Skin and Bones

A short horror story (in progress) by Lake Lopez.

Chapter One

Death and Fried Eggs

 I remember…

My mother cried out, “Oh!”

She stood at the stove, her fingers curled against one side of her head.

“Did you get burned?”

She didn’t answer.

“Mom?”

Then her knees buckled and her legs gave out from under her. She slumped downward and crashed against the speckled linoleum in a series of rapid thuds. She landed on her side, mouth open and eyes blank.

Later, my father sat on my bed and explained.

“One of your mother’s arteries broke,” he said.

It was not just any artery, but one of the biggest and most important and it was in her skull. The sudden gush of blood had smashed a portion of her brain, rendering it completely unusable. Then he rose to turn out the lights.

“But what made it break?”

He pursed his lips together and scratched a spot on his bald skull. The gesture frightened me because I thought he might be scratching at the sudden itch of an exploding artery, too.

“She was born that way,” he said. “The artery had always been weak and all we can do is take comfort that she didn’t suffer. Your mother died instantaneously.”

I didn’t bother to remind him that it hadn’t really been instant. She’d stood at the stove her whole body in a grimace, eggs sizzling in front of her, for torturous moments. Nor did I tell him that sunshine had pooled around her head as if trying to force light back into her brown eyes or that I’d held my breath when leaning against her chest, listening for a heartbeat. I certainly didn’t tell him that I’d adjusted her head so that I could lean toward her ear and whisper, “Mom, please don’t leave me, not with him…” or that I’d tasted rage the second the eggs began to smoke.

“What happens now?”

I shared none of these things with my father because I’d never told him anything of such importance before. He was the man who sat with us at church and that was all.

“Well, you have to be brave and try not to cry too much.”

At that moment, I knew he planned to give me away. It was September 15, 1959 and I was ten years old…

Chapter Two

Jared

 I stared straight ahead when he put the car in first and pulled away from the curb. Looking back for a final glance at my house, my front yard, my sidewalk would’ve been more than I could bear. In the early hours of the drive, my father talked. He reminded me that Saint Michael’s was a good school because, “…The boys live two to a room and that will make it easier to study.” I barely answered him, if at all, because I preferred to live one boy to a room in my own house. The hours slipped by and he fell silent. It was early evening when we neared the school.

“We’ll have dinner,” my father said. “Then we have to, you know.”

None of my hamburger would go down. It was like my throat had tightened so much that I couldn’t swallow. Even my root beer float seemed too thick to go down.

“Christopher, you have to eat.”

“I guess I’m full,” I said.

“All right, then. Well, they’re waiting for us.”

I dipped a French Fry into catsup and nibbled on it, delaying him.

“Let’s get going.”

Then he transferred the burden of me in a dizzying whirl. He drove me through the school’s black, iron gates and parked in front of a building constructed from gargantuan, yellowish blocks. He hurried me up the concrete steps and inside. Friendly voices greeted us. I clutched the handle of my black and tan suitcase with both hands and stared at the floor. My father spoke with another man while a woman put her warm hand on my back and said, “You’re going to love this school, I can already tell.” Then my father stood at my side and said in his firm tone, “Get settled in right away.”

“Daddy -.”

“And keep up with your studies.”

My thoughts crawled over each other, clutching for the words that would make him change his mind. This was a mistake. I didn’t belong in a school. I belonged at home and he had to realize it right now, this second, or it would be too late. Then he was heading to the door and pushing through it. A cool gust of night air entered the lobby as it closed behind him. I shivered and took fast, quick breaths.

“Don’t be afraid,” the woman said.

I couldn’t see her because my vision had gone wet and blurry. I shifted my suitcase to one hand and swiped at my eyes with the other. She said other things and I nodded as if I’d heard them. Together, we crossed the grounds, passing under trees to a brick dormitory.

“You’re going to make so many friends,” she said.

I looked up at her, saw brown eyes like my mother’s, and looked away. Inside, she took me up three flights of stairs and to room 313. A red haired boy looked up from his desk as we entered. He shoved black framed glasses up his nose, closer to his pale blue eyes and looked at me with cautious study.

“That side of the room is yours,” he said, his voice scratchy and low.

The room smelled funny. Once, I’d left a milk carton in my lunch box. On Monday, the leftover drops of milk had put a nose-twisting stench in the metal container. This hot odor reminded me of that curdled milk smell. At least it was a faint scent.

The woman told me to get unpacked and try to get some rest. She reminded Jared, my new roommate, to show me around the next day.

“He’s in Father Whitmore’s room, same as you,” she told him, exiting.

Then Jared coughed. The sound was a dark gurgling, like it came from his stomach rather than his chest. Maybe that was the smell in this room, I thought, his illness.

“Are you sick?”I asked him.

“Its allergies,” he said.

That night, I huddled under a stiff sheet and worn, grey blanket. My mattress had no comforting give to it and it wasn’t wide enough for me to curl into a ball. Light from the hallway slipped under the door and filled the room with silvery shadows. I closed my eyes against their oppressive company and pretended I was home, that I was back in my creaky old bed, surrounded by familiar night-shapes and waiting for my mother to tuck the blankets under my ribs, giving my hair an affectionate tousle as she did so. Of course, she materialized only in my dreams.

I saw her in our tiny backyard, sunshine illuminating her from behind and making a halo of sorts around her head. She wore the same yellow house dress that she’d had on the morning she’d died and the sudden splattering of blood that pelted her from the sky made wet, crimson splotches against the material. The blood engulfed her, a violent storm from out of nowhere, punishing her for having a weak artery.

Jared asked, “Bad dream?”

“Yes,” I said.

“About what?”

“My mother… She’s dead.”

“Sorry,” he said.

He was quiet for a long time. I thought he’d fallen asleep until I heard him cough. It was another soggy rattle and when he cleared it from his throat the noise sounded like an animal’s growl.

“Just so you know, we have to be best friends,” he said. “We’re roommates and that’s how it works.”

With the shadows hot as steam and somehow breathing all around me, I agreed to be Jared’s best friend. Then I tried to be obedient to my father and not cry too much.

Chapter 3

Fungus, Bullies and Blood

 (C O M I N G  S O O N)