TRIGGER WARNING: WEIGHT, FOOD, AND BODY HORROR

The last item left in my fridge is the half-carton of milk I’ve been surviving on since the rain started. I’m terrified to step on a scale, I’m terrified to find out how skinny I’ve become. I don’t remember how long it’s been, but I can’t live like this any longer. Now is the time for action.

In and out. I’ll bring enough cash to buy a simple loaf of bread and maybe peanut butter. Afterwards, I need to get the hell out of that city and drive back up to my cottage, before the flooding gets any worse. I open my front door. It squeals abrasively due to lack of use & extreme water damage. I squeal even louder. I’ve become such a coward in my little solitude, my only form of entertainment is knitting while watching the vintage horror DVDs my nephew left behind on his last visit here.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I put on my burgundy coat and peek outside. It’s as if the rain has accelerated the decay of the fall leaves, granting my trees the visage of a dreary winter. The only clue of the present season are the red-brown leaves scattered across my driveway, despite the water eroding them to near mush. They lack their recognizable crunch.

I’m soaking wet by the time I make it to my car. It’s a Volkswagen Beetle, the prized possession of my late father. It was the only thing granted to me in his will, despite knowing I despised it. It’s musty and dated, the steering wheel’s unresponsive, and the manual gear is janky as all hell. A Beetle-shaped hazard, that’s what it is.

The engine finally roars to life after I start it up for the millionth time. The driveway is slick, I feel like a branch in a stream as I practically fall onto the road, my foot never releasing the brake. Getting my bearings, I turn my windshield wiper to the highest setting, turn the radio to my favorite station, and accelerate. The car jolts forward and I’m off.

My mind is as foggy as the horizon, dense with insurmountable droplets. The rain hits my roof with startling intensity, shaking the flimsy exterior, rendering my ramshackle vehicle even more worn down than it already was. It’s as if I abandoned the safety of my home to find myself in the eye of a whirlpool. My music abruptly cuts out and through the speaker, a voice blares, worsening my headache. No matter how hard I try I can’t seem to shut it off. The severe weather warning plays for the rest of the drive until I finally make it to the city.

Where is everybody? The only cars on the road are either parked or half-submerged in waterlogged ditches. It’s silent in the city. Perhaps they all stayed home, as the radio said to. But even then, why would they leave their cars? I enter the supermarket, triggering a small bell that emanates through the stagnant air. The store… the store is unmanned. My mission for a peanut butter sandwich has expanded, and suddenly, my twenty bucks are redundant.

I drool atop my overflowing cart. There’s a little bit of everything here, from entertainment to sustenance to toiletries to thread… I’ll last months. Giddy with excitement, I practically sprint outside with my cart, sliding in the puddles and dancing in the rain. By the time these resources deplete, it’ll all be over. I’ll eat at a restaurant. I’ll get to see my family again. I’ll sell this damn car. 

I uncaringly cram everything into the backseat except for the eggs, which I cradle lovingly in my lap. I want an omelet today, I think. Oh, how good it feels to want again! I triple-check my buckle, proceed to reverse out of park and propel wayward, exiting the ghost city. Where is everybody? Who cares, I’m alive!

The rain has escalated. What was once a firm and unrelenting onslaught from the heavens seems to have evolved into a barrage of smaller, quicker darts. This rapid speed gives way to more fog, now reaching past the horizon and onto my windshield, bidding a smothering haze to gather faster than my wipers can deflect it. 

I can barely even see the road in front of me. I’m soaking wet, my body feels miserable but my mind is ecstatic, my chattel chatters violently all around me. How am I meant to focus with this overstimulation? I hear a shuffling behind me. I hear a bag of produce fall to the floor. I can’t look behind me, it’s too dangerous. I was under the impression I had organized them impeccably… I hear a roll of toilet paper tumble to the floor. How is it all coming undone? I hear a case open and a DVD being shattered. Maybe it broke open when it hit the floor? I hear oranges. Individual oranges falling to the floor, one by one. They had a net. They had a net.

My head swivels back in fear and my grip on the steering wheel tightens. Barely visible and deathly still crouched in my groceries, sits a man, or close to a man. The wheel jerks out of control and starts to spin at a terrifying and unnatural speed, as if the very atmosphere was dragging it across. I grab back onto the wheel with all my might, which doesn’t hinder it in the slightest, but causes all the eggs in my lap to fall and shatter. My hands are blistered and the wheel is bloody. I look behind me.

He’s gone.

Everything hurts. The car’s a wreck. A scratchy trail of dry blood coats my face from my nose down to my chin. It’s morning now. I’m unsure how long I’ve been laying here. My neck feels loose, my concussed mind struggles to recall memories, my hands are rife with coagulation. Suddenly my memories flood back. I snap awake, instantly sitting up. The car, the city, the store, the oranges, the man. The intruder, the inciter, the… the eyes. His glare haunts me.

He was frail, like a skeleton haphazardly wrapped in a sheet of skin. He was bald, and so still, like a roach who thinks itself invisible. The more I remember, the more I struggle to find any ordinary explanation for this… thing. The way he stared through me with those glossy bug eyes, never moving his pupils, almost as if a carcass had snuck into my shopping cart. The thing that terrified me most, though, was his smile. It wasn’t malicious, or artificial, it was genuine. His eyes were smiling too, it was as if he somehow… recognized me. He gave me the face you would give to an old friend, or a beloved pet. Nevertheless, it shook me to my core.

I limp to the trunk and pop it open. My entire body seizes. Peels and scraps litter the floor, buzzing with flies. Irregular bite marks are all over the cushions. He had eaten everything, even the inedible. Shattered eggshells with not a drop of yolk left sit in a neat pile in the corner. My rolls of toilet paper were torn and scattered in a quaint pattern across the floor. This wasn’t the work of a malnourished savage scrounging for sustenance, this was the dark mischief of a devil. I take a step back. The patterns all come together, and a message is written in the remnants.

“This never gets old.”

I’m panicked now. It only now occurs to me that this is my reality, that this whole situation isn’t just an illusion fostered by the crash. These words are real. He’s toying with me, playing with his food. Instead of just killing me where I lay, he decided to deprive me of my resources, presumably to feed on whatever hope I had left. It’s not like this was a quick message he left me before he took off, this was a deliberate process of artisanship. The way the fragments fit together is, frankly, impressive. It’s not far-fetched to infer that he’s been working on this message for hours, days even. Which means… 

Suddenly, I’m struck with the palpable feeling of being watched.

I stand frozen in dead silence. I listen tentatively, praying the silence persists. For a few moments, I’m afraid I’ll hear his theme play or feel the camera graze my back. All I hear is the rain. Slowly, I make my way to the front seat, to find it beyond recognition. A sizable rod of shrapnel pierces the headrest, right under where my nose would sit. I take a deep breath, and look closer. The rod is bloodied. I rub above my upper lip gently and start to panic. It’s completely intact, no glaring wounds that sting to the touch. Where did the blood come from? I frantically probe, hoping an answer finds my finger.

The recognizable feel of thread brushes me. It continues to lead my finger upwards, and upwards. I attempt to discern myself in the shattered mirror. Stitches. Uncountable stitches are grasping my ruined face together, and I cry. My knitting thread, perfect for the ‘o’ or the ‘i’, was missing and I didn’t even notice. Cool hues of yarn and string line my face, and I’m alive. The way it effortlessly holds me together, it’s the miraculous work of a medical professional. It’s as if he’s done this procedure millions of times, as if he knows every wound by heart. And I cry.

I’m not just being toyed with, I’m being read. He knows me. I need to do something unexpected, something he can’t predict. What should the victim do next? Would he expect me to run for help, or hide somewhere? Suddenly, from the woods, a cold breeze rushes through me. It chills the tears on my face, and the sting beckons me forward. I jump into the woods, forgetting my injuries, and flee through the fallen leaves. The feeling of being watched escapes me.

I hold my face, for the thicket of thorns and wavering branches threaten to tear my stitches apart. The brush lets up, and an empty road lies in front of me. Lightning allows me to see the path forward for just a moment, and ahead is a familiar driveway, hidden in the darkness. I hobble past the road for a closer look, and sure enough, there it is. Somehow, my aimless scampering led me back to my beloved house on the hill. I’ve never been so excited to drink watered-down milk, or to watch a dated B-movie. Mark my words, next time I’m out of supplies, I’m bringing a gun. I hop up the driveway, pull the key out of my pocket and unlock the door, swinging it open with all my strength. 

I fall backward off the patio. Standing in my doorway, there he stood, the top half of his face obscured by the doorframe. The smile is unmistakable, messy with my groceries. Unobstructed now, I’m able to see the rest of his body, despite not particularly wanting to. He’s wearing a burgundy coat. He’s wearing my burgundy coat. In fact, his entire outfit is identical to mine. I know that I don’t own any duplicates, yet in front of me there he stood, and he was steadily inching closer. He dips his head down to stride past the door. I shut my eyes before he looks up, but I can still feel him staring at me. I feel him encroaching, crawling over me, and now he’s atop me and holding me down. I feel soft, cold breathing on the tip of my nose. Spindly fingers hold my head in place. They swiftly make their way under the thread, presumably familiar with every weak spot, and tug. Immediately, my head jerks forward on the thread. I can feel my face tearing apart as he pulls once more. The fingers find my mouth, and tug. My eyes jut open instinctively, but I struggle to scream as my injuries reopen. I meet his gaze. He smiles knowingly, clutches the yarn between my eyes, and tugs. The last thing I see is my face in his fingers as it all goes black. The cold breathing slowly relocates to the side of my head. He whispers in my ear,

“This never gets old.”

The last item left in my fridge is the half-carton of milk I’ve been surviving on since the rain started. I’m terrified to step on a scale, I’m terrified to find out how skinny I’ve become. I don’t remember how long it’s been, but I can’t live like this any longer. Now is the time for action.