Masters Of Horror Part 4

Dinner'd start aroun five cause I couldn't wait no longer. Marie'd cut me up a nice cold antipast while Sal'd broil up a coupla dozen garlic clams oreganata. Den da pasta-a coupla poundsa Marie's super linguine wit white clam sauce, da noodles swimmin in b.u.t.ter an garlic, an da diced clams piled all over da top. Next da fish, usually a coupla tree-or four-pound lobsters or half a dozen pounds a shrimp done up scampi style. After dat, a meat, maybe steak or veal or a nice Krakus ham. For dessert, maybe anotha gallon a da peanut b.u.t.ter swirl or a nice cherry cheesecake, or a coupla peach pies ala mode wit some canoli onna side.

My bedtime snack was always candy. Sal'd let me have all da Snickers bars I wanted. He'd buy dem by da case an leave a whole box right by my bed so's I could grab one anytime I got hungry. An let me tell you, I got hungry a lot durin da night. But I neva woke Sal or Marie. I knew dey needed deir sleep. I was a good guy. I hung on an starved till breakfast.

Sal an Marie knew how to take care of me. Dey knew what I needed. Dat I hadda eat. Dey understood about eatin, know'm sayin?

Evyting was great till dat day when dey was both out at once. Dey hardly ever left me alone. I mean sure dey went out togetha once inna while, but neva for long. Dis time dey was gone a long time. A coupla hours, maybe, an I was starvin. Not jus hungry, man. I mean starvin!

An I couldn't get outta bed.

Wasn't always dis big. I mean, like I was always big accordin to Ma. Born big an jus kept gettin bigger, she always said. But now I'm huge, man. Take up a whole d.a.m.n king size bed. Can't get outta bed on my own. Always needed help from Sal or Marie. Good ting Marie's real strong-good Sicilian stock-or she'da been no help. But all I needed was for one of dem ta give me a little boost an someone to lean on while I shuffled to da batroom. Dey took off da doorframe but still I can barely turn aroun in dere. Lucky I only go twice a day. An it don't matter if I'm doin number one or number two, man, I gotta sit. First of all, I can't stand dat long. An second, well, I mean, I ain't seen my d.i.c.k in at least ten years, so da only way I can be sure I ain't peein onna floor is to sit. An even den I sometimes miss da bowl. An when I take a dump...

Let's not talk about dat.

Anyways, Sal an Marie was gone fa hours an I was starvin so I tried to get outta bed on my own. Took forever, but I managed to sit up by myself. Made me feel good. Hadn't done dat on my own in years. Den by holdin onta da bedpost I somehow got myself to my feet. I started shufflin cross da bedroom, takin little teeny steps so's I wouldn't lose my balance. G.o.d, I din't want to tink what would happena me if I toppled over an wound up onna floor. I mean, man, dey'd hafta bring in a crane or sumpin ta get me up again.

An jus as I was tinkin about it, it started happenin. I started swayin. Little sways at first, den bigger ones. I tell ya I was scared to det. I aimed myself for da doorway, figrin I could hold onta da jamb, but started teeterin as I stumbled an I slammed inna da doorway wit a awful crack. I saw da wallboard crack an heard da studs inside groan an creak, but da wall held an I was still on my feet. I hadn't fallen!

But I was stuck. Usually I went troo dat door sideways. Now I was jammed inta it at a angle an no matter how I tried I couldn't move out or in. I was scared. I started gettin pains in my chest an my heart started racin like crazy. I hadn't been on my feet for dat long a time in more years dan I could amemba. Couldn't breathe. I yelled fa help. Screamed my freakin lungs out, but not fa long. My chest was gettin all congested, like I was fillin up wit water or sometin. I couldn't scream no more. Evyting got fuzzy, den evyting got black.

Next ting I knew I was in dis place.

It's a hospital room. Actually it's not a room, it's what dey call a suite. Two rooms. I'm in da big room, but dere's a smaller one straight ahead a me dat's like a little kitchen wit a fridge an a microwave an stuff. An dere's a batroom off to my right but in all da time I'm here I ain't been in it yet. Dey told me what hospital I'm in but I forgot. Who cares, anyway? Da important ting is dey're starvin' me!

"Time for your bed bath," Dolores says as she comes in carryin a basin a soapy water. She stops an stares at me. "Good Lord, Topsy! You're eating your pillow!"

I look. Oh, yeah. I guess I am. I tought it was a big marshmallow.

I spit feathers.

"Never mind," she says wit a sigh. "Let's get to the ablutions."

Most guys would get off bein washed down by a blonde dish like Delores, but I gotta admit I'm too hungry ta tink about anyting but food.

"Gimme a treat, Dolores."

"Shus.h.!.+" she says, glancin around my room. "What if one of the doctors heard you?"

"Don't care. Need a treat."

"After your bath."

"No. Now. Gotta have sometin."

"Oh, all right."

As she reaches into her uniform pocket I can feel da juices pour into my mout. She pulls out one of dose little low-sugar caramels she sneaks in for me an unwraps it.

"Stop it, Topsy," she says. "You're droolin all over yourself. Open up."

I open an she pops it into my mout, jerkin her fingers back real quick cause I accidently bit her once.

I taste da caramel. Da sweetness runs all over da inside of my mout.

OhG.o.dohG.o.dohG.o.dohG.o.dohG.o.dohG.o.dohG.o.dohG.o.d!

I near start ta cry.

"Come on, Topsy," Delores says, pattin my arm. She's a good nurse. She feels for me. I can tell. "You'll be all right."

"Need food!"

"You need to lose weight, that's what you need. You almost died of congestive heart failure back in your house. It's lose weight or die, Topsy."

I figure I'd ratha die, cause starvin like dis is worse dan det.

"Where's Sal? Where's Marie?"

"Do we have to go through that again?" Delores says as she starts rubbin a soapy wash cloth on my belly. I look down at my bare skin. Looks like acres a ice cream.

"Troo what again?"

"I know you don't want to accept it, Topsy, but your brother and his wife have been indicted for attempted murder and they're out on bail awaiting trial. They are forbidden by the court to come anywhere near you. They were trying to kill you, Topsy."

"No. Dey treated me good! Dey fed me!"

"They were feeding you to death, that's what they were doing. A nifty little scheme, I've got to admit. You kept signing checks so they could buy you food, big checks that allowed them to live high while they kept pumping you full of the worst kind of food you can imagine."

"Good food," I told her. "Da best!"

"The worst! High fat, high calorie. Your blood sugar and cholesterol and triglycerides were through the roof! And when they got you to fifteen hundred pounds, they left you for a day. They knew you'd try to get out of bed, and they figured you'd fall and die on the floor. Well, it almost worked. Lucky for you that you got stuck in the doorway and someone heard you yell. Even then you almost didn't make it. By the time they broke through the wall of the house and hoisted you out, you were so far gone into heart failure you almost died in the back of the pickup truck they had to use to get you to the hospital. It almost worked, Topsy. The rats almost got your money."

"Ain't got no money."

"Oh, really? Folks with no money can't afford a private hospital suite like this. What do you call that twelve million dollars you won?"

Oh, yeah. Dat. I won dat inna State Lotto a few years ago. I forget tings sometimes. I amemba Sal an Marie bein real happy for me. Dat's when dey moved in an started takin care a me. Dey treated me real good. Dey unnerstood dat I gotta eat.

I always hadda eat. Evyting I amemba bout bein a kid is food. Ma cooked for me alla time, an when she ran outta food I'd go over my fren's houses an deir moms'd fix me stuff. I lost my first job as a kid makin deliveries for Angelo's Grocery because I useta eat half da stuff along da way. An whateva job I had, I always spent da money on food.

Food was evyting ta me. I amemba how I useta give people directions back in da days when I could still get aroun. It'd be "Go down to da Dunkin Donuts an turn left, den go bout tree blocks an turn right at da Dairy Queen an it's bout half a mile downa street, a block past Paisan's Pizza." All my landmarks hadda do wit food.

But afta I won da lotto an we moved out to Long Island, I got so fat dat my whole world became my bedroom, an time got measured by meals an TV shows.

Da TV's on now. I useta love to watch TV. All da game shows an talk shows inna mornin, an da soaps inna aftanoon. Loved dem all. Now I hate 'em. Not da shows-da commercials. Food! All dey seemta be sellin is freakin food! Like torture, man! I go crazy wit da little remote control but evytime I switch I see dis food bein shoved at me in livin color! I'm bout t'go crazy, know'm sayin? I mean, if it ain't McDonald's it's Burger King or Wendy's or Red Lobsta wit dose shrimp just oozin b.u.t.ta onna enda da fork. Or da Pillsbury Doughboy's got some new cinnamon ting he's pus.h.i.+n, or dere's microwave chocolate cake or Reese's Pieces or Eat Beef It's Real Food or Domino's Pizza or Peter Pan Peanut b.u.t.ter or Holly Farms Chicken or Downyflake Waffles or Dorito Nacho Chips an on an on.

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 st.i.tches. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y. G.o.d, 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 a.s.sumed 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. G.o.d.

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 cla.s.smates. They thought that Jake was great for providing his cla.s.smates 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 gla.s.ses 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 splas.h.i.+ng across the patio into the gra.s.s. 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 gra.s.s. 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 nouris.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 h.e.l.l 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 partic.i.p.ated 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 meatb.a.l.l.s. 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sumed 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.

He felt good, but how? He asked himself.

What was happening?

He collected his nephew and sat him in a high chair at the kitchen table while he searched the cabinets for more of the baby's food. He pulled the infant oatmeal box from the cupboard, opened the refrigerator, and retrieved a large bottle of formula. He mixed the two together in a bowl. He took a spoonful of the cereal and paused. He waited for the feeling then he took another spoonful in his mouth. He continued eating without any ill effects. He was able to eat the entire bowl without getting sick. He felt reborn after consuming the mushy concoction. He was happy to have eaten but was still hesitant to share with anyone the embarra.s.sing way it came about. Before going home Jake hid a can of formula and a box of the oatmeal his back pack and took it home.

The following morning he sat down at the kitchen table and filled the bowl with the powdered oatmeal and mixed the formula together. He was anxious for his first mouthful. He scooped up a hearty spoonful and placed it in his mouth. He wasn't excited by the bland flavor of his meal but he enjoyed the feeling of eating again. But the bliss of his meal was short-lived as moments later the familiar pain in his abdomen returned. He tried to ignore it, hoping that it would go away. He felt the spasm just before he heaved all over the table.

His mother responded to the sounds of his retching by rus.h.i.+ng into the room. She looked at the splattered remains of his attempt at breakfast. She asked him what he was thinking. Stating that he knew better than to eat solid foods, Jake grew angry, not because of his mother's comments, but from the disappointment that he had not overcome his affliction as he had thought. The thought that he still couldn't eat fed his anger and he stormed away from the table to get cleaned up for school.

While walking to school Jake delved into thought about how he had been able to eat the night before and not this morning. Thinking aloud, he asked himself, "What do I have to do to be able to eat a normal meal again? I guess I have to get a baby to throw up in my mouth every time I want to eat?" The bright light bulb in his head lit up brightly with a far-fetched but that sounded oddly also made perfect sense. The only difference between the two scenarios was the vomit factor, but how could he put this hypothesis's to the test? He had thought about returning to his nephew's house for another round of feed-the-baby-and-toss-him-into-the-air-until-he-vomits, but he didn't have the heart to do that to the baby. Then he thought about what would be the simplest way to make someone throw up. He could wait till someone was ill. No that would take too long to wait for a friend to become ill and hover over their toilet waiting to collect what they spewed. He could invite a friend over to eat something that was perhaps spoiled from the refrigerator. No, that didn't seem reasonable. Then it came to him-alcohol! Alcohol always makes people do stupid things. He could encourage his friends to imbibe beyond their capacity and wait for them to hurl. Perfect.