​TRIMMINGS BY ROB TEUN - A HORROR SHORT STORY

 
Jackson had lost count of how many days had passed over his head. His blowtorched lungs raw from screamed efforts to reach the surface world from the bottom of the well. Everything was out of reach, towards a freedom which he could barely remember to imagine. Madness was upon the horizon, hot on the heels of disconnection and disorientation.

His clothes sagged on his wraith frame as loosely as the skin of his trembling bones. Delusions and dreams indistinguishable from reality.  

Jackson bent down, took a handful of dirt, and stared at it before he shoveled it into his mouth and sobbed as it crunched between his teeth. The moss tickled like spiders legs down his throat, Jackson lurched forward, retching as he gagged trying to keep it all down.

He scraped at the ground, shoveling more dirt into his mouth. He stopped, rolled the sticky dirt between his thumb and fingers. Brought them to his nostrils and inhaled. He had shit here before hadn’t he? He retched until his throat felt raw. Food only good for worms.

Jackson looked down at the rucksack and kicked it. He swore at it. Something, anything to shadow those thoughts of steaming plates and scraping forks.

Where was his wife? Where was Clara? Why wasn’t she out here looking for him?

She was probably glad he was gone. She had spoken of Matt often in soft and sometime awestruck tones.  He could do this, he could do that, He swept this woman off her feet and that woman off her feet and so many more. Clara, she would be next on Matt’s list. It was just a matter of time after all. The fact he neglected to tell his wife where he had gone did not cross his fragmented thoughts.

His fingers felt warm, wet, and sore. He withdrew his hands and held them closer to his face. Layers of skin had parted from the flesh leaving bloodied muscle in the departure of the two. Without thinking, he licked his fingers and with it came slices of raw skin.

A crooked smile crossed his lips. The chewable texture appealed to him.

He cleaned the bloodied skin from the wounds on his fingertips with his grinding teeth. He licked his fingers. Salty with sweat.

He looked to the floor and saw the sewing kit peeking out of the rucksack. He bent down and retrieved the scissors. Jackson’s stomach growled like a hungry beast. He wiped his dry lips and he lay his head back and took a deep breath.

He did not look. He pressed the scissors against his hand; he could feel the cold blade against the skin of his palm. He trembled. He felt a nausea ripple through him and he wondered if he could bring himself to do it. Jackson took another deep breath, held it for a moment or two, and exhaled. His foot beat a tattoo as the adrenaline pumped through his body. 

The scissors unclenched and his eyes closed as he brought the open blades to the little finger on his left hand, there the blades to lay a gentle kiss against his skin. Jackson wanted to shut the scissors as though slamming a door, but could not bring himself to commit to the act. He slid the blades down along his little finger without breaking the skin; the steel caressed his flesh, making it crawl. He could hear the blades sing like a bow against the strings of a violin.

He wanted to puke. Did he have to lose it? He would need that it one day, wouldn’t he? He didn’t want to make the cut, but the hunger roared. 
Jackson stripped his t-shirt off. Jackson realized that been down here longer than he first thought.

He was still a big guy, but what parts of him once held with thick contents of fat were now fold upon fold of loose skin ripe with nerve endings. His deflating pectorals had travelled south to the point that his nipples folded beneath the skin. Jackson opened the scissors and took hold of some flapping skin hanging down like a curtain at his side. The sensation of cold steel waiting to close on his skin like an alligator, a moment from snapping shut, taking a bite. 

 Wait. Wait. For God's sake, wait. There had to be another way.

He could feel the scissors nipping at his skin, eager to be feed fed and more eager to feed him. That hunger, that raging, painful hunger. The screaming madman bounced off the walls inside his mind, drowning out the voice of rationality. It fell to a whisper. It fell silent.

He held the scissors tighter; he pinched at the skin between his thumb and forefinger and stretched it out like a fleshy elastic band. His breaths quickened. Quicker. Quicker. And quicker still. He would not be starve.

Jackson took one final deep breath. Gritted his teeth and slammed the blades hugging his skin shut as he made the first cut. He bellowed like a wounded beast. Torn and tormented. The first cut only pierced his skin, it would take more than this, if he wanted to live. He would have to make many more cuts yet. Snip. Snip. Snip. With each crocodile snap of the blades shutting down on his flesh, he shouted, he pounded his feet against the walls with every inch of his hurt. He held his head between his legs and threw up into the muddy puddle that he lived in.

The world around him flickered in shades of grey and abyss black.

The pain became intense to the point he could feel the breeze over every severed nerve ending.  He threw his head back and began to laugh at the burgeoning moon, a howl almost, the kind of laugh that only a maniac could appreciate. His howls lost their humor as he cut deeper and deeper with the scissors, tearing raggedly through the flesh.  And he tore. He tore away his fold of flesh to stop the pain. He pulled the last part from its confines and he held it in his hand, towards the light of the moon. He lay his flesh to one side, on top of the rucksack and he began the painful process of stitching himself back together. Jackson acted quickly as he held together those loose parts of himself together between his thumb and forefinger. He felt faint, as though his very brain was going to explode and his thoughts fragmented to where they were scattered like dust in the wind, lost forever and beyond recovery. He began to sew, sealing together his wounded body. He took several deep breaths and tied off the stitching, leaned back and rested his head against the wall as he clutched at his wound. He waited as he chased his fleeting breaths. Perhaps his screams had attracted some attention. He hoped. He listened out for the slightest movement, only to hear the gentle whistle of the wind passing over his prison.  It would be more the case that he scared someone, anyone away. Who in their right mind would answer to a screaming man? Not many, he guessed.

Jackson felt sore, but proud. He wanted to cry. He wanted to whoop with joy. More than anything, there was the hunger. The overriding sense to consume.

The flesh flapped about between his fingers, strangely, there was something alluring in it.

The first bite tasted like chewy cold chicken but not like the bloodied ham, it resembled.

He took another deep breath and held the scissors to his freshly sewn stitches. He stopped just short of cutting the thread. Salivating at hungry thoughts. The closer to the bone, the sweeter the meat. It repeated in his head like a mantra. He stopped the thought.

No. It would do him no good eating himself into nothingness. He had to get out of here or die.

He kicked and punched at the walls. Scraping at the bricks in a frenzy, fingers searching the gaps between each one, and with each swipe and scrape, his fingernails lifted.

His digging continued. The bricks, they were beginning to give! Jackson picked up his pace; he scraped along the crevices harder than before, deeper. He ignored the pain running through his fingers, he gave little thought to the blood running down his palm, he did not think as his nails began to crack, creaking apart from his fingertips. Jackson thrust his raw digits into the gaping holes that were forming in between the bricks, feeding his fingers through until he had a good grip. He drove the scissors in and used it them as leverage. He began to pant as the brick started to wobble like a tooth in his grip. Jackson yanked out the first brick and cast it to the ground along with a couple of his fingernails. His brain registered the pain; he gritted his teeth and let loose a muted cry. He could not stop now, not when his hell was crumbling. Soon brick by brick followed as though he had found the key that kept them all locked together. Frenzied, he was pulling them out two at a time, a hole was forming.

He stopped.  He waited.

A noise. A low rumble began to rise promising deafness in its wake. Jackson grimaced. His eyes squinted, and his hands balled up into fists as it built towards its crescendo, louder and louder, it became. The well was beginning to cave in. The dirt rained upon him hard and fast, the bricks began to fall like hammers of hail. Striking him. Jackson held one hand above his head as he ducked down and pushed his way to the top as he scrambled for balance against the avalanche. The dirt was closing in around his ankles, flooding to his knees, showering with no sign of relenting. Jackson’s arms flailed as he tried to dig his way out, the dirt was coming thick and fast. It would not be long before it would climbing towards his chest, his throat and before he would know it, into and down his mouth. The thought spurned him. Jackson noticed a crest was beginning to form, giving him a hill to climb. He pulled at the dirt as it came to his waist, and more bricks were beginning to fall, bouncing off his shoulders, and back, striking his neck with hammer blows. He began to pull himself out of the dirt as it tried to suck him down into the depths.  He crawled on his hands and knees and kept his head down and eyes up.

He reached up and clawed his way back. The top came into view one painful stretch after another; he stopped to check his wound. He felt something warm running down his stomach, making its way down his leg. He felt his T-shirt clinging to his body. He bled. His stitches popped. He felt weak. A part of him wanted to let go, roll to the ground, and let the earth claim him. He looked up; the edge of the surface was within reach.

He felt the wind brushing against his open wound as he made his final ascent. He smiled. He winced. Jackson grabbed the edge of the well wall and heaved himself over the edge. His body gave into rest as he lay upon the cold wet grass. He looked up at the stars and fell into a restless and bloodied slumber. 
 
He awoke as the sun broke over the horizon. The red sky conjured memories of blood. He awoke hungry. He had dreamt of eating, ignoring all the steaming plates of rice, of buttered corn on the cob and large bowls of ice cream. He wanted meat. Raw. Pale. Chewy. Yellow with fat.
​
Jackson stood and left everything else behind. The sewing kit, the rucksack. The half-chewed remnants of himself he had cut away.
He held onto the scissors. He clung to them.
Clara would still be at home.  
He was cold and hungry.
Her body would be warm and inviting. 
Not for long.