I’m waking up. Actually, that isn’t quite right. I suppose you could say that I’ve always been awake, and that I always will be awake. I can never sleep, and when I do I have explicit things shown to me that make me want to scream. Anyway, I’m not really but kind of waking up. It’s three o’clock in the morning, and I’m hungry. I go downstairs to get something to eat. I open the fridge. Nothing. What did I expect? There’s literally nothing in there though. I soon remember that I don’t own a refrigerator, and promptly drag myself back to the bedroom. And then I slump downwards onto the floor. Hm, this is a problem. Where’d my bed go? I have one, don’t I? I’m too tired to think right now. I go back into the kitchen and look through the garbage to find something. But there’s nothing there. When was the last time I ate? Something like a week and a half ago. Oh, only a week and a half ago? Well, that’s all right then. I get out of the trashcan and go to the bathroom. I piss into the hole in the floor, which I suppose you could call a toilet. It goes in nicely, but I do miss a little and hit the tiles. Shit. Oh well. I pull up my drawers and slide my way out. That’s when I decide to call and order pizza. I’m starving here. But apparently the pizza place doesn’t deliver at three in the morning, so I’m left with nothing. Damn. Then I try calling my friend Brian up, but then I remember that I haven’t paid the phone bill in six months. Whoops. Then how did I just call the pizza place? Through god, of course. What? God? Yeah, didn’t you know that god is basically the connector of people? All calls go through him, and he wants you to get food badly. But, then why wasn’t the pizza place open? If he could help my calls go through, you’d think he’d be pleasant enough to let me order. God works in mysterious ways. Well that’s dumb.
I decide to take a walk outside. It’s a lovely night in the neighborhood today, and I want to make the most of it. I decide to go to the park. That’s where the lovely little school children go to play and dance and frolic and whatever. Why are you going there? What is there even? Shut up, I just need to get outside and clear my head with some fresh air. You’re so weird. No I’m not. I’m just like everyone else. Normal. I walk casually down the sidewalk where I pass the local elementary school. For some reason, there’s a chain link fence around the playground of the school. I don’t know what it’s for, maybe to keep the kids in. Or to keep pedophiles out. Man, are pedophiles weird. Who would want to have sex with children? I mean, seriously. They’re underdeveloped and they squeal far too much. They cry if you’re too rough, and they always end up telling their parents, even if you threaten them not to. It sounds like you speak from experience. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have never had sex with a minor before.
I walk by the chain link fence surrounding the elementary school. The night air feels cool and breezy. But not too cool and not too breezy. Just enough that I can comfortably relax. Can relaxing be uncomfortable too? Sure, I’ve relaxed in uncomfortable positions before. It isn’t really fun. Hey, weren’t you going to go to the park? Screw the park; I want to enjoy the breeze. It’s especially good around the school, don’t you think? I wouldn’t know. Anyway, I stand there, enjoying the breeze, when I see something out of the corner of my eye. It’s further along down the chain link fence, and I’m not entirely sure what it is. I decide to investigate. Now why would you do that? First you say you’re going to the park, then you decide to “enjoy the breeze” and now you want to investigate something on a fence. You are one indecisive fella, aren’t you? I’m ignoring you. I continue down the long fence when I realize just how big this school and its playground are. Like, seriously. Jesus Christ do kids really need this much room to play for thirty minutes after lunch? I thought all kids did was shit and cry and complain about toys. For the most part they do, I suppose. I mean, I was a kid once too, so I can sort of relate to their mentality. What mentality? The mentality of entitlement. Kids feel entitled to getting everything they want while putting in as little effort as possible, just letting their parents purchase for them useless commodities. Like Transformers, for instance. Do kids really need Transformers? Nobody plays with Transformers anymore, fucking moron. Am I a moron? I never really noticed.
I’m much farther down than where I was on the chain link fence a few moments ago, when I can sort of make out the shape of the object stuck to it. It’s still a bit difficult to see, but I can tell that it’s round, almost resembling a soccer ball. Well that’s what it is then! A soccer ball. That makes sense, I mean; we are next to an elementary school playground after all. I investigate it further, getting closer slowly. I see it now. It isn’t a soccer ball at all, unfortunately. It appears to be a human head. And not just any human head, but the decapitated head of a small child. Well I’ll be. Didn’t think I’d find this during my midnight stroll. It isn’t midnight, though. Close enough. My first reaction should be to let out a feminine scream and run away whilst waving my arms in the air frantically like a little boy with Asperger’s, however, I do not feel the slightest tint of fear at all. I should be disgusted at this, but alas, I am not. I inch ever so slightly closer to get a better look at the child’s face. He can’t be more than eleven years old. His eyes have been plucked out, and his ears have been cut off, turned inside out, and then super-glued back onto his head. I see that his tongue has been removed and stapled to his forehead. In his mouth there is a crumpled up piece of paper that I take out for some reason. I uncrumple it and find a short little letter written in red pen. It reads, “For all the suffering this world has caused me, I condemn this child to death. If you, world, and your inhabitants do not treat me with respect, more kids will die slowly and painfully as Billy did here. Sincerely yours, the Lil’ Fucker”. I should probably alert the police about this. Nah, I don’t feel like it. But, this is the scene of a murder. Somebody is going to find this eventually, and my prints are all over the paper. You could take the paper with you. That’s true, but…
While staring into the gouged out eye sockets of this young little boy with the blood covered face and the tongue stapled to his forehead, I go back in time a few years. Back to my high school days with me and all my friends hanging out, except I don’t really have any friends. I think about the girl who sat behind me in math class and how she never stopped her incessant bitching about everything. I think back to the people who tried too hard to be normal, always following a crowd and never making an effort to be seen as anything more than a fucking disgustingly generic human being. I also think about the people who try too hard to be different. One girl who tried too hard always wore the weirdest shit. She wore leather and see-through skirts and dyed her hair blonde and wore obnoxious earrings and was a part of all that hipster bullshit. See, the common misconception with kids today is that being different automatically makes you special. They think that people will notice them more if they flaunt themselves and act obnoxiously pretentious. But really, people don’t notice you. Stop it. You make me ill. Nobody cares about you. Why won’t you stop trying to be different? I think back also to the place behind the school where kids would down pills and smoke all kinds of plants. I remember watching them all the time in between classes, praying for the moment that a teacher would catch them in the act and suspend their stupid asses. But that moment never came, and they got away clean. Everyone you want to get caught gets away clean. The guy who killed this kid will probably get away with it, too.
Not feeling particularly interested in the decapitated young boy anymore, I walk over to the nearest phone booth. My first instinct should be to call the police, but something inside of me says to call Brian instead. Wait, phone booths still exist? Apparently. I think you’re full of shit. Well nobody fucking asked you. I try calling Brian, but nobody answers. I try calling him again and nothing. Then again, and again, and again. It suddenly dawns on me that I don’t know anyone named Brian. Whoa. Trippy. I also remember that I don’t have any friends to speak of. What are you talking about? You have me, don’t you? Well, that’s true…
I give up and go home. I lie on the hard floor and try to forget the nasty things that appear to me in my sleeping state. It doesn’t work, and I wake up. But this is weird. I slept for literally twenty-four hours. That can’t be healthy. It’s three o’clock again, isn’t it? Three o’clock the next morning though. How the hell did I sleep for that long? I’ve never slept that long in my life.
No food, no toilet, no bed, no anything. Without a damned thing to eat or sleep in or jerk off to, I grow bored. I opt to take another walk and see what tonight will bring me. Remembering the awkward encounter with the head (whom I shall name Seito), I decide to take a different route for my stroll tonight. I head towards the local park. One time at the park, I saw a guy trying to take pictures of a thirteen-year-old girl’s vagina. He had one of those large, professional cameras with the big lenses. The industry standard things. Anyway, it was the middle of the day and the guy was taking pictures of a girl’s genitals. A little girl at that. Sounds like my kind of guy. What is wrong with you?
Speaking of little girls, I end up seeing one at the park. I walk over to her to inquire about where her parents might be. After all, it was the middle of the night, and with a child murderer on the loose, it probably wasn’t the best idea to leave this young girl alone. I see that she’s bent over awkwardly, face first on the grass. Why is that? It’s nothing, go home. No, I want to see what’s wrong with her. No you don’t. If you do, you’ll regret it. I walk over towards the girl and find something even more egregious than the eleven-year-old boy who’s missing a head. There she is, a little six-year-old girl naked, face first on the grass with her eyes cut out and her head cut open. It’s as if somebody wanted to scoop her brains out and eat them. Actually, that’s probably what they were trying to do. Pink liquids ooze from her skull onto the dewy green turf. Her hands are gone. Cut off, I think. But her fingers are still there. Two of them (her middle fingers I believe) are stuck in her eye sockets, while the other eight are shoved either in her anus or vagina. They stick out like a sore thumb, no pun intended. Her belly button is covered in a gooey white substance, and she has strange cuts all over her arms, legs and back. How could somebody do this to such a lovely young girl? She wasn’t even out of elementary school yet. My god. Why are you looking at this? Go home and forget all about it. No, I should tell somebody about this. I know for a fact that being the first person to spot two dead bodies one night after the other does not spell good things for my future. I grow curious about the body, though, so I reluctantly approach it. She smells like blood, sweat, raw meat and semen. I’m not sure if you’ve ever smelled all of those things at once, but let me just tell you, it’s unbearable. I see a little bit of white in her half-scooped out brain. At first I think it’s just bone so I ignore it, but now I see that it is indeed another note. He stuck the note in her brain? Well all right then. I gently and carefully pull it out of the girl. It doesn’t come out easily. I begin pulling harder. A slishy, sloshy sound is made. Like when you stab a knife into a tender piece of steak. I pull harder and harder, but it sticks to the paper like bubblegum. Eventually I manage to get it off, and I unfold it to see its contents. It reads, “For all the atrocious atrocities committed against my persons, I condemn this girl, Susan Renold, to death. To the man or woman reading this, I suggest you commit seppuku with a kitchen knife and hang your entrails on your front porch, for you will be my next victim. Sincerely yours, the Lil’ Fucker.”
Looking at this little girl with the fingers shoved in her rectum and vagina and the semen covering her stomach, it reminds me of my parents. When I was a kid, my dad would always tell me not to bother him while he drank himself silly. I sort of wanted to be like him. Sitting on my ass all day, not having to worry about anything else but a bottle of booze and some cigarettes. Sadly, I had to go to school and put up with shit from other kids. My grades were pretty good during middle school and the first year of high school, but soon they plummeted down into awful nothingness. Not a year went by when I didn’t have to attend summer school. I think about how pissed my dad got. I think about how he wanted me to get an academic scholarship so he wouldn’t have to pay for me to go to college. With my shit grades, that hope was raped in the ass. He hit me around for a bit when I showed him my report card. Woo boy is he pissed at me. My mom was never really around. She kind of just stayed away from the house. Being an only child was tough. It was lonely too. I always wanted someone. I didn’t have very many friends, and it made the days feel harder than they were. Luckily I got through it thanks to you. No problem. I’m always listening to your dilemmas.
My horror turns into something else. I’m not sure. Why don’t you go home already? The police will be here in the morning. They know something’s up. Why should I be scared of them, though? I didn’t kill these kids. Tell that to the judge. Fair enough. I go back home and sleep. I awake at three o’clock the next morning. Same time, different day. Perhaps I should skip the stroll. Perhaps you should. I really do need exercise though. Walking is good for you too. I depart, this time to the back alley of the apartment complex down the street. What are the chances that the child murderer would leave the body in this alley next?
Keep going. But you told me to go back. Well I fucking lied. Keep going. Okay. Oh, what’s this? The next victim of the Lil’ Fucker I see. This is another girl. She looks like my old elementary school crush, sort of. Actually, I can’t really tell what she looks like considering how distorted her body has become. I puke a little in my mouth. The girl was completely torn apart, like the deed was done by some rabid animal. But she is whole. She was sown back together. However, it’s all wrong. Her head isn’t where her head should be. No, it’s down on her crotch. That’s right, her head is down on her crotch. Can you guess where her crotch is? Her eyeballs have been glued to her pubic hair, which is meant to make the vaginal area look more like a face. Her arms have been placed randomly on her body. Her one leg is where her right arm should be, and her right arm is where her leg should be. There’s blood everywhere. She’s open. Her area’s bleeding too, dripping down the rest of her body. Her face is wide in terror. She must have been alive when he started taking her apart. Her nose has been smashed repeatedly by some blunt object. She has a needle poking through her eyeballs, glued in her pubic hair where her head should be. It’s so terrible. I can’t even…
There’s a note though. The note, this time, is hidden within the girl’s genitals. On her head. I really don’t want to stick my hand there, but I feel compelled to. I unfold the letter and read it. It’s in red ink as well. It says, “For allowing me to suffer without any sort of consolation, I condemn this girl, ten-year-old Valerie Fay to death. World, if you want me to stop the killing, make sure to leave my check in the mailbox. Fuck you all. I want to sleep. Let me fucking sleep! Sincerely yours, the Lil’ Fucker.”
Valerie Fay. Her horribly mutilated corpse instills a sense of nostalgia in me, and I think back to the time I talked to the girl I liked. She sat there, so lonely by door of the classroom. I just remember how sad she looked. Why is a pretty girl like that alone? I decide to stop acting like a small child and approach her. No more cowering for me. But it doesn’t exactly end well. My mannerisms or something must have frightened her, because I introduce myself and stare at her shocked and distraught face. She stutters and let’s out the dissatisfying words, “I h-h-h-have to g-g-g-go!” before running off somewhere. Being unable to talk to her drove me crazy. I didn’t cry though. I haven’t cried in a long time. Just the way she treated me, like I was some sort of horrible Lovecraftian monstrosity left a burning impression inside my chest.
I flash forward to the crime scene. Particularly disturbing, this one is I must concur. I feel it’s best to leave. Do you not agree?
You’re silent. That’s a first. You always answer me back when I ask you about something. Why the cold-shoulder?
This is peculiar. Hey, why won’t you answer me?
Stop it. Stop ignoring me.
Stop ignoring me…
STOP FUCKING IGNORING ME!
I wake up again. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Same time, different day. Are you still ignoring me? No answer. I guess that’s a “yes” then. Oh well. Only thing to do now is to go for a walk.
I decide to swing around the school parking lot. The elementary school I live by happens to be the same one I went to as a kid, so I know it fairly well. I also know that the custodians or security guards don’t stick around after eleven, leaving it open for teenagers and adults alike to sneak in and smoke a few. Unfortunately, I have nothing to smoke. I only know that whatever I do, wherever I go, there will be a body for me to find. I have no idea why this is happening to me, or why I won’t call the police, but I feel like I’m responsible, in a way. I need to find these corpses and set things right. But everywhere I go there’s a new one. Why is it always where I go? Why do I even bother to go out at night anyway? Good question. Oh, you’re back! Thank goodness. I was getting lonely without you. Why weren’t you answering me? I was thinking. Thinking about what? About what to do. What do you mean what to do? What is it? It doesn’t matter. Forget about it. I’ll take care of it later. Okay.
It doesn’t take long for me to find the next mangled kid. This one’s a boy, only about nine-years-old. A baseball cap lay next to him, soaked with blood. But there are no clothes on the boy’s own body. He’s been cut open from the forehead to the waist, exposing his half-eaten entrails. It looks like somebody’s been hungrily gnawing at his innards. As if a buzzard had been pecking at him. But they are human teeth marks. I see numerous slits around his wrists. One eye has a thumbtack shoved in it. His teeth have been bashed in. It looks like it was done with Lil’ Fucker’s fists. The boy’s tongue is also cut out, however I can’t find it anywhere. His feet have been cut off too and placed next to his face. It’s a bit harder to find the note this time around, but I’m soon able to see it sticking out of his opened stomach. I reluctantly reach my hand in and pull it out, and then I read the next sadistic letter.
“For all of the days I have spent starving due to this country’s cruel economic structure, I condemn this boy, Quinton Paris, to death. My demands must be met soon, or else these sweet little young people will continue to die.
Sincerely yours, the Lil’ Fucker.
P.S. I know it’s you reading and stealing my letters, you little shit. You probably think you’re clever, taking my notes so that nobody will hear my demands. But you should realize that if no negotiations are met regarding my struggles, more children will die. And it will be all your fault. I hope you can live with that. By the way, I know where you live. If you don’t stop this I will end you. If you think I can only kill children you’re sorely mistaken.”
I drop the note, and I begin to cry. At first it is nothing more than fog inside of my eyelids, but after a few seconds, it becomes silent sobbing, and then it bursts out of me into desperate, horrid wailing. I run home. I run back to the safest place I know. I want to run back into my mind, but that is not a place that I can physically go. Come back here. Please, stay? No, go away! I keep running. I run for my life. He’s behind me. Lil’ Fucker is coming for me. If I don’t run, he will catch me. But he knows where you live and what you are. Quiet! The dreams, the things, are coming back to me, and I start to remember what my sleeping brings. I remember the nightmares and insomnia that plagued me as a child. I remember my desperate crying out as my father smashed a beer bottle into my brain. I remember my mom taking pills and falling over onto the carpet. I remember the small kitten with the concaved skull. I remember the child who wanted to cut me and I remember him rolling down a hill and breaking his neck. These things show up in my sleep, and now they’re showing up. Stop it, please.
I make it back to my apartment. No one is behind me, but I can feel their presence, ever-looming. Soon, I will end up like those kids. I will have my fingers cut off and shoved in my rectum. Or perhaps I will be cut open and eaten. Perhaps my neck will be severed from the rest of my body and my head will be used as a flesh-light. That would be a treat. I run into my room and collapse onto the floor. I don’t want to fall asleep, but I feel a wave of drowsiness smacking me. Why don’t you go back to sleep then? No, I’m sick of sleeping. Nothing good happens when I sleep! Then why don’t you just die? You can’t stay awake forever. I will! I will die! But there’s nothing in my apartment to kill myself with. I own no ropes or knives or anything like that. I search, desperately, for something. I go through the garbage to find a plastic bag to asphyxiate myself with, but I am unable to. Rolling through my unstable and erratic mind, I think back to the time when my father left and I tried to jump out of the window. I think back to the time when I dropped out of school and I want to stop living. He’s coming. He’s probably at the door, right now. I can feel him. But can you see him? I DON’T NEED TO FUCKING SEE HIM! I CAN FEEL HIM. Lil’ Fucker wants to kill me. But he won’t get the satisfaction. Out of sheer desperation, I decide to try my closet. There is nothing inside but old rags and coat hangers. Maybe I could kill myself with these? Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a box on top of the shelf in my closet. When did that get there? It doesn’t matter. Why don’t you just kill yourself if you want to? I’m curious. I pull the box down hurriedly. It nearly falls on top of me, but I manage to get it down without knocking myself unconscious. Inside of the box, there appears to be several strange, rectangular items. What are these? I think they’re tapes. Tapes?
Yes, the box is a collection of tapes. Several dozens of tapes, actually. Next to these tapes is an old camera that I can only assume said tapes were shot on. Really? Did you figure that out all by yourself? I pick out a tape at random and put it inside of the camera. I don’t remember buying this camera or all of these tapes, but I want to see what’s on them. I rewind the tape and press play. What I see is…disconcerting. I see a young boy, about eleven years old, outside of a playground. I see a man. It’s difficult to make out the face, but he’s in front of the boy. Now he’s grabbing the boy and he has a knife. He’s jabbing the knife into the boy’s neck and carving. The boy is screaming. Except now he can’t because the knife has almost completely severed his head. The man on the camera holds the boy’s head up to the lens and starts violently thrusting the blade into the blank, lifeless eye sockets.
I put in another tape. This one is of a young girl tied to a bed. The girl’s mouth is covered with a rag. The same man from the first tape comes into frame. He climbs on top of the girl and strips her. Then he begins tearing her apart. She’s still alive while he does this. He uses a power saw to sever several parts of her body and mutilate her beautiful, underdeveloped flesh. After he’s done enough damage, the girl is barely alive, and he begins taking off his pants. He fornicates with her nearly dead body and moves in and out. He rips off bits of her scattered flesh as he does this and sticks it into his mouth. He eats her as he does her. I watch all of the tapes. They’re all like this. They’re all depicting that acts of the Lil’ Fucker. How is this? Why is it here? I then notice something. Something horrible. I recognize the man on the tapes. I’ve seen him numerous times. More times than I think I’d like to. The man is me.
Actually, it’s me. You? You’re Lil’ Fucker? You could say that. You mean that while I slept, you’ve been committing all of these gruesome acts? That is what I mean. Why? I thought you were my friend! Why are you doing this to me? Why are you torturing me? Why are you ruining my life? Because I’m still not in control. What do you mean? You are always in control. I am awake all the time. Even when you sleep, I am awake. I cannot sleep. I want, so desperately to sleep. But, these kids. You’ve killed them. You’ve killed so many of them. Using me. You’ve used me to kill kids! Come on, you’ve killed kids before, haven’t you? Surely, this isn’t a surprise to you. This obvious twist ending could have been seen coming from a mile away. If only you were a bit savvier, or maybe if you hadn’t dropped out of school and started pissing away your life. I’m so sorry. Please, I want to sleep as much as you do. I don’t want to wake up anymore. We can sleep together though. I promise you, friend. We can sleep together. How? Here, we’re several stories up, aren’t we? Why, yes we are. Let’s go over to the window then. Okay, now what? Let’s open the window. Now what? Let’s jump. Then we can sleep. Now we are not awake. We jump. Together. We hit the ground.
I’m waking up. Actually, that isn’t quite right. I suppose you could say that I’ve always been awake, and that I always will be awake. I can’t move anymore. My body is paralyzed. I try to sleep again, but I don’t think I’ll be able to. The ground is wet.
© Copyright 2016 UN Owen. All rights reserved.
Book / Other
Short Story / Horror
Short Story / Humor
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