almost unbearable.
We both gave the door one fluent shoulder and it flew open, which revealed the room spanning about 12 feet in every direction. It was completely bare besides a single torch lit on each wall, and a cement table in the very center. The strangest part of all however, a wooden doll laying across the top of the table. It was 3 feet tall, and had absolutely no features to it, not even a face. It strongly resembled a wooden figure one would use to pose and draw, but much bigger.
The man was upset to say the least.
“Are you kidding me? All this for a fucking doll? This is fucking horseshit! The find of the century completely out the ruined!”
It was incredibly underwhelming.
“We got here too late. We were beat.”
“Fuck that! All this fucking work we put in, and this is how I’m repaid? I’m sick of this shit, every time I get a lead it all goes completely out the window and six feet under, buried with this stupid broom stick here!”
The man ripped the shovel out of my hand and before I could react, swung it at the wooden doll, chopping it’s arm clean off.
Then, oddly enough, the doll began to bleed.
Not anything tacky or cliché like green or blue liquid, it was deep red blood. Everyone knows the difference between stage and genuine blood, and believe me when I tell you it was human blood pouring from the dolls wound.
We stared at each other for a few seconds. Neither of us knew what to say, or do, so I simply took my shovel back and climbed back up the narrow stairs, nearly stumbling backwards several times. It was a bust. In this line of work you gotta know how to handle disappointment. To end on a positive note however, that first hole I dug had a $15,000 payday.
THE END
The Addict
By: Mike Irace
Chester Middleton III had everything lined up perfectly. He was to attend his first year of Harvard Law School in three months, he acquired the funds for his own studio apartment, and things with his girlfriend had never been better. There was this one thing however… this one insignificant thing that began to take a toll on Chester, and although unsure how to handle it, he had to before it spiraled out of control.
Going to Harvard obviously had positives, but one negative was the stress induced insomnia that began June 1st. The last thing he wanted was an addiction to Xanax, as he’d seen too many of his friends fall down that rabbit hole. Instead, he decided to take nightly walks around town, hoping the atmosphere and exercise would make him sleepy. He typically stayed within a 2-mile radius, but one night, he decided to walk to the neighborhood cemetery located about 4 miles down the road. To his surprise, upon reaching the top of the cemetery’s highest hill, he let out a deep, loud yawn. As spontaneously as ideas can come, he decided to sit down for a while, rather than rush all the way home just to be disappointed and lay awake. That’s the last thing he remembered before waking up the following morning in the middle of a funeral service.
This became a nightly ordeal for Chester. Although unsure why, he knew the only place on the entire planet he could sleep was the Mockingbird Heights Cemetery. Things stayed this way for about two weeks. That is, until one morning at about 3am, when he awoke to the sound of shovels. He peeked around a grave and saw two men at the bottom of the hill, digging up one of the graves. Chester approached them and after some conversation, he became partners with them in the art of graverobbing, becoming an almost instant natural. However, with just about a month before school started, something happened.
He went out solo one night, and after robbing five coffins, he decided one more would do it. For this one however, he wanted to hit the jackpot, so he went over to the historic side of the cemetery, and chose a stone marked 1754. He dug it up as normal and snapped the lock with his shovel, but upon opening the lid, an unexpected puff of deteriorated human flesh and bone powder wafted up and entered his naval cavity. He lurched back against the dirt, coughing wildly and on the verge of vomiting… until he began to feel very euphoric. Naturally he dabbled with drugs in the past, but this was unlike anything he’d ever tried before. He felt as though he were laying in the worlds warmest, softest bed with forty pillows, and a silk weighted blanket on top of him. He felt laughter and joy radiate through his body. It only took once, but he was already desperately hooked.
Corpse sniffing became a regular thing for Chester, telling the other two he would take the historic section every night, for the sole purpose that they wouldn't make the same discovery and use all the powder up on him. He would take Ziploc bags filled with corpse powder and go through all of it by the following night, as the feeling would only last an hour, and once it wore off, it felt like your insides were drying up and dying one by one. Holding the relationship with his girlfriend was difficult and finding excuses to break plans to go corpse sniffing was getting harder and harder, so he decided to cut all ties, focusing entirely on his addiction. Eventually, however, full commitment wasn’t enough; he needed more. He asked one of his partners to join him alone one night, and when his back was turned, Chester stuck the sharp end of the shovel through his back. He drank some blood and gnawed on some bone, but it just didn’t capture the essence of the powder. A new idea then popped into his mind; what if he fed his other partner the powder, then ate him right after? With the two mixed, it would be the ultimate rush!
The other partner was easy to trick into thinking the crushed powder was cocaine, and as soon as he snorted some, wham, Chester hit his head with the back of the shovel. Much to his disappointment however, it only gave the same effects as the powder on its own. Eager for the next high, he thought of new methods. The elderly? Children? Pregnant women? These all seemed plausible until, finally, he said “Screw that I’m done!” He could have quit cold turkey; he could have sought out the help of a specialist; but he decided on the one method to get off corpse powder that had been there since beginning; the one method that he knew, without a doubt, would rid him of his current repulsive state forever… he popped a Xanax.
THE END
The Pink Scrunchie
By: Mike Irace
“What is that? 7?”
“8.”
“For real? Hold on.”
Murphy then proceeds to chug the remaining beer in his bud light can, letting out a painful belch as he finishes.
“8.”
He says to Randell, grabbing his eight beer and popping it open.
“Shits like water.”
Randell doesn’t answer, staring at the floor after a big swig.
“Can I ask you something serious?”
“Of course Randell.”
“No, like not as your friend, but as a complete stranger. Like you don’t know me or my situation, you’re just a third person viewer looking in on the situation.”
“This is gonna be deep, huh?”
“I’m serious, dude.”
“Of course, 100 percent. What’s wrong?”
Randell hesitates. It’s one thing to think it, but to say it makes it real.
“So… you know Brenda…”
“Of course.”
“I’m sure you can connect the dots.”
“Did she die?”
Pure stupidity. The look he gives Murphy says it all.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re right, it’s just the beer. So Brenda?”
“Well… it’s hard to say, but I think she’s… seeing someone.”
“You think she’s cheating on you?”
“Well, yeah.”
Murphy gags on his current swallow of beer, coughing aggressively.
“Are you fuckin sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Dude, no way! You’ve been together for 5 years, you guys just bought an apartment together!”
“You don’t think I know that?”
After Randell snaps his response, he covers his face with his hands.
“I mean… I don’t know what to say Randell… I just couldn’t see her doing that.”
“Yeah, neither can I, that’s what makes it so hard.”
Randell’s voice begins to get shaky. Beer and tears aren’t always the best mix.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you think such a strong accusation? Did you confront her about it?”
“Pfft. No. You’re the only person I told.”
“Did you find boxers or something?”
“No, thank the lord. There’s just a couple little things. They could all be justified, but I don’t even want to bring them up to her unless you agree they’re reasonable.”
Randell begins to speak as though he’d rehearsed a million times in his head.
“I don’t look at her phone behind her back, that’s fuckin gross, it I constantly hear her phone go off, I’m talkin the same bell notification 5 or 6 times every 10 minutes. It’s not my notification alert, it’s not her girlfriends’, I’ve never heard it before the past 3 weeks. I’ve asked her who it was and she says it’s her mother but it’s obviously not her mother, her mother’s is the piano rift.”
“So she lied?”
“Yeah, she lied...”
Murphy’s interruption makes Randell forget where he was in his speech. He rests his beer on the arm of his chair and adjusts his posture, bouncing up and down on the cushion as he does so. An unfittingly comfortable chair for such a disturbing vibe.
“Anyway, she’s also been spending a lot more time with her friend Meredith, which I obviously don’t mind if she wants to spend time with her friend, the fuck am I doing right now? It’s just… I saw Meredith one night at the store, when she was supposed to be with Brenda-“
“You did? Did you go up to her?”
“No, no, no, I just left my cart and walked right out of the store. I wish I did, I fuckin wish I did, but I hate confrontation. Maybe a beer or two in me and I would have, but I was in no place to. I just went into my car, blasted music, and kept the thought out of my head. The thought being the most obvious assumption one would draw from that scenario…”
Randell pauses and covers his face again, rubbing his slightly teary eyes.
“Randell… I don’t know what to say man.”
“Just tell me I’m right.”
They stare intensely into each others eyes, Randell desperate for confirmation.
“I mean… I know it may appear that way, but I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of it. I mean it’s Brenda dude… it’s BRENDA. She just wouldn’t do that to you and you know it. She’s a tough cookie and if she wanted out, she’d tell you she wanted out; I mean 5 years is a long time man. If I were you I’d keep to the outskirts and wouldn’t confront her yet. I’d try and catch her in the act if anything, cause no matter how many times you ask her, she has just as many “no”s as you do “yes”s. “
Randell covers his face and begins to gently weep.
“It’s just so fucked up man… it’s so fucked up. She’s the love of my life and she betrayed me like this… I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel the way she does. I mean look at that fuckin scrunchie she always wears, who the fuck else could pull off a puffy pink scrunchie like that? She could do no wrong and I love her unconditionally but it’s just not enough for her.”
“Randell, stop crying man, my goddamn little sister is gonna hear you from upstairs. You still have her, don’t forget that. There’s a reason she’s still with you. If she didn’t love you, she would have broken up with you by now, but she hasn’t.”
“He doesn’t know why, but what Murphy said makes him feel a little better. It was true.
“Was she meeting with this supposed person tonight?”
“No she’s staying in and watching the South Park marathon.”
“Well there ya go. Does she know you’re supposed to crash here?”
“yes.”
“Well, don’t. I’ll call you an uber a little later, and if you get home and she’s there alone, you’ll know everything’s fine. She woulda taken this opportunity if she WAS doing something wouldn’t you agree?”
Randell flashes a smile.
“Yeah man.”
“Aye there ya go man! Murph knows what he’s talkin about doesn’t he?”
“Yes…”
“Doesn’t he?”
“Yes!”
“Exactly.”
Murphy stands up off the couch opposite Randell, stretches his back, and let’s out an exadurated groan.
“I’m gonna take a leak, bitch.”
He aims his rear at Randell and rips ass, then runs to the bathroom. Randell laughs and fans the air away from his nose.
“Asshole.”
He says to himself, still laughing. For the first time since this suspicion came to mind, he’s actually happy. He knows she wouldn’t do that to him, and he’s gonna prove it to himself tonight. Things are gonna be alright from here on out.
Wait a minute…
What’s that over there on the couch?
Randell stands and approaches the couch. He slowly reaches down and pulls a pink puffy scrunchie which was stuffed between the cushion.
The world begins to spin.
His thoughts grow jumbled.
That prick double crossed him.
He trusted him.
The prick.
The asshole was right in front of him the whole time.
He ruined his life.
He stole the one thing he loved more than anything.
Fucking prick.
Kill.
He’s dead.
His prettyboy face is gonna be dented in.
He thought he could trust him.
No wonder he was so quick to dismiss the allegations.
That fucking pri-
“You good bro?”
Somehow, Randell managed to hide the scrunchie in his pocket before Murphy returned. Murphy is none the wiser; Randell wants to keep it that way.
“Yeah… yeah, I just… I’m just ready for another beer. Wanna chug the next two?”
“Ahh, I like the way you think! Take a seat!”
Fucking prick.
They both sit in their original seats, and Murphy hands Randell a beer.
“This is gonna fuckin suck.”
Murphy says as he let’s out a nervous laugh. Randell stays silent.
“Ready? Three, two, one!”
As Murphy begins to chug the beer, Randell pours his into a nearby plant in a sly manner. Murphy finishes and is none the wiser, as Randell drinks the remaining sip.
“Jesus Randell how can you do that and not be in total agony?”
He asks in between belches.
“Practicemakesperfect, hey can I ask you something?”
“Of course, my son.”
A pathetic attempt at humor. The prick.
“Have you ever been cheated on?”
“No, but a good friend of mine has.”
The nerve of this goddamn son of a bitch.
“Your… good friend?”
“Yeah, he was so torn up about it. It’s the worst thing you could do to someone, ya know? Well, obviously you do. The funny thing about his situation however, he actually caught his girl in the act.”
“Funny! What did he do to him?”
“Well, he was a little pussy about it and didn’t do anything… but if it was me who discovered a guy porkin my girlfriend…”
“Yeah…”
“I’d kick that fuckers teeth in.”
Randell stares maniacally at Murphy.
“Amen to that bro… what do you say we… chug another?”
“I don’t know man, things are starting to spin…”
“Oh come on, don’t be a little pussy. One more…”
“A pussy? Well I certainly don’t want to be a pussy!”
The two laugh, but only one of them is sincere. Murphy grabs two of the remaining 6 beers and passes one to Randell.
“You ready man?”
“Oh am I…”
They both crack open the cans.
“Ok… Three…”
Randell clenches his empty fist.
“…Two…”
Tunnel vision appears, focusing entirely on Murphy’s teeth.
“…ONE!”
Randel launches off his chair, tackeling Murphy to the ground mid chug. The confused Murphy chokes on the beer in his esophagus, as Randel begins to strike him in the jaw. He hits him over and over again, screaming at him as he does so. He curses and curses and hits him again and again. Blood gushes from his nose, eyes, and mouth. Finally, Murphy’s front teeth come flying from his mouth.
Exausted and satisfied, he gets off the unconscious Murphy and spits on him.
There’s nothing more to be said. He isn’t angry, he isn’t hurt, he got his revenge and that’s it. That’s the end of the story, just like that.
“What’s going on?”
Murphy’s little sister enters the living room from upstairs. She’s an innocent 5 year old girl who only thinks of Randell as Murphy’s best friend. Luckily, Murphy’s body was hidden from her by the couch.
“What? Nothing! Nothing! What’s wrong?”
“You guys were making a lot of noise. Where’s Murph?”
“He’s… taking a shit.”
“Oh, ok.”
She giggles then begins to leave the room.
“Oh wait, one more thing…”
Randell looks back at her with wild, unblinking eyes.
“Yes?”
“Have you seen my pink puffy scrunchie?”
THE END
The Pink Scrunchie (Adapted as “Warm Apple Pie”)
By: Mike Irace