This was supposed to be a funny short story, but as usual, it turned out to be longer than I'd intended. And not very funny, after all. If I've offended any with story, please forgive me, and please LET ME KNOW what I've done wrong so I can fix it. I hope you all enjoy. And no, Purple is NOT meS
I died tonight. At first I thought it was a bad dream, and that's exactly what it was. A bad dream. No, no, that's not exactly right, now is it?
A nightmare, is what it was. Pure and simple.
Today was my 17th birthday, and I'd thought I was so clever. After a year of not having a car to drive, I'd saved up all my cash, from working at the local burger joint, along with various holiday gifts of money, and had bought myself a used hearse. I was the envy of all my friends, that was certain. And we'd had plans: we were going to put a matress and speakers in the back, the better to party with, my dear. My friend Rob was going to install a "secret" panel in the front, just behind the seats, to store and conceal our "Party Balls", it was going to have a sweet area hidden away to stash cups and the kegs, maybe a few bottles and our herb if we were in the mood for any of those. And hoses, so all anyone had to do was slide open the cabinet and siphon out a splash or two of brew. And the local cops would be none the wiser, not that the idiot asses ever were wise in the first place.
Yeah, it was gonna be sweet.
Just imagine us, cruising down the street, hearse all black and purple and blood, blood red. We were gonna paint red licks of fire all down the sides of the car, and the steering wheel, matress, and seats were all gonna be tricked out in royal purple velvet. My vanity plate was gonna read "Satan's Bitch". And my best friend Mags, well, her boyfriend knew where we could get some sweet gold-plated chrome for the bumpers, mirrors, and rims. He was also gonna get us a good deal on some 20's, and some smaller speakers to put outside the car so everyone could hear us coming and going. Yeah, sweet.
But then tonight....
The day started out well enough. My mother actually did something cool for a change and not only let me have the party the way I wanted it, but actually helped me make it a really tricked out party. She let me hang the black crepe paper all over the living room and back yard, she'd even gone and got some purple flocked mock wall paper to tape up over the living room walls. Just for me. My mom's the coolest, even though she tries to be a "proper" mother. The menu was awesome!! She'd made spaghetti, which had made us all groan when we'd heard what we were gonna eat, but then she'd suprised us yet again; she'd used those short, thick, wavy-type noodles which she'd somehow managed to color grey, with food dye, I suppose, and she had called it "worms". Then she'd broken up the ground meat for the meat sauce in such a way that it was all long and grainy, "brain matter", as mom had said. The sauce itself was wild, she'd cooked her 4 cheese and mushroom sauce but had made two pots so she could layer the sauce over the noodles; white "puss" and red "blood". It was genuis! I'll have to ask her about that someday, how she did that. Right after I thank her for the bitchin' party, I'll ask.
Oh wait, I can't. I'm dead. Almost forgot for a sec there.
It's hot in here, and getting hotter with every passing minute.
Where was I? Oh yeah! We'd eaten and she'd made her wicked cheesy garlic bread so we could sop up the "blood and puss" from our plates. The olives in the salad were stuffed with blue cheese and she said they were eyes. How we laughed at that! As cool as dinner was though, dessert was a masterpiece. Mom made one of the 3D cakes she was just famous for, this one a bust of "one of those rocker metal people"(HER words, NOT mine, sheesh, old folks!), resting proudly on a guitar. The guitar was a hot red with licorrice strings and the guy had long icing hair and Mom had used grey frosting to paint candy corn for the spikes on the guy's spiked collar. It was almost too damn fine to eat, but we took plenty of pictures and dug in, anyway, while Mom beamed happily. It was great, Mom and my friends, and Dad sent away on a fishing trip so we wouldn't have to worry about him stalking around, "What happened to my little girl??" tripping from his mouth every other sentence(we were gonna have a "proper family party" this weekend), him wondering what he did so wrong as a parent that his "little girl" had suddenly developed a passion for spikes and chains, purple and black hair, tats and piercings, and loud, throbbing, deeply depressing rock, punk, and Goth music. I'll have to thank Mom for letting him go have his fun on my day so that I could have fun, Purple style(that's me, by the way, Purple).
Oh yeah, back to that whole being dead thing. No thanks happenin' here.
Anyway, the party rocked. We ate, played "Pin The Codpiece On Marilyn Manson"(another of Mom's masterpieces), and other party games so cool that not even the hardest, deepest Goth would have any problem admitting she played them. Then we watched a couple of cool movies, and we were all tired so we crashed, Mom having let me have a sleepover, even with the boys there! She said she'd be "keeping an eye on" us. RME-lame, but hey, boys! What other parent would allow that, I ask?
So here I am, sleeping, right? And the NOES movies we'd watched must've gotten to me, along with all the food on my stomach, because all of a sudden I'm standing at the door of The House. I figure, what the fuck, right? It was just a movie, this is just a dream. Besides, I've seen way scarier. I mean, I've seen every scary movie out there, and have you seen some of the videos coming out these days? So c'mon, what was Freddy? I bet he'd like a cool kid like me. I mean, sure, I've never killed anyone, but I sure fucked up Albert Stewart really good that one time he grabbed my butt at lunch. Freddy'll know I'm a good choice if he wants a road dawg. I'm a badass just waiting to break free. Of course, we'll have to seriously discuss him killing anyone under the age of, like, 16 or so cos, ya know, that's like seriously fucked up killing a kid before he even takes his first hit of herb or a good piece of ass..or even a beer, for crying out loud. Every kid's gotta have at least one beer before he buys his out-of-life ticket, know what I mean?
Damn, getting hotter.
So yeah, where was I...oh yeah, I figure this dream ain't bout nuttin, so I march up to the door, bold as you please, cos I'm a badass, right? And that's what Freddy likes. As I approach the door, I see those damn kids jumping rope with their stupid song. Like Freddy would wanna hear that sing-songy crap for all of eternity. I'll play him a tune or two on my guitar, show him what a real horror badass has playing in the background. Oh yeah, this is SO gonna rock! So I like, roll my eyes at the kids in all their white frilly shit they're wearing(I mean c'mon, WHO wears white these days? Even 2-year-olds know what all the cool colors and styles are!), idly wonder how they always managed to get kids who looked almost exactly alike for the jump-rope scenes in the movies, no matter what year it is. Shake off those thoughts and step through the door.
I'm in the boiler room now.
Well shit, I think, no stroll through the house? It would've been so cool to have seen HER house outside of the movies. But I'm not trippin'. I mean, as long as that freak with the machete and the hockey mask doesn't get all up in my grill, stinkin' up the place, anything can happen and I'll be okay with it. I trek along, idly wondering if I'll end up getting any cool cuts or scars I can show off to my friends. Then I hear it. The scraping noise.
I spin quickly and face the Nightmare Man himself. He's looking at me intently, one hand raised to his mouth, tapping it with one finger. The other hand--the bladed one--is tapping in counterpoint on the railing, making a short, odd schree noise each time it connects.
"So," his gutteral voice rumbles from his chest. "You're another one of those snotty brats who thinks she understands what it all means. You'll be finding out differently in a second."
I roll my eyes as I face him. Puh-leeze! Freddy doesn't talk like this in the movies. He's got all these great one-liners and some other pretty cool shit besides. Freddy doesn't give out all this conversational shit. He's still staring at me as I open my mouth to talk; his fingers have returned to his mouth as he resumes his tapping. Tap, schree, tap, schree. He's starting to get on my damn nerves.
"Hey, who you callin' bratty? Yeah, I understand all kinds of shit. I've had it rough; I understand pain and not being understood."
He rolls his eyes in perfect imitation of me. It's almost eerie. Almost.
"Yeah, you understand pain, not being understood. Poor little girl, whose mother bakes her cakes and makes "Brain Spaghetti." He says it, just like that, Brain Spaghetti. I can almost hear the capital letters as the words roll from his mouth. He takes a step closer. I don't move and he comes to a stop not even two steps away from me.
"You're a tough one. You listen to all the "classics". You wear black and paint your face and smoke your weed and drink your beer and fuck your idiot boyfriends. You don't listen to authority and you don't even have the decency to thank your mother who puts up with your pseudo-rebel bullshit. You know," he leans in to me as if getting ready to spill a really delicious secret. "You know, she didn't want you. You, or your father. But she got her whore ass knocked up and Pop was forced to marry her. That's how your precious brother got here. You were an "accident" planned so your mother could hold on to her man. He fucked other women and she knew it, so she got pregnant with you to keep him home where he belonged."
I tremble as he speaks. In rage, my mind screams, NOT because I'm afraid! "You lie!" I shout. "Take that back, you son of a bitch! My father LOVES me! He loves all of us and we're a family, a fucking GOOD family. You're just jealous because you never had one!"
In the back of my mind I'm wondering why I'm even bothering to argue with this nut. I mean c'mon, it's a dream, right? Just wake up and vow never to eat so much and watch so many scary movies before bed. Wake up Mags and start a pillow fight. Something. Anything.
He's gone back to that fucking annoying tapping again. Tapping and chuckling at me and I know it's just a dream cos in a movie I'd already be dead. He wouldn't be just standing there chatting me up like we were at the water cooler or some fuckin' offic party, two 'ol chums talking smack about the boss.
"Good family eh?" He chortles and it's wearing on my nerves. "What exactly do you think Daddy's doing right now?"
"He's on a fishing trip." I raise my chin defiantly; my heart's slamming against my rib cage but it's NOT fear, it's not! He does that awful chortle again and finally lifts his clawed hand, waving it as a scene slowly comes into focus.
"Oh, he's fishing, alright, but the kind of fish he's catching you wouldn't like to eat. Or would you?" He leers at me obscenely and to avoid looking at him I instead look at the figures that have appeared at the pass of his hand. I wish I hadn't looked.
There, on a huge bed, is my father. My sweaty father. My naked, sweaty father. Oh damn, I have to look away but I can't. He's on that bed, humping away at...Janice, my friend Mags' mother. Who just happens to be my mother's best friend. Her legs are around his shoulders, her head thrown back as she howls out her pleasure as my...father...saws away at her. I feel my stomach lurch as they go at it. Flustered, I quickly look back at Him and find that's not much better--he's still leering at me, back to that AWFUL tapping.
"Leave me ALONE, you bastard!" I cry, spinning around and covering my ears, closing my eyes. "I don't want to hear anything else that comes from your filthy, lying mouth!"
"Oh no?" he asks. I feel his hands on my shoulders for a second and even though I fear--yes, now for some reason I FEAR those blades even though I KNOW it's just a dream--and even though I fear death, for some reason I fear his words even more. They come through loud and clear just the same.
"If you don't believe me, then let's see what good 'ol Daddy has to say!" He spins me around violently, so violently I get sick. I'm turned just as the Man--he just can't be my father, he can't he can't he can't!!--looks up, that look of anger I've only seen on his face a handful of times in my life snapping into place. The Woman only looks amused.
"DAMMIT Gloria!! How many damn times have I told you not to spy, you little bitch?" I'm shocked and I don't know what to be shocked at more: the angry bellow I've heard directed at me only once, the question about spying(I've NEVER spied on Daddy, and he's never yelled at me for it), or the fact that he just called me a bitch. Daddy's never called me out of my name, except maybe Princess when I was younger. In fact, he refuses to even call me Purple, which I insist everyone calls me, even my teachers at school.
I've only got a second to ponder that though, because he's gotten off the bed and is making his way to me. I try to back up but I can't, eyes staring at his naked body(not like THAT, you sickos!)as he stalks over. Janice, who'd been looking amused till now, now looks pissed. Maybe it's cos Daddy got off of her. Who the hell knows? But Daddyhe's NOT your Daddyis a step away from me now, and he's still yelling.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" I am, I thought wildly. "Look what you've done, you cheap whore!" Now he's pointing down to his penis, which I suppose has gone soft, but I'm SO not looking down there. I close my eyes again, then gasp in shock and suprise as something solid whacks me across the face, hard. My eyes fly open as I crash into the railing, to see the Man who looks like my Daddy standing over me, hand raised and curled into a fist. He's only spanked me once, when I was five, for eating the last of the cookies and blaming it on my brother.
NOW I'm scared.
"Daddy" takes a step closer, now shaking his head sadly. "You ruined Daddy's fun. What am I going to do with you?" Janice pipes in with 'kill the party crashing little bitch' and Daddy nods in agreement, eyes gleaming. "If it hadn't been for you and that bastard your whore mother keeps insisting is mine," he growls, "I'd have been free to marry Janice here and take care of my real family. I could've been a real father to my Margaret and I wouldn't have had to worry about a twisted, ungrateful shit like you corrupting her, filling her head with all that Goth bullshit. MY daughter would've been perfect if not for you, she'd have been wearing dresses and not reeking of beer and reefer and cum from the unwashed jerk-offs she's fucked because YOU thought "they'd make a perfect couple". You stupid, defiant, ungrateful, spiteful little bitch!
He lunges for me and I scream, that small voice still trying to convince me it's a dream though now I've had enough. That punch definately felt real to me, and besides, his words are breaking through my chest like a fist, making me want to scream, to run and scream and hide somepleace where those awful, hateful words and Janice's laughter can stop rolling around in my head like a noxious gas. Margret...Mags...HIS daugher! No, no, it can't be, I KNOW her father, Dennis, he was there with Janice to drop off Mags. He goes fishing with my father! They're friends, he couldn't, she wouldn't, they didn't! Heart crashing through my chest heart crashing through my chestheartcrashingthroughmy....
Then suddenly it was true. My heart DID crash through my chest. Literally.
Jerking in shock, I look down to see my heart several inches away from my body, NOT where it's supposed to be. A hand is holding it, one that looks familliar. That hand, one of a set that had always before been so reassuring. My mind suddenly flashes through all the things those hands have done over the years--teaching me to tie my shoes, brushing away the dirt from my knees before the requisite all-better kiss when I fell, pushing me at my first attempt without training wheels, there to catch me when I fell from the swing after soaring in the air, higher, Daddy, higher!!! how we both laughed and laughed after he made sure I was okay. My sweet Princess, you'll always hold my heart in your hand.
And now he was holding mine in his.
Excpet it wasn't his. Four wicked looking blades sprouted from Daddy's fingers like gross nails, dripping blood. And as they retracted, passing back through and out of my body, I had a moment to spin around as I crumpled to the ground. A moment to see again the hand of my Daddy as it rose, then ended at the cuff of a red-and-green-striped sweater. A moment to look up into the sneering, laughing, evil face of my final Nightmare.
"I'm sorry, Da..." was all I had a chance to whisper before the life left my body. Then the blackness, the howling wind--or was that just howling?--blasting my eardrums. Then I could see again, and I heaved a huge sigh of relief.
I was in my room again. Thank God!! But something didn't seem right. I felt like my body, like, wasn't. My body, that is. The height and the angles felt wrong, I'm only five foot two, short, I know, but I felt like I was taller for some reason. Wow, this is some fucked up dream! I thought.
Then I saw the body. MY body, crumpled in the sleeping bag I'd thrown on the floor. Eyes wide open, my eyes, fixed in terror on the ceiling. A trickle of blood tracking from my mouth. And though I couldn't see the hole where my heart used to be, I saw the red starting to seep through the sleeping bag. I screamed, or tried to. The other souls trapped with me--I knew that that was what the howling was, now--screamed with me in a keen of pain and loss. It seemed to give my murderer a boost, for he chuckled and stood taller, this I saw as he stepped across the room and checked himself out in my mirror. He nodded once, chuckled and tipped his hat at himself, then approached my bed slowly. My bed. Where Mags was sleeping.
"Let's see how Daddy's Girl is doing," he chortled pleasantly. I opened my mouth again to scream....
And it's the boiler room again. It's hot in here, and getting hotter by the minute. And there's Mags, in her Authority Sucks T-shirt, huddled against the pipes. The game's about to start again and I wonder if this is what eternity is going to be like. If I'll have the luxury of going insane to escape all of this for the rest of time. I hear Mags scream and selfishly think at least I'll have a friend with me in all this mess. A friend, and, if Freddy
father
was right, a sister. I try to close my eyes and ears against the keening wail of other doomed souls, and of the impending death of my Mags, and try to pray. Try to pray in this damned place where prayers aren't heard.
Thank you, Mommy, for everything. Daddy, I'm sorry if I caused you pain. So very, very sorry. Forgive me.