A Happy Birthday

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.” 

He nods—still cool killer cowboy—then stands back up. He picks up the water bottle and pushes it back to my lips. I regain control of my emotions enough to take another sip. He offers me some more Powerbar and I accept, still chewing as he puts the cap on the water and begins to walk back to the stairs. I’m relieved that he doesn’t use Mr. Needle, but there’s something so ominous about his ascent up those stairs, something so demonic, and the tears begin to form again. For the first time since I’ve been down here, I begin to accept the fact that I probably will not see my home or family ever again. 

*Part 2 to be posted 10/21/08.

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