Priss stared in disbelief. Now, what the hell was he doing? He looked down at the box cutter in his hands. He looked back to her and spoke as he lifted the blade to his own face.
“It only seems fitting,” he stated, the blade cutting into his cheek, edging along the outline of the red paint that exaggerated his smile. “After what I’ve done, I suppose I would’ve been a bit disappointed had you chosen the hand with the switchblade. Nothing memorable ever comes easy, right?” He continued to run the blade along the outline of his smile. As he got to his upper lip, he had to spit out the blood running into his mouth, in order to keep speaking. Priss could only stare in horror.
“You were the only one, Priss,” he said through his bloody visage.
“You were the only one who ever made me smile. When you said those things, it felt like I died right then and there. Maybe I did.” He had completed cutting around his smile and now reached down to pick up the pliers. Priss began to shake and scream through the scarf in her mouth. He cried out in searing agony as he gripped the edge of the skin by the safety pin on his left side and pulled with all of his might.
The flesh tore away, but not wholly; there were stray strips that did not come away clean. Priss continued to scream, unable to truly believe what she had just witnessed. The pain must have been horrendous, yet Casey still sat there with his calm demeanor, a permanent bloody smile etched into his face. Bits of flesh hung haphazardly, and drops of blood fell into his lap, mixing into the red of his clown pants. He was crying, now.
“Every moment we ever spent together,” he said, the pain of speaking increased a thousand fold, “I remember like it was yesterday. You were the one good thing that I ever had in my life, Priss. You were the light at the end of my tunnel. I remember the day we met on the playground. We were only five years old, but I remember it clearly. I remember the first time we kissed, just to experiment with the idea. It was playful and embarrassing and perfect. Every one of those memories is burned into my mind and heart forever.”
The pressure built in Priss’ heart. She remembered those times, too.
Though, perhaps, not as vividly as Casey did. She had never known how important she was to him. And, now, this. What was she to think? How was she to deal with this? Sirens screamed in the distance. It was almost over.
She stared at Casey, with his bloody smile and sad clown eyes.
“I wanted you to remember me, Priss. That’s all. I just wanted you to remember me.” He reached for the switchblade. “And, now, you’ll never forget.”
The switchblade entered his neck, through his jugular and into his esophagus. He coughed out a gush of bright red, as he ripped the blade away.
Drastic Red sat motionless, staring at Priss, as his own life bled from him without a sound. Priss maintained eye contact with the bloody clown as the door burst open to shouts of the police. Her vision focused on him, narrowing down to a pinpoint on his different-colored eyes.
FUNSIZE
Jack Lloyd
Jack Lloyd started writing years back partly for his own enjoyment and partly to cope with his own inner demons. If someone can take his words and find something in them that makes them laugh, or cry or connect with in someway then that’s awesome. Oh and you should be sure to thank spell/ grammar check because without it, looking at anything he wrote would seem like he took a coffee cup and smashed it against the keyboard.
Did I really spell ‘spontaneously’ right? Outstanding! Jack lives in New York and when not delivering pizzas or pretending to be witty on the internet, he spends his times staring out across the ocean, doing his best to try and drown out the sound of Fate’s cruel laughter with disturbing amounts of rum.
***
As Halloween nights went, it was picture perfect. The wind had been picking up since sunset and the crisp air accentuated the crunch of the leaves under foot. The crowds of children scouring the neighborhoods for free goodies were better than most people had expected in light of the missing Culverton boy.
Scotty Culverton had gone missing a few weeks back. There was nothing overly mysterious about it. Normal enough family, nice kid, well liked by everyone, but one night he simply didn’t come home. The police investigation turned up little as they asked the usual questions, and as it was they were leaning towards a simple runaway.
It would take more than a disappearing eight year old to keep kids inside on All Hallows Eve with the promise of free candy calling them.
Hands were clutched a little tighter and eyes paid notice to every little detail that night as parents led the littler ones around. By the time the streetlights came on the babies were inside and the ten year olds ruled the streets.
John and his younger sister, Maggie, took advantage of the lessened competition and were cleaning up on candy quite nicely. The two had already dumped the contents of their respective plastic Jack-o-lanterns into Johns backpack twice and were well on their way to a third. Being out later than the streetlights was not really a problem for the two. They had grown up learning to look after themselves more than most kids their age. Their mother passed away years ago and their father did his best on his own. He worked nights but his confidence in their inherent street smarts allowed them to stay out later for trick or treating.
Besides, how lame is Halloween in the daytime?
Maggie stopped to tie her shoe and readjust the skirt on her pirate costume, as her brother took a quick inventory in the army backpack of his soldier costume.
“Kit-kats, m&m’s, peanut butter cups, um… some change, and candy corn. Blechhh, those are yours.”
“Shut up doofus, those are nasty.” Maggie said.
“Just like your face.” John teased as he tossed a candy corn at his sister’s tri-corner hat.
“Cut it out!” she yelled as she swatted at him with her sword. “How much longer are we staying out?”
Looking at his watch then taking a quick scan of the people on the streets, “Dunno, a little bit longer. I promised dad that we would be in before the streets got really empty.”
John thought for a moment and detailed his plans to his sister.
It seems all kids have an Eisenhower like tactical skill deep inside them for planning out their Halloween assaults.
“Let’s head up to the corner and then do the streets this side of the school. We can hit the other side of Maple Street and be back home in no time.”
“Don’t forget that dog on the left side about half way.” Maggie reminded him.
“Right . . . we will cross sides at the Johnson’s house so it doesn’t start barking.”
John’s plan proved profitable as they passed house after house guarded by flickering pumpkins, their candy bags getting heavier with treats.
It wasn’t until they passed two ghosts and a werewolf, ushered by their moms, that they heard mention of the Holy Grail of Halloween, that most mythic, unattainable treat—
“I can’t believe we got full size candy bars,” one of the ghosts said through his bed sheet shroud.
Specifically full sized Snicker bars. Someone was giving away the Holy Grail of candy. Skipping the bite-sized nonsense and single Reeses Peanut butter cups and giving out full size candy was a sign that someone meant business.
After a quick conversation with ghost #2 the location of the house was revealed to John. He and Maggie made a bee line before the candy ran out and the hour grew late.