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Suburban HellThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Max Booth III | |
| Wednesday, 13 August 2008 | |
Suburban Hell
I
I wake up like it’s just another ordinary day. I sit up with unexpected happiness and stretch my arms as far as possible, cracking my neck in the process. Why am I in such a good mood this morning? Maybe it’s because it feels like I’ve been sleeping for a very long time. Seems like ages of dreamless sleep, but I only fell asleep a couple hours ago, right? No more than four hours ago I was wrapped around in a blanket on the sofa, watching a boring paid programming show about weight loss. Not that I need to lose weight or anything … uh, okay, maybe I’m kidding myself. It wouldn’t be bad to lose a couple of pounds. I’m a little pudgy, I guess. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though. The wife would have a field day, laughing her ass off and exclaiming; “A little!?” She gets on my nerves sometimes with her loud, obnoxious laughter. Her unnatural German-like pig tails. I don’t think she knows what the word ‘humor’ means, since she’ll laugh at anything and anyone at any giving second. But I still love her. She’s the keeper of my heart. Wait, speaking of Berta; where the hell is she? Usually she’s sleeping in and I’m the one who has to wake her lazy bones up, but she isn’t in bed. Her body indentation isn’t even left on the mattress. Little Chance probably woke up early and shook her awake. They’re most likely in the kitchen eating some breakfast, even though that is almost unheard of in the Richards household. Berta’s cooking isn’t exactly Hell’s Kitchen material, if you know what I mean. I hop up out of bed and slide my cold feet into those repulsive Shrek slippers that Chance bought me for Christmas last year. Of course I tell him that I love the slippers, but in all truth I want to hurl them into the fireplace. They’re not even comfortable, just really rough and itchy. Not to mention the fact of how ugly they are. I have the head of a giant green ogre on each of my feet for Christ’s sake! But all is well. Chance is a cheeky bugger he is, and I love him to death for it; no matter what. I walk to the window and glance out, hoping that some of the snow melted. Last night I was barely able to get my Explorer into the driveway. I am flabbergasted, now, to see not one single speck of snow anywhere. Not on my car, the ground, the road, the trees. Nowhere. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I mutter to myself. I close the blinds, scratch the back of my neck, and head out of the bedroom. A quick walk through the hallway and living room and I find myself in a remote kitchen. The only human among this room is me. Where the hell are they? I speed walk towards Chance’s room and still no sign of either of them. Chance’s bed is made, though. I start panicking like a madman. It feels like I’m losing my feet so I slide my back down the wall and sit on the carpet floor. Where the hell could they be? I mean, there are only so many places, right? Would Berta really take Chance to school without even waking me up? That seems highly unlikely. She isn’t the kind of person to do such a thing. Trust me; I’ve been living with the woman for ten years now. She is the worrying type, so she would make damn well sure I knew if she was leaving. She’s just like that. Now I’m worrying. Panicking is more like it. That isn’t good, though. You can’t think straight when you start to panic. I’m sweating profusely and my head just got nailed with a runaway train of disorientated thoughts. I have to get calm and fast. I’m sure there is a rational explanation. What time is it anyways? I look down at my left wrist and I’m dumbfounded to see my watch is missing. I never take my watch off, even when I’m in the shower, so why would it not be on me now? I suppose it’s possible that it may have slipped off my wrist while I was asleep, but that would be the first time ever. I notice something else strange; there isn’t the usual red impression of the watch on my wrist. Everybody gets those, even if you’re only wearing one for a few hours. And I’ve been wearing one ever since I was a kid. I scratch the back of my neck and then struggle to my feet. The first couple steps I stagger like a drunk, but I soon regain my balance. When I get to the kitchen I am stunned once again to find the clock hanging above the sink missing. Confused out of my mind, I make my way to the living room and sink into the sofa. I grab the remote controller off of the dust covered coffee table and furiously pound my thumb into the red POWER button. The News is on which drives my hopes up because they always have the time at the bottom right hand corner. But after only a few seconds of watching I realize that this isn’t the regular News that I’m used to; this is the News from like Japan or China. I don’t understand anything the anchorman is saying and the time is in a weird language. I’m assuming Japanese but who knows. I turn the channel to find myself watching the same exact Japanese News program. I rapidly tap my thump into the next channel arrow for thirty straight seconds. Every channel is the same thing. So, giving up I toss the remote back on the coffee table--which storms up a cloud of dust--and focus my eyes on the television. I don’t have the slightest clue on what this guy is saying. I can only imagine he’s saying this: “Marvin, you idiot. Why are you watching me? Do you know Japanese? No, that’s right, you don’t. So who are you kidding? Why don’t you go make a peanut butter sandwich or something, old chum?” Why would the anchorman be saying that? I don’t have a clue, but a peanut butter sandwich sure does sound good all of a sudden. But before I can get up from the sofa the screen on the television changes. Now, instead of an anchorman, I’m seeing two guys fist fighting. It looks like they are in some kind of coliseum. Is this a scene from that Russell Crow movie, Gladiator? Yeah, it must be. They fight for a couple more minutes and then out of nowhere a spear flies through one of the gladiator’s heads. The screen changes to a rundown city. African people are running amok with torches lit ablaze in their hands. I’m astonished to see that a small group of them are … having their way with this helpless old lady. She’s screaming for help, but nobody seems to give a ****. They’re animals. Jesus, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I want to look away, but my eyes are glued to the screen. The next scene is taking place in a desert. A line of people with black bags over their head are on their knees with their hands tied behind their backs. A soldier wearing a red beret is walking back and forth with a Cuban cigar hanging in the corner of his mouth. Then he pulls out a Lugar and begins one by one to shoot the hostages in the head. Each corpse flimsy slumps on their sides. The sight of their brains leaking out of the bullet holes in the black bags is enough for me. I yank my head away from the screen and dash toward the bathroom. Puking in the toilet eases my stomach a little but gives my head that extra little throbbing pain that it so needs. I rip off a couple squares of toilet paper and wipe my mouth with it. I’m pissed when I notice that the flusher is broken. I lift up the tank to find no water inside whatsoever. Alright, **** this house. There must be some kind of poltergeist haunting this place or something. Just screwing with me is all. I need some fresh air. Yeah, some fresh air and everything will start looking brighter. I basically jog to the front door and kick it open. I have no idea why I kicked it open, but it just felt like the right thing to do at the moment. Deciding to move to the suburbs was always a good choice on my part. I had thought about it for a good two weeks and ultimately decided a suburbia was a much safer environment to raise Little Chance in. Only real busy streets were on and near Main Street. Your neighbors were quite friendly for the most part. The only gangs here were the rich little white kids dressed like the rappers they saw on MTV. The only danger from them was you might laugh yourself to death after hearing them talk. Of course there were drugs--you can’t seem to get away from them--but there were less drugs here then in the city. I had moved my family to a great place all in all. Just like a town from one of those old black and white TV shows. Anyways, here’s my question to you; if I lived in such a nice toned down suburban town, then why was the street out in front of my house overflowing with abandoned semi-trucks? I didn’t live anywhere close to Main Street--but even if I did, there were only semi-truck sightings maybe once every couple of days, and that was just for delivering products to the Piggly Wiggly or the Wal-Mart. This morning just keeps getting stranger and stranger. Like something straight out of the Twilight Zone. I start to walk along the sidewalk, but I soon grow irritated from twisting my body around the semis. So, I began walking thought the front lawns of my neighbors. That wouldn’t be a big deal, but every goddamn sprinkler is on for each one of the houses. I push my way through the water until I find a clearing in the street, although I wish I never did. Rotting corpses were hanging from all the trees, street lamps, and phone wires. All of them giving off a repulsive odor. Have I died? Is this some sort of hell? Is everybody in the world dead? Why is this happening to me? I sit down in the grass, ignoring the water shooting at me. I bury my hands into my face and start to pout. Jesus, I haven’t cried in so oh so many years. A man has a reputation to keep up, ya know? Oh well … nobody is alive to see me cry anyways. I curl up in the fetal position on somebody’s front yard and before I know it I have drifted off to sleep--
II
I wake up like it’s just another ordinary day. I am lying in bed and the sweet aroma of Berta’s hair gives my nostrils overflowing pleasure. My eyes open and I see her asleep, snoring loudly. It is then that I realize that it was all a dream. Just a sick nightmare, that’s all. I gently kiss Berta on the forehead and smile when her eyes open. “Is it time to wake up already?” she asks me. “No, go ahead and go back to sleep for a little bit,” I say, and smile again. I get up and stretch my tired limbs. I scratch the back of my neck and slip my feet in my Shrek’s. I slowly walk to the bathroom and relieve myself of my morning fluids. I hesitate at first but then overcome my distant fear. I press the flusher down and it flushes. It was just a nightmare, man. Don’t get so overworked about it. That familiar smile of mine returns as I open the medicine cabinet and grab my toothbrush and mint flavored toothpaste. I begin brushing my teeth and I feel like inspecting my face. You know, for winkles and whatnot. I’m getting old and I’m starting to show it. I close the medicine cabinet and I yelp in surprise and fear as I see the reflection of a werewolf staring back at me. I dive to the ground with the toothbrush still hanging out of my mouth, (just like how the Cuban cigar hung out of the executioner with the red beret’s mouth). I look up at the wall, trembling with fear, to see not a real live werewolf but only a poster of a werewolf. A movie poster for An American Werewolf in London, to be exact. What the hell was that doing tacked up against the bathroom wall? I stare at it the whole time while I brush my teeth. I rinse and head back into the bedroom. And Berta is missing. Again. This time there is a deep puddle of blood soaked into the sheets. A trail of it leads to the open window. I also notice that the snow is back outside. Tons of it. Is this just another nightmare? Did I knock myself out when I fell in the bathroom? I think about jumping out the window, land/roll in the snow like a ninja, and chase after the mysterious trail of Berta--but then I remember Little Chance. God, I wish I never went in there. Nothing but horror is in there. The walls … every square inch … covered … in my son’s blood. Excuse me, I think I‘m going to faint--
III
I wake up and I immediately start swiping my face, as if I have a spider web caught on me. I’m trying to get my son’s blood off of me. I must have fallen on it when I fainted. I am scratching the back of my neck when I notice that Chance’s room looks normal as ever. No blood. The bed is made. Everything is okay. Well, no, everything is not okay, is it? My wife and son are still missing. My mind is playing cruel tricks on me. I’m going insane-- What was that? Oh God, what the **** was that noise? I hear it again. It’s coming from outside. A loud, fierce growl. I don’t want to, but I do. I walk outside. The street is now clear of semi-trucks but has a new form of company. I really don’t believe my eyes, but if they aren’t lying then I am looking at a polar bear. Just walking back and forth on the road, marking its spot with its deafening roar. Before it can notice me I tiptoe back to my house and reach for the doorknob. An unknown voltage of electrocution shoots through my wrist and up my arm. I scream out in pain and surprise. That’s a mistake. A big mistake. The polar bear looks towards me and growls once again. It bows its head down and charges after me. Frozen with fear I stand there until the very last second, and then I leap out of the way. The polar bear crashes through my front door and tumbles around in the living room. Adrenalin consuming my body, I jump to my feet and begin running at the fastest pace my legs will allow down the cold snow covering the street. Any time barely passes before I feel the hot breath of the polar bear hit my back. It’s right on me almost, probably within striking distance. But it never attacks. I run for ten more minutes and I know I have to stop. So, biting the bullet I turn around to see an empty street. Where did it go? Surely it didn’t just evaporate in thin air? I stand there, in the middle of the street, scratching the **** out of the back of my neck, and laugh. I begin to laugh hysterically. I’m crazy. That’s all there is to it. I’m probably locked up in some Mental Institution and living inside my head. My psychotic laughs get out of the control and I find myself rolling in the snow, with a mixture of laughter and tears. This is it. I am officially insane.
IV
For whomever is reading this: My name is Marvin Richards. For the past year and a half now I have been living a nightmare. I wake up and sometimes my wife, Berta, is in bed with me. Sometimes she is not. Sometimes she runs out the front door and when I try to catch up to her I lose her, until our next morning encounter. I haven’t seen my son, Chance, since the day before this nightmare started. Once in awhile the polar bear tries to attack me, but every time it jumps through my front door and then chases me down the street. Whenever snow is on the ground I know I’ll be meeting the polar bear that day. Another thing, the next morning my door and living room are always magically repaired. There are no clocks anymore either. Are of them are gone. It’s insane. Where the **** have they gone? I don’t know. Don’t think I haven’t tried to leave this place either, because I’ve tried to countless times. But everybody has to have sleep, and every time I go to sleep I wake back up in this suburban hell. For some reason the back of my neck constantly itches. I’d love to check it out in a mirror, but about five days into my nightmare all of them mysteriously vanished. I never go hungry. Everyday the dining room table has an entire feast laid out for me. I don’t really care if it’s poison, I don’t care if I die anymore; which is why I am writing this note. This suicide note. There isn’t anything else to say really. I don’t know what has happened to me, but I can’t take being alone anymore. I can’t take being so confused anymore. So, I guess this is my final goodbye.
Farewell World,
Marvin D. Richards
V
I sigh and put down the black ink pen. The black pistol is lying on the table beside my suicide note. I got the weapon at the gun shop a couple months ago. I had loaded the entire magazine with ammo, so I could take out that damn polar bear once on for all. But no matter how many times I shot it, the bear never went down. The bullets didn’t even seem to phase it. Hopefully they would take care of me good enough, though. I point the muzzle about six inches from the side of my head. I guess these are my final thoughts, huh? Well, I can’t think of anything to think about so now I close my eyes. Goodbye. I squeeze the trigger.
VI
I look back at the fake window and swing my head towards it. I head-butt it again and again. Each new hit leaves more of a sticky blood stain in front of it. My brain is throbbing but I don’t care. I don’t care about **** anymore. Copyright 2008 Max Booth III |
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