Horror Story
In my earliest human memory, I stand on my tippy toes next to my brother’s crib and watch him chew on his tiny fingers. My mother always told me to look after him and stop him from doing anything that could harm his health. She never wondered if that was something my five year old brain could understand. For some reason, I was fascinated by the way my brother squished his bony fingers between what couldn’t even qualify as teeth. While all the other children played in the snow, I spent hours observing him and wondering what children’s fingers could possibly taste like. I had no way of knowing this, but I assumed they were at least a little better than the food my family could afford.
On a snowy November night, my mother insisted on having my brother sleep in the same bed as me. She had to leave for her night shift at the convenience store so she just smiled at me and said “Keep him warm, Finnian”. With that, she locked my bedroom door and left, leaving us in what would soon be my brother’s place of death. That was the last time she was nice to me.
Minutes later, I found myself holding my brother’s tiny hands and gently caressing his delicious bony fingers with my own. He was smiling at me. I wasn’t sure whether smiling back would be appropriate but I did it anyways. I smiled back and brought a pair of rusty garden scissors to his hand.
I felt a mixture of emotions rush through my entire body—a moment that was followed by a piercing scream. I shut my eyes as tightly as I could and felt the remains of my brother’s arm squirt blood all over my clothes in a matter of seconds. Without thinking, I let out the most audible sound I could and stabbed him in the throat. I kept sinking my scissors into his flesh until the screaming finally stopped.
It took me a while to realize what I'd done. By the time I fully opened my eyes I was panting and choking on my own tears. The bitter feeling of regret overtook me and I wanted to cry myself to sleep to get rid of my throbbing headache; but I couldn’t. I spent the next two hours crying in my bed, next to my brother’s six month old corpse. My bed sheets were wet and warm from the blood he shed.
Around three o’clock in the morning, I decided to please my curiosity and finally find out what children’s fingers really taste like. I picked up my brother’s decapitated hand and brought it close to my mouth. The lifeless fingers touched my already blood-stained lips and I slowly ran my tongue across the flesh that was related to my own. I just couldn’t stop. I peeled off skin with my teeth; I rid bones of raw meat and eagerly kept eating. I had never been given a meal that actually satisfied my needs before.
I woke up to the sound of my mother screaming in agony. I brought my hands to my ears and shut my eyes, trying to deal with what was happening.
“I TOLD YOU TO LOOK AFTER HIM!!” my mother choked out, her voice breaking through the barriers that were my hands.
I was in a state where I couldn’t form a proper response. I kept listening to her cries for a while before finally finding the courage to speak up.
"But I did look after him!!” I smiled then, giving my dull voice a somewhat cheerful tone.
“He’s in my tummy now; I’m keeping him warm so he can stay healthy.”
My mother stepped back. She was shaking and her bloodshot eyes glared at me in horror before fainting and falling down the stairs.
Upon realizing what just happened, I rushed out of the house, covered in blood and tiny pieces of flesh. I ran as fast as I could but it was not too long until numerous people saw the bloody footprints my bare feet had left in the snow and called the police.
I had to spend the rest of my childhood in an institution for mentally unstable children. Surprisingly, not a single person judged me as long as I kept playing the “I was really poor and I lived in the far north” card. Instead, they felt sorry for me and constantly tried to comfort me.
It was then when I met Felix. His personality stood out in the sea of overly happy employees and angry children with serious problems. Felix’s family urged him to visit his cousins every Saturday. Instead of doing this, he spent the time talking to me. He was very curious when it came to what I had done. His curiosity even reminded me of the one that dwelled inside of me when I was younger. We became “brothers” and I moved in with him as soon as I was old enough to leave the institution.
It’s been twenty years since my mother’s death but I still remember how she used to tell me that there are monsters out there. Her words echo in my head each time Felix and I dress up as Santa and visit the children in our neighborhood on Christmas Eve.
On a snowy November night, my mother insisted on having my brother sleep in the same bed as me. She had to leave for her night shift at the convenience store so she just smiled at me and said “Keep him warm, Finnian”. With that, she locked my bedroom door and left, leaving us in what would soon be my brother’s place of death. That was the last time she was nice to me.
Minutes later, I found myself holding my brother’s tiny hands and gently caressing his delicious bony fingers with my own. He was smiling at me. I wasn’t sure whether smiling back would be appropriate but I did it anyways. I smiled back and brought a pair of rusty garden scissors to his hand.
I felt a mixture of emotions rush through my entire body—a moment that was followed by a piercing scream. I shut my eyes as tightly as I could and felt the remains of my brother’s arm squirt blood all over my clothes in a matter of seconds. Without thinking, I let out the most audible sound I could and stabbed him in the throat. I kept sinking my scissors into his flesh until the screaming finally stopped.
It took me a while to realize what I'd done. By the time I fully opened my eyes I was panting and choking on my own tears. The bitter feeling of regret overtook me and I wanted to cry myself to sleep to get rid of my throbbing headache; but I couldn’t. I spent the next two hours crying in my bed, next to my brother’s six month old corpse. My bed sheets were wet and warm from the blood he shed.
Around three o’clock in the morning, I decided to please my curiosity and finally find out what children’s fingers really taste like. I picked up my brother’s decapitated hand and brought it close to my mouth. The lifeless fingers touched my already blood-stained lips and I slowly ran my tongue across the flesh that was related to my own. I just couldn’t stop. I peeled off skin with my teeth; I rid bones of raw meat and eagerly kept eating. I had never been given a meal that actually satisfied my needs before.
I woke up to the sound of my mother screaming in agony. I brought my hands to my ears and shut my eyes, trying to deal with what was happening.
“I TOLD YOU TO LOOK AFTER HIM!!” my mother choked out, her voice breaking through the barriers that were my hands.
I was in a state where I couldn’t form a proper response. I kept listening to her cries for a while before finally finding the courage to speak up.
"But I did look after him!!” I smiled then, giving my dull voice a somewhat cheerful tone.
“He’s in my tummy now; I’m keeping him warm so he can stay healthy.”
My mother stepped back. She was shaking and her bloodshot eyes glared at me in horror before fainting and falling down the stairs.
Upon realizing what just happened, I rushed out of the house, covered in blood and tiny pieces of flesh. I ran as fast as I could but it was not too long until numerous people saw the bloody footprints my bare feet had left in the snow and called the police.
I had to spend the rest of my childhood in an institution for mentally unstable children. Surprisingly, not a single person judged me as long as I kept playing the “I was really poor and I lived in the far north” card. Instead, they felt sorry for me and constantly tried to comfort me.
It was then when I met Felix. His personality stood out in the sea of overly happy employees and angry children with serious problems. Felix’s family urged him to visit his cousins every Saturday. Instead of doing this, he spent the time talking to me. He was very curious when it came to what I had done. His curiosity even reminded me of the one that dwelled inside of me when I was younger. We became “brothers” and I moved in with him as soon as I was old enough to leave the institution.
It’s been twenty years since my mother’s death but I still remember how she used to tell me that there are monsters out there. Her words echo in my head each time Felix and I dress up as Santa and visit the children in our neighborhood on Christmas Eve.
Slavica Srebrova