Well, here you are: the final installment of "A Happy Birthday." And just in time for Halloween! I'd like to thank everyone that kept coming back to check on the fate of our fiery little protagonist. Some of you may be a little shocked at some of the events in this part, maybe even a little appalled, but I really enjoyed writing this story (maybe cause I'm a little fucked in the head), so I hope it entertains at least a few of you. And if you haven't read Part 1 or Part 2, PLEASE READ THOSE PARTS FIRST. This is the climax, so check out the earlier postings before reading this one.
Enjoy!
...Fuck this creep. If he wants to have his way with me, he's not going to get it without a fight.
I reach across the table and pick up one of the candles in its glass cup as quickly as my drugged body will allow. He doesn’t even seem to notice it’s in my hand. He sits down across from me as I lean forward and smash the glass-encased candle into the side of his big head. Apparently I managed a fair amount of strength because the glass shatters into tiny pieces. Some shards explode to the side of him and some become lodged in the flesh on the side of his face. The now-exposed candle flies into his hair, which ignites incredibly quickly thanks to his apparent affinity for hairspray. Stunned, it seems to take him a moment to realize his hair is on fire.
Finally he howls in pain and surprise. He stands up from the table with such force that it goes crashing to the floor. He runs over to the filthy, old sink and turns on the faucet. I see my opportunity and I begin bashing the arm of the chair with my free hand as hard as I can. The wood begins to splinter. Small shards of wood enter my flesh but I continue, blood dripping down my right hand. Eric’s still hunched over the sink, trying to find a way to push his big head under the apparently weak stream of water. I continue to bash my right hand against the chair’s arm. Even in my drugged state I can feel the pain begin to shoot up my hand. Blood splatters against my face every time I bring my hand back for a little momentum. I’m screaming now, but it’s more primal than fearful. Every time my hand smashes into the chair’s arm I scream a little louder.
Finally it shatters. Pieces of wood splinter into all different directions, with a few more finding a home under my skin. I try to stand—the handcuffs still dangling from my left wrist—and fall right to the dirty linoleum, my ridiculous party hat tumbling from my head. Fuck! C’mon legs! Get it together. We need to get the fuck out of here!
I look over to the sink. Eric’s screaming now, throwing threats at me. I’ve awakened the businessman. “YOU FUCKING BITCH! OHHH YOU FUCKING BITCH! I’M GOING TO FUCKING CUT YOU OPEN! YOU RUINED MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY AND I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU BLEED! I’M GOING TO MAKE SURE YOU SEE YOUR FUCKING ORGANS BEFORE YOU STOP BREATHING!” He continues to shout, but I can still see flames and smoke coming off his head. I have a little time. If I can get myself together I can get to that knife.
I start to hit my legs. I can feel the pins and needles, but my own strikes feel dull and non-influential. “Come on!” I’m yelling at my legs now. “Come on!”
Shit, the flames are getting smaller. I’m running out of time. I begin to drag myself across the linoleum, dust and grime clinging to my arms and clothes. I’m sweating profusely and my arm is now covered in blood. Small pieces of filth are adhering to the sticky appendage as I continue to drag myself. Only a few more feet now. I’m almost to the counter.
He’s still shouting and the room is filled with a surprising amount of smoke. I realize the remaining candle that had still been on the table when he knocked it to the ground had found its way to one of the paper plates. The plate is burning in the middle of the room, emitting a fairly thick cloud of smoke.
I’ve reached the base of the counter, but the top is a few feet above me. I reach my arm up blindly, hoping to have my hand settle on the knife, but from my position on the floor I can only reach the edge of the counter. I need to pull myself up. The shooting pain in my right arm has become extremely affecting. I’m so weak, but I’m so close. And I watch as Eric extinguishes the remaining bit of fire in his hair. He pulls his head out from under the faucet. Only a few more seconds now. Okay... let’s do this. LET’S FUCKING DO THIS!
With whatever strength remains in me, I pull my body up and manage to stretch my arm across the counter. Falling quickly back to the floor, I manage to get my hand on the knife, but I can’t grasp it. Instead, in my falling motion, I manage to sweep it to the floor. The knife clatters next to me and I pick it up. He’s coming towards me now, practically on top of me, murder in his pained eyes. I reach up with the knife in a weak stabbing motion and watch as it digs into his exposed arm. He howls, but with most of my strength gone, the blade doesn’t go very deep. He swings his arm and I lose my grip on the knife. It goes flying across the room, landing somewhere near the sink.
He kicks me with incredible force, right in the chest. There goes another rib. He then walks calmly over to the burning plate and steps on it until the fire is out. The room is full of smoke and I’m nothing more than a heap against the base of the counter. He walks back over to me and kicks me again… and again… and again.
“You stupid bitch!” He berates me every time he lands a kick. “You fucking whore! You ruined my fucking birthday!” He’s still all businessman. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be seeing the retard for the remainder of the evening.
He’s less precise with his kicks now and a few catch my face. I’m bleeding from my mouth and nose now too. I’m just a sweaty, bloody mess. I want to tell him to stop, but I know it won’t do any good. And maybe in his rage he’ll just beat me to death. At least that way I don’t have to deal with Little Eric poking its way around inside me. Take out all your anger big guy! Finish me off! I’m done with this.
But he stops. “No,” he says kind of quietly. “NOOOO!” He screams it the next time. “I won’t let you ruin my birthday! I won’t let you! This is gonna be a happy b-b-birthday!”
Well at least part of the big dumb animal is still in there. But it seems like even he’s pretty pissed off. I guess he has a right to be. Businessman or retard, it’s the same hair still smoking. It’s the same face with little shards of glass under the skin. I’ve enraged him and no girlish charm, no attempts at manipulation are going to stop him now. We’re past mind games at this point. He’s gonna lay me out on his mattress and rape me. He’s gonna rape me until I beg for death and then he probably still won’t even kill me. He’ll throw me back into that fucking basement and keep me alive on water and Powerbars just so he can fuck me and fuck me and fuck me until I die from malnutrition or find a way to kill myself.
Welcome to hell.
He leans down and scoops me up again. I’m in too much pain and too exhausted to offer any kind of resistance. He carries me through a door at the side of the kitchen and down some long, unlit hallway. He stops in front of another threshold then enters quickly. The room is dark, but it seems like Eric knows exactly where he’s going. He drops me on a mattress and wanders over to the doorway. He turns on the light and I can see his face is bleeding and his hair is missing in patches. Some hair has managed to melt to his skull. His surgical mask has fallen off, leaving his mouth exposed. Remnants of dinner cling to his lips as blood leaks down to join them. Before he looked like a psychopath; now he just looks like a monster.
“Please,” I manage to stammer through a mouth of spit and blood. “Please just kill me. I can’t do this anymore. Please, please just kill me.”
The monster shakes his head emphatically. “No, no, NO, NO! You’re gonna g-give me my b-b-birthday present.” Businessman and retard have melded into one horrifying, inarticulate killer. “I’m gonna g-get a b-b-birthday present if I have to take it from you… FUCKING BITCH!”
He advances, moving towards me with intense determination. I shift slightly on the mattress in a desperate attempt to keep as far away from him as possible. I feel the cold steel of the handcuff press against my left wrist. The dangling circle of metal that was cuffed around the chair’s arm cannot be opened without the key, but it can still be tightened by simply pressing the steel loops together. Eric had fastened the cuff loosely around the chair’s arm, so there is a lot of room to tighten. A crazy idea begins to form in my nearly delirious brain. I may still have a chance… at the very least a chance to do some damage to Eric before he ruins my life any further.
He’s standing over the mattress now, just an arm’s length away. He reaches down for my legs and begins to pull my pants off with savage strength. I offer little resistance, waiting for my opportunity to unleash the Hail Mary play in the back of my head. Eric is grunting like an animal now. He throws my jeans to floor and goes to work on my panties. Excited—and maybe a little frustrated—Eric simply rips the thin fabric of my underwear and yanks it away from my sweaty skin.
The fucker is salivating now. That’s right you piece of shit. Drop those drawers. Let’s see that awful little pecker of yours.
He removes the jumpsuit and exposes himself. His dick’s already hard and surprisingly large. With such a timid and idiotic demeanor I expected some puny little cock… possibly even deformed. But Eric’s packing down there, which actually makes my plan a little easier.
“This is gonna be the best b-b-birthday ever,” he says as drool falls from his mouth. He moves to the mattress, but before he can properly mount me I grab his dick in my bloody right hand. I yank my cuffed left hand up and before he knows it, his cock is locked in the dangling cuff. I squeeze the shackle as tight as they’ll go and he screams a piercing high-pitch scream, the likes of which I’ve never heard from a man. His monster face—formally confident, enthusiastic and unwavering—contorts to that of a young boy whose puppy has just been run over right in front of him.
I roll off the mattress and pull my left hand as hard as I can. Eric screams that same stringent yelp and falls face first on the mattress. I can hear him sobbing now. I yank my left hand again and again. He screams. One more time and I hear a sickening tearing sound—not as extreme as Velcro, but enough to give the impression that I had done my job.
I pull away and lean my back against the wall. A pool of blood is collecting beneath Eric on the bed and he’s sobbing like a little girl. Clenched in the steadfast grip of the dangling cuff is his dick, blood pouring lazily from its severed base. I can hear muffled, teary insults emanating from Eric’s mouth. He’s sobbing and rolling around on the mattress, his hands buried beneath him, holding the area where his cock used to be. I use this time to regain some composure. I start smacking my legs again. The pins and needles have grown more intense. That’s probably a good thing. And as much as I’m enjoying watching that piece of shit writhing in pain, floundering around in his own dick-blood, I figure it might be best to remove myself from the room.
I crawl out into the dark hallway, my naked lower body sliding over the disgusting floor. I can still hear Eric screaming behind me. I pull myself down the hallway, Eric’s cuffed pecker dragging by my side. The strength that had left me earlier has returned. Something about ripping off a psycho’s dick is strangely empowering.
I’m back in the smoky kitchen. I can see the knife on the floor in front of the sink. I crawl over and grab it, propping myself up against the base of the counter. The screams from the bedroom have dissipated, but they haven’t ceased entirely. They’ve turned into weak moans.
Knife in hand, I continue to try and move my legs. They’re responding a little more now. I reach up to the countertop and hoist myself to my feet. To my surprise I manage to keep myself up using the counter for support. I’m feeling pretty confident now, despite my total lack of pants or underwear.
“How’s it hanging in there asshole?” I call to the bedroom. “Oh wait… I’m sorry… it’s actually hanging out here… from my fucking hand!”
Silence from the bedroom. Not even a moan now. I peer down the hallway towards the room. The light’s still on, but I don’t hear a sound. Maybe he’s passed out. Maybe he’s gone into shock. If I thought my legs were competent enough I’d hobble down there and finish the job, but I’m worried I’ll only make it a few steps before they give out. Better to stay here for a few more minutes and wait for my legs to get used to standing again. I’ve got the advantage now.
Whether it’s the adrenaline or just the amount of time that has elapsed, I feel the drugs much less now. I begin to look around the room for a phone. I’m not especially surprised when I don’t see one. Something tells me Eric doesn’t have a lot of people to reach out and touch.
Suddenly I hear a rustling from down the hall. Un-fucking-believable! Eric’s standing in the doorway to the bedroom, hunched over, jumpsuit bunched around his ankles, blood spurting from his nether regions. The look on his face is murderous but weak. Alright big guy, if you want to do this, let’s fucking do this.
I shoot him a condescending look then hold up the piece of him I’ve taken. “Looking for something?”
He lets out a battle cry and starts running down the hallway towards me. He’s limping, but moving faster than I would expect, especially considering the jumpsuit around his ankles. I grasp the knife tightly behind my back and wait. I’m afraid to shy away from the counter. The last thing I need is to lose my footing and end up back on the floor.
He’s bearing down, unaware that I have a weapon. He’s within reach and I stick out the knife. It plunges into his midsection, only a few inches above his other wound. The knife catches him off guard and he leans forward, inadvertently burying the knife deeper as he falls into me. Amazingly he manages enough strength to throw me in the direction of the open cellar door. My legs still unsteady, I have to catch myself before tumbling headfirst down the basement stairs.
Eric turns, the knife still in his belly. He removes it with gut-wrenching speed, sending a quick fountain of gore splashing across the room. He somehow steadies himself and begins to lumber towards me. I freeze, unwilling to retreat to the basement, knowing that he could simply close the door and lock me down there, placing me back at square one. I do my best to sidestep his attack. He misses me with the blade but manages to tackle me onto the rickety basement stairs. And that does it for them. With no real warning, the stairs give out completely, splitting in the middle and dropping us both ten feet to the cement floor below.
I land hard. Fortunately he lands to the side of me and not on top. I’m stunned, but not hurt as bad as I could be. I search for the knife, hoping it has fallen from his hand. But there it is, clenched tight in the monster’s claws. He looks like he may be unconscious. The blood from his two wounds is already pooling beneath him. Without hesitation I reach over and pull the knife from his hand. He mutters something incomprehensible, but it’s too late. I’m already plunging the knife into his back. He’s face first on the concrete and I mount him, his huge body between my legs as I dig the knife in... remove... and repeat. The blood splatters all over me, cascading my face, shirt, arms, pussy… everything. He’s gurgling but not screaming.
“FUCK YOU!” I scream every time I bury the knife into his flesh. “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!”
I bury the knife again and again—one for each missed birthday. He wouldn’t tell me his age, so I estimate. I figure he must be at least thirty-five… maybe thirty-six… maybe thirty-seven. I suppose we might as well make it an even forty.
I dismount, my bare ass smacking against the cold cement floor, my body covered in Eric’s blood. His back is nothing more than than a collection of bloody gopher holes; a dripping pile of soon-to-be-rotting hamburger meat.
I don't think I've ever been more satisfied with myself.
I look up at the broken stairs and wonder if I’ll be able to reach high enough to get the fuck out of here. Not a chance. I look throughout the dim basement. The blood has splattered the single light bulb, casting a crimson hue across the entire cellar. I see a nightstand in one of the corners and—deciding that my legs are about as good as they’re going to get for the time being—I limp over, grab the nightstand and drag it back to the stairs.
I climb laboriously on top of the nightstand and reach up to the broken top of the stairs, Eric’s severed dick still cuffed to my left hand. With home on my mind, I concentrate all my strength and pull myself up. Back in the kitchen I look down into the dreary basement at the pile of raked flesh. I spit down on him.
I move down the hall to the bedroom and pick up my jeans off the floor. Not ideal apparel by any stretch of the imagination, but it beats the other option.
Shuffling back to the kitchen, I catch a glimpse of what remains of Eric’s birthday cake. I walk over to the counter and pick it up then move towards the basement door and throw it down on top of the monster’s lifeless body. Then I pull his cock from the dangling handcuff and toss it down next to the cake.
So here it is: Part 2 of "A Happy Birthday." If you haven't checked out Part 1 yet (posted below this one), please do so before you dive into this one, otherwise you might feel a little lost. I hope you enjoy it. And make sure to check back in a week for the conclusion.
The stars sprinkle the black canvas of night like luminescent sugar crystals dusting the dark rim of some tropical drink. It’s cool out—the first legitimate autumn night of the season. It feels great. Jake, Alley and Chris are all gone, but I like to have this time to myself, just to lay out on the sand with a joint and ease my mind. Another week or so and I won’t have this time to myself. Jake and I will be fucking on a regular basis—maybe even in a legit relationship—and conventions (along with Alley and Chris) will have us hanging out constantly. Alley just can’t understand how I enjoy my alone time. It seems like a lot of girls can’t. Alley’s been on my ass to fuck Jake and have a normal relationship, and I guess that’s where we’re heading, but for the time being I’m going to enjoy this beautiful night. I’m going to milk this nice buzz, smoke this joint and let myself drift through the sky. It’ll give me a little time to exorcise the alcohol before the drive home anyway—a drive that will take about four minutes—which was my excuse for sticking around when everyone decided to call it a night
Jake’s a nice guy, so of course he offered to drive me home. But never underestimate the power of a girl during the courting process. He wants me. It’s fucking obvious. And yes, I want him too, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to look over-anxious. And I know he feels the same way. So, when I told him I’d be fine and gave him a sweet little peck on the cheek, he departed with Chris and Alley. Alley gave me that ‘what the fuck are you doing’ look, but I’m not feeling the company tonight. I’ve got plenty of time to develop something with Jake, so tonight is all about me and the stars.
And wow, those stars are stupendous! I exhale a cloud of smoke that floats across my field of vision, giving the stars a slightly dulled appearance. This is one of the few advantages of the Long Island suburbs on the North Shore: private beaches. During high school and upon returning from college, the beaches are clutch for some low-key partying. Going to bars for every social gathering becomes expensive and boring. And we’re just too far east to head into the city every weekend. So a little fresh air and gorgeous scenery can be a nice change of pace now and then.
There’s crackling behind me. Are you serious? Tell me these fucking kids did not come back to check on me. I’m really not in the mood. I’m too stoned to play with Jake and I really don’t want a scolding from Alley for not going home with him. Seriously, why can’t people just let me do what I want to do? I’m twenty-two years old. I shouldn’t feel this sort of pressure from my friends.
There’s definitely someone there. It could just be some kids from the neighborhood looking to blaze one or drink a few beers. Ugh… they’re all so much younger than me. I have zero desire to deal with that right now. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to tell all they’re friends how they smoked a joint with some hot 22-year-old, but interacting with high schoolers is really not high on my list of priorities for the evening.
Silence now. No more leaves crackling. No footsteps on the sand. Maybe it was a raccoon or a cat or something. I’m probably just paranoid from the weed.
Wait… seriously, I really think there’s someone there. Probably the high school kids. Maybe they’ll see someone down here and just move along. Sorry, no room at the inn kids, find a different spot.
The path down to the beach is long and dark. I can hear movement, but no voices and it’s not lit well enough to see. To be safe, I extinguish the joint on the bottom of my sneaker and put the roach in my pocket.
You know what, fuck this. Whoever it is has already ruined the atmosphere so I might as well get going. I start heading for the path.
“The beach is all yours,” I call out surprisingly amicably. “No worries, I’m getting out of here.”
No response.
Well, whatever. I begin to head up the path. It seems darker than when we came down here, so I take out my cell phone and open it to provide a little illumination. The path looks like a long, dark serpent, the fauna slithering on all sides of me thanks to the cool autumn breeze. Wait… is that someone at the head of the path? Maybe I’m just stoned. It looks too big to be a person. Definitely too big to be some high school kid. Maybe I’m bugging, but that really looks like a person.
“Hello?” I call out. No response.
Shit… okay this is kind of creepy. What the fuck do I do? Head back down to the beach and swim for it? Fuck that. I’m being ridiculous. Hey paranoia, take a fucking chill pill. If that’s some dude, he’s probably heading down here to do the same thing I was just doing. Hell, maybe he’s even cute.
Well I’m sure I look pretty ridiculous just standing here. Let’s work up the courage and get out of here. C’mon babe, time to move.
I continue to walk and it only takes about another five steps to realize that is definitely one big dude standing at the top of the path. Shit, that guy is huge. What the fuck is he doing here?
“Um… hey,” I offer timidly. “What’s up? I was just on my way out so if you were looking for some alone time down here… well… it’s all yours.”
He’s just standing there. He’s not saying a word. Fuck me, this is getting weird. I stop walking. Shit, he’s moving towards me, and pretty quickly too. Fuck, he’s really moving.
“Hey man, I’m not trying to get in anyone’s way or anything. I’m leaving…”
Oh shit, he’s almost running now. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fuck do I do? I can’t make it past him, no chance in hell. I turn around and run back towards the beach. I’m sure the water is pretty fucking cold by now, but I’ll be damned if I’m ending up as a head on some psycho’s wall.
I’m back on the sand now, sprinting for the water. Shit, he really is chasing me. Oh God, please don’t let this guy catch me. Please don’t let this guy catch me.
I hit the cold water and lurch forward, ready to swim. That’s when I feel his big hand on my shoulder. Christ, it feels like a fucking Christmas ham. He’s got a tight grip on my shoulder, but the water makes me slippery and I manage to squirm loose. I’m trying to swim now, but he grabs my shirt. I turn around and kick him in the balls… hard. He doubles over with a short caveman-like grunt. I manage to get loose again, but he regains his composure unbelievably quickly and swings something at me.
He misses and I see the sharp edge glisten in the moonlight. It’s too small to be knife. Oh my God, it’s a fucking needle. This guy’s got a fucking needle!
I’m peddling backwards at this point, but my leg catches on a rock and I fall back right as he takes another swing with the needle. It catches a clump of skin on the top of my shoulder, cuts through the flesh and then plunges into my neck. It’s still stuck in there as I continue to swim away, but I become exhausted almost immediately. I start to sink…
sink…
sink…
sink…
I wake up. Shit, how long was I out for? Did he drug the Powerbar?
Oh that dream… THAT FUCKING DREAM! Every time I fall asleep or he drugs me I have that same fucking dream. Every time I make the same fucking decision: to stay on the beach and hang out by myself. By the sixth or seventh time you’d think I’d wise up.
As if it’s not bad enough being locked in this freak’s basement, I have to be haunted by my own bad decisions every time I lose consciousness. There’s no peace. Awake or asleep, I’m miserable.
I barely have time to shake the dream from my mind before I hear his heavy steps heading for the basement door again. Great. Just what I’ve been waiting for: quality time with Freakshow.
The door opens and he’s on the stairs, but I don’t hear him close the door behind him. Is psycho getting sloppy? Shit, no… I totally forgot. It’s birthday dinner date night. Fuck, I need to get it together. If I’m ever going to have any kind of opening to make a run for it, this will undoubtedly be the night. I can’t be too anxious—Lord knows the last thing I want is Big Birthday Boy skull-fucking my lifeless body—but I need to stay alert. I need to keep my eyes open for some chance to escape.
He’s already down the stairs and making his way over to me. Ohhh, he’s excited tonight. I can see it in his movements. Wait… are you fucking kidding me? He doesn’t really have one of those pointy party hats in his hand, does he? Is he really going to make me wear that thing?
“Happy b-b-b-birthday to me.” He’s fucking singing to himself. This big fucking retard is actually singing to himself. Unreal. “C-C’mon now. You have to s-ssssing for me.”
He’s already standing over me, looking down with child-like anticipation in his eyes. What can I do? If I want any chance of getting out of here I need to keep him appeased. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear… I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
His smile is practically ear-to-ear. I can see the corner of his lips peaking out behind the surgical mask. “Eric,” he says with all the shy yet jovial reservation of a 5-year-old. “My name is Eric.”
I continue, sounding sweet, almost flirtatious. “Happy birthday dear Eric. Happy birthday to you.”
He lets out this gleeful little screech, then laughs and shuffles. “See, we’re gonna have so much f-f-fun tonight!”
He leans down and puts the ridiculous little hat on my head, making sure the elastic is secured below my chin. The smell of his hairspray is almost suffocating. Yeah, the moron obviously went the extra mile to look good on his birthday. He leans over and looks me in the eyes, but the businessman is not here right now. It’s all jubilant man-boy, making no attempt to conceal his excitement. “N-Now just you remember: You need to b-behave. I d-d-don’t want to hurt you.”
I smile as sweetly as I can. “I’ll behave,” I tell him. “I promise.”
He nods. Then in one amazingly smooth movement he reaches into the pocket of his jumpsuit, pulls out a needle and sticks it in my neck.
“What the fuck?” I snarl, any trace of sweetness gone from my voice. “What are you doing? I thought you trusted me.”
“D-Don’t worry,” he’s still grinning that terrible grin. “It won’t m-make you sleep. It’ll just make you a little more c-c-calm.”
Well he’s right about that. I can feel it almost immediately. I feel relaxed—good even—but this is going to make me slow. I won’t be alert. This fuck isn’t as dumb as I thought. It’s going to take a huge break for me to forge any kind of escape attempt. I don’t even know if I can run.
I can feel him behind me. He’s unlocking the chains. He puts his big arms under mine and yanks me up to my feet.
I haven’t stood up in God knows how long. My legs are atrophied. Combined with whatever drug he’s given me I almost fall right over onto my face, but he supports me. Then, all of a sudden I’m in his arms. He scoops me up, undoubtedly aware of my inability to carry my own weight. We’re heading for the basement stairs, and for a fleeting moment I become worried that the stairs will be unable to support us. But this anxiety falls from my body. Who cares? It just doesn’t matter.
Before I know it we’re at the top of the stairs, emerging into what appears to be a very old and poorly kept kitchen. The room is dim and there are candles everywhere. Even in the muted light I can see the filth plastered to the old white linoleum floor. The countertops are stained with mildew and grime. The sink looks as though it hasn’t been used in years. The room smells of rot and decay. The smell is so strong it actually makes it a little tough to breathe. It smells worse than the basement.
In the center of the kitchen is a small wooden table with settings for two. There are two small candles in the middle of the table burning laboriously. He carries me over and places me delicately in one of the chairs. He takes a set of handcuffs from the counter and places one cuff on my wrist and the other around the wooden arm of the old chair. None of this bodes well for any kind of escape attempt. I have to give the psycho some credit, he sure is careful.
Eric sits down across from me. “Most of my b-b-birthdays aren’t very nice,” he says. “I d-don’t have a lot of luck with that. But this one is gonna be p-perfect. You know I was watching you for m-m-months before I took you. You always looked so p-p-pretty.” He eyes me with adoration. It’s almost tough to remember the killer businessman I met yesterday. This Eric seems crazy, but not murderous.
He stands up suddenly. “Let me get dinner.”
He moves over to the counter. I use this time to scan the room for a weapon. The utensils he’s provided on the table are plastic… no luck there. I try to look at the filthy countertop, but my eyes are having a tough time focusing. There appear to be piles, but I can’t make out any single object. Fuck. Even the dinner plates are paper—no way to knock him out with one of those.
He returns with two steaming microwave dinners. He places one on the paper plate in front of me. “And I’ve got cake for d-d-dessert.”
He returns to his seat across from me and digs right into his steaming pile of microwave dinner. Amazingly he keeps the surgical mask on. He manages to stuff the forkfuls under the bottom of it. Of course much of the food finds itself stuck to the mask, but he seems undeterred. He looks up from food and stares at me. “You sh-sh-should really eat something. You’ll n-need your energy for later.”
For later? Oh dear God, he is going to fuck me. Eric is looking for a little b-b-birthday loving and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. Christ, he’s almost finished with his dinner! I need to slow things down here. C’mon, focus. Take control. This retard is wrapped around your finger and he doesn’t even know it. Use that.
I pick up the plastic fork and start to dig into the pile of food in front of me. I shovel some in my mouth. I can’t even tell what I’m eating. My hunger isn’t nearly as pervasive as it has been; probably dulled by whatever drug he pumped into my neck. Despite my slow movements, my mind is racing frantically, trying to find a foothold on something to stall him with. I need to get him talking. I need to control the pace here.
“So Eric,” my voice comes out distant and tenuous. “Why haven’t you had many good birthdays?”
He stops chewing. A clump of food actually falls from beneath the surgical mask back onto the plate. He stares down, refusing to meet my gaze. Shit. This has slowed him down, but I may have hit a nerve with this one. Stupid! So fucking stupid!
He seems to regain himself though. He looks up but doesn’t look me in the eyes. “B-B-Birthdays have been bad for me.”
I want him to elaborate, just to control the pace, but I don’t want to push him. This may have been the wrong move. Fuck! Of all the bullshit background questions I could have asked, this is what I come up with. These fucking drugs! I can’t even think straight.
To my surprise, he continues. “When I was young, my m-m-mommy was mean to me. Sh-she never remembered my b-b-birthday. One time she tried to hit me on my b-b-birthday, but I made her stop.” His voice drops after a brief pause. The businessman returns with that same disturbing confidence. “I made mommy sing me happy birthday over and over and over again for all the years she missed. I had to make sure she’d never forget again. Every time she sung it she got a candle in her mouth. A candle for every year she missed. But she missed a lot of years. After a while mommy couldn’t’ sing anymore. After a while mommy couldn’t breathe anymore.” He looked back down at his food and put another forkful in his mouth beneath the mask. The timid idiot returned with hope in his voice. “But you won’t forget my b-b-birthday, right? You’ll always remember my b-b-birthday won’t you?”
I’m trying not to look overly disturbed. I’m trying to look calm despite the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. “Yes Eric,” I say shakily. “Yes, I’ll always remember your birthday.”
The fat slob smiles and goes back to his dinner. That was a little too close. I want to keep that businessman buried. But I still need to slow him down. I need to think. Shit, he’s already done with his dinner. Next comes cake, then comes the real dessert. I’m running out of time.
He stands up with his plate and brings it over to the counter. I start to think frantically. The chair is old and weak. If I can catch this guy off guard, if I can knock him out with something, I could probably break the arm of the chair. But my legs are fucked. I have no idea if they’ll even be able to carry me. I also don’t have a lot of time and I may never get another chance upstairs, away from the thick chains and locked door. I need to think fast or Eric’s going to have me laid out on his filthy mattress in no time.
He’s still hovering over the counter. What’s he doing? Holy shit, he’s cutting the cake. He’s cutting the cake with a big fucking butcher’s knife. If I can catch him by surprise and get that knife, I’ll jam it right in his fucking throat; right in the same place he’s stuck me with that goddam needle so many times. But I need something to hit him with.
I look at the table in front of me. The candles are held in little glass cups and they look like they could be reasonably heavy. If I can smash this over his head maybe it will stun him enough for me to grab the knife. Oh please God, let this work. But I need him to put the knife down first. I can’t attack him while he’s still got it in his hands.
So here's the first part of "A Happy Birthday"... for all my fellow Halloween lovers, gore-hounds, and generally unstable individuals. Parts 2 and 3 will be posted on subsequent Tuesdays (Part 2 on 10/21 and Part 3 on 10/28). The first part is actually pretty mild. I think in the creative writing biz it's called 'set up.' I really had a good time writing this whole piece though. It was a blast experimenting with horror conventions and even cliches. It was even kind of cathartic to write such a bloody, violent finale (yeah... you'll see when it's posted). Mwahahahaha! Anyway, I hope this helps to get everyone in the Halloween spirit. Enjoy!
That’s it. He’s going to rape me.
I just know he’s going to fucking rape me. Why else would I be here?
I can hear him shuffling around in the room above, his heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor. Every time that fat psycho takes a step I can watch the dust particles float down like tiny, filthy snowflakes. Every now and then the particles fall into my hair… not that I can lift my hands enough to brush away their grimy, wood-like traces.
I think this cut on my shoulder is getting infected. I don’t even know how long I’ve been down here. At first when he came down with that fucking syringe I used to fight. I was generally a good little abductee until he took out the needle. Then I’d squirm and spit and bite and do everything in my bounded power to avoid being stuck with it. It’s not like it even hurt terribly—believe me, after being attacked, beaten and locked in some disgusting cellar, a little pin prick isn’t so intimidating—but losing track of time sucks. As soon as that needle enters my arm or neck, it takes less than a minute for me to blackout. It’s not like there are windows down here. It’s fucking subterranean. It could be three in the afternoon on my third day as a captive, or six in the morning on my fourth week. I have no idea.
Recently though, I’ve just been letting him stick me. I’m tired, hungry, thirsty and I just don’t have the energy to resist. Especially since it never seems to do any good. Sometimes he’ll just kick me in the stomach until I stop giving him trouble. He’ll never hit me in the face—I shudder to think as to why—but he’s landed some swift kicks to my midsection without hesitation.
I think he drugs me before he goes out, just to make sure I don’t get any bright escape ideas. Any time I’m awake I can hear him upstairs. For all I know he’s already fucked me, shamelessly pumped his puny dick into my unconscious body. Jesus Chris… what if I’m fucking pregnant? Somehow I doubt this piece of shit is big on condoms. The Antichrist could be materializing in my womb as we speak. Just great.
At least this time he left the light on for me, although sometimes I think I’d rather sit here in the dark, oblivious to just how grotesque this place is, ignorant to the bugs and vermin scuttling around in the darkened corners. There’s just one light. It flickers, hanging from the ceiling by a thin chord. It looks like the bulb’s on its last leg. It’s probably only got another few hours in it before it dies, passing away into the peaceful great beyond of non-luminescence. I should be so fucking lucky.
Oh shit… he’s coming! Fuck. I can hear him unlocking the door at the top of those wooden steps, the steps that look like they could give out at any minute. It’s amazing they can support his weight.
I squirm, hoping that during the course of my unconsciousness the chains scraping my wrists raw had miraculously loosened. Of course they’re still as tight and heavy as they have been. I can feel the patches of scaly rust digging into my skin. When did I get my last Tetanus shot? Fuck, like that even matters. This guy’s gonna come down here and stick his awful little dick inside me and I’m worried about Tetanus. I must be losing it.
The door’s opening. I can hear its old hinges creaking in the most torturously slow and deliberate manner. He’s on the stairs now. I can hear them shifting beneath his weight. His enormous figure enters into the flickering light slowly. He wears the same thing every time he comes down here: an old, off-white jumpsuit (that may or may not have been pure white when purchased) and a blue surgical mask over his face. He must be at least 6-foot-five. Maybe 250 pounds. He navigates the stairs carefully, undoubtedly aware of their apparent potential to buckle and collapse at any point. I pray for them to collapse every time; pray for him to fall face first to the cold cement floor; pray for the blood to leak from his nose and mouth through that fucking surgical mask.
But then what? Then I’m stuck down here hoping some compassionate individual will stumble upon me. How long could that take? I don’t even know where I am. I could be in fucking North Dakota for all I know. This piece of shit could have driven across the country to lock me down here. I could easily die from thirst or starvation or infection before anyone even finds me. I could be a rotting corpse with the bugs and rats feasting on my disintegrating flesh before anyone figures out I’m down here.
I can see his hands. Every time he’s got a bottle of Poland Spring in his right gloved hand and a Powerbar in his left gloved hand. Flashbacks to late-night college study sessions. I used to survive on that shit when I was cramming for an exam. Now I’m literally surviving on that shit. Maybe that’s irony. Or maybe that’s just some sick, callous god rubbing my fucking face in this situation. Seriously, what the fuck did I do to deserve this? How the fuck does this happen to me?
He finally steps onto the cement floor. He pauses for a moment at the base of the stairs—like he’s collecting his thoughts or building up his courage—then he advances on me. He ducks his head to avoid smacking it on the hanging light bulb. With only a short walk between the stairs and where I’m chained, he’s towering over me in no time, staring down at me with cold brown eyes. He stinks of cheap hairspray, as he always does. I can see the hardened filaments of his long, brown hair glisten in the flickering light.
“Y-Y-You look pretty tod-day,” he stutters. He always sounds like a fucking retard when he talks to me. At first I thought that maybe it meant he was nervous and thinking twice about what he’s done. Now I just think he’s completely socially inept and has no idea how to talk to a pretty girl. I mean I may not be the hottest piece of ass in the world, but I know I’m pretty fucking attractive. Sometimes I feel like any time he opens his mouth he’s just going to puke all over me cause he’s so nervous. Fucking pathetic.
“Fuck you,” I yell back at him. “Fuck you, you sick freak. Let me the fuck out…”
And just like that, a kick to the stomach. Sitting down with my ass on the cold cement, I double over as much as the chains will let me.
“W-What have I told you about that m-m-mouth of yours? You were so s-sssweet when I first brought you down here.”
He’s right, I was. At least when the needle wasn’t present. Initially I thought if I were a sweet little thing he’d feel sorry for me and let me go. Yeah… no dice on that one. Now I’m just a cunt to him because I like to see him get flustered. I like to see the doubt in his eyes as he wonders if he’s really in control. Fuck this psycho. If he wants to kill me, he can kill me. I’m sick of pissing and shitting in a fucking bucket, sitting next to my own excrement until he decides to come down here and take it away, waiting for him to offer me scraps of food and just enough water to keep me from totally dehydrating.
“Yeah, well that’s before I realized what a heartless, fat, pathetic fuck you…”
Whack! Another kick to the midsection. This one came closer to my chest. The pain is persistent, more sharp than usual. I think he may have shattered a rib.
“Now you be g-good,” he spouts like an idiot. “I d-d-don’t want to hurt you. You just be good to me and you’ll be f-f-fine.”
“F-F-Fuck you,” I mimic and spit in his direction, but I’m dehydrated so the spit only falls from my mouth onto my already filthy shirt.
I can’t see his mouth, but I can see the corners of his cheeks elevate. He’s smiling. What a sick bastard.
“C-C’mon now, no reason to be a FILTHY LITTLE BITCH!” He shouts the last words with such a sudden and unexpected ferocity that I instinctively push myself back against the wall behind me as hard as I can. He twitches like some insect is stinging his face. Clearly the abrupt anger and volume were as startling to him as they were to me. He positions his eyes on the floor and appears as though he’s contemplating something deeply. “S-See,” he’s back to his normal, timid, retard tone now. “I don’t like to yell. I don’t like to s-s-scare you. But sometimes you’re just so m-mean to me.”
I could be wrong, but for a second it looks like a tear may be forming in his right eye. Oh God, this guy is completely fucking batshit crazy. Maybe I should take the attitude down a notch if I don’t want his dirty cock shoved in me this second. “I’m sorry,” I say with as much pitiable sweetness as I can muster. “I’m just so scared. It’s cold down here and I’m hungry and thirsty and I just want to go home.”
“Well I brought you some f-food and water and I can bring you down a b-b-blanket in a little bit.” He’s already untwisting the cap from the bottle of water. “And if you can just b-be a good girl, I’ll get you home s-s-sssoon.”
As much as this should strike me as utter bullshit, I fall for it like a pre-pubescent teen gushing over their favorite Hollywood heartthrob. “Really? You’ll let me go home? You’ll take me home to my family. Cause you totally can.” I’m completely rambling at this point. “I have no idea where we are. I haven’t seen your face. You can let me go and I couldn’t even turn you in if I wanted to.”
He leans down and pushes the open bottle of water against my dry, cracked lips. He tilts the bottle and I drink greedily. The water isn’t even cold, but it feels so good pouring down my throat. Once my mouth is full I pull my head back and some of the water splashes on my shirt. He places the bottle on the ground next to me and begins to unwrap the Powerbar.
“You know t-tomorrow’s my b-b-b-birthday?” He asks this question non-rhetorically, as if I might actually know it’s his birthday. He also seems to have exceptional trouble saying the word ‘birthday.’
My ribs are killing me. Another kick and I could be in serious trouble, so I play along with him. “Is it really? How old are you going to be?”
He does that creepy little twitch again to accompany that creepy smile. Even without being able to see his mouth, it still sends chills down my spine. “Now d-d-don’t you know it’s rude to ask s-s-someone’s age?” He leans down and sticks the unwrapped Powerbar in front of my mouth. I bite down and chew. I’m so fucking hungry so it tastes incredible. Before I’m even finished chewing I take another bite.
He pulls the Powerbar away from my mouth and shuffles awkwardly—even more awkwardly than usual. “S-So will you have d-d-dinner with me tomorrow for my b-b-b-birthday?”
Just great. Psycho-tard wants to have a fucking dinner date. The thought is so infuriating that I almost burst out with another hate-filled attack. But I take a moment and realize I might be able to work with this. “Well, I’d love to have dinner with you, but don’t you think it’s kind of depressing to celebrate your birthday in this dreary basement? Don’t you think it would be more… romantic…” Even saying the word makes me nauseous to the point of nearly gagging. I try to play it off like I’m having an issue with some Powerbar remnants. “Don’t you think it would be nicer and more romantic if we at least went upstairs? It’s so filthy and cold down here and these chains are cutting my wrists and I just don’t see how we could have any kind of celebration down here.”
He thinks and twitches, thinks and twitches, shuffles awkwardly, thinks and twitches. He may be a psychopath, but I know how to manipulate a guy with a crush. Turns out college was excellent practice for that. But I have to be careful; a guy with a crush can be easily manipulated, but he can also turn on you dangerously quickly if he thinks you’re fucking with him. And somehow I’m pretty sure if this guy turns, it will get real ugly real fast.
After what feels like minutes of contemplation he finally agrees. “Okay,” he says and then squats down so he’s looking me right in the eyes. A vile combination of cheap hairspray and noxious breath invades my nasal cavities and his stare is cold and evil. I’ve never seen what a killer’s stare looks like, but I’ll be damned if this isn’t it. “But you have to be good.” The timid retard has suddenly evaporated from his speech. He’s a businessman now, speaking flawlessly and matter-of-factly. “If you don’t behave I’ll fucking gut you. I’ll fucking gut you and fuck your entrails while you’re still alive and watching.”
Wow. I’ve never seen him so in-control, so confident. With his previously unstable speech it was tough to picture him as anything but a big, dumb animal. But this last threat was calculating and certain, like he was just completely giving in to his inner killer. It’s so fucking frightening. The tears start welling in my eyes as I nod my head frantically. “Yes, I’ll be good.” I’m speaking through a mouth of spit as tears stream down my cheeks. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
