Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories by Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, Ramsey Campbell, Paul Tremblay, Mercedes M. Yardley, Richard Thomas, Damien Angelica Walters, Kevin Lucia
Authors: Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, Ramsey Campbell, Paul Tremblay, Mercedes M. Yardley, Richard Thomas, Damien Angelica Walters, Kevin Lucia
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the names behind palms, smothering them in coughs that served only to amplify.
Slut was scratched into the paint on her locker; Hannah is a whore written on a bathroom stall in bright pink lipstick; Show us your tits on a piece of paper left on her desk. When she found the note, Mrs. Langan asked if everything was okay, and Hannah’s cheeks grew warm, then hot, and the truth pressed against her lips, but she said instead that yes, everything was okay, even though a small voice was screaming. Long after Mrs. Langan nodded and walked away, that small voice continued to scream.
If she could talk to her mom, she’d tell her that she’s tried to ignore it, hoping they would stop, she’s tried so hard, but inside, she’s all broken glass and she can’t put her pieces back together. There’s no way anyone can. And real monsters don’t hide under the bed or in the closet; real monsters aren’t afraid of sunlight.
If her parents knew, they’d hate her. They’d be ashamed and would never look at her the same way. Mostly, though, she doesn’t know how to try anymore. She’s tired, and all she wants is the water, the weightlessness before the cold.
Just past a gas station and a half-constructed fast food restaurant, she drops her phone into the gutter. Steps on it until she hears the screen crack and rocks her foot back and forth to make sure. The light changes and she moves on.
***
Leanne tiptoes upstairs and perches on the top step, the way she did when Hannah was a baby, resting her elbows on her knees and chin atop linked fingers.
Girls can be cruel, she thinks. It’s always been that way, even when she was in school. The surge of hormones brought something dark and primal to the surface, a savage sort of competition that, sadly, never went away for some. Even when the cruelties were relatively minor, the hormones brought sensitivity that affected perception. Maybe it wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt that way to Hannah, and Leanne knows she belittled her feelings.
She wants to go in Hannah’s room, sit at the foot of her bed, and read her a story or sing a song. Would that such devices would work for a teenager. At best, she’ll get a roll of the eyes and an impassioned Mo-ther ; at worst, she’ll make it two steps into the room before Hannah yells Leave me alone!
Silly, maybe, sitting here, stressing about a fight that in a few days will fade into memory, and in a few years to nothing at all. She allows herself a smile. All the angst and the chaos. Her memories of her own early teen years are threaded with band names, pining for cute boys in the neighborhood, and yes, fights with her own mother, for reasons unremembered.
Leanne heads downstairs, makes it to the bottom, and turns around, wincing when one of the steps creaks. If her mother were still alive, she’d call and ask her for advice. God, how many times did she do that when Hannah was an infant? Far too many to count. Cancer took her when Hannah was three, and the thought that she won’t see her grandchild grow up still sends thorns twisting in Leanne’s heart.
She passes Hannah’s room on the way into hers, making enough noise so Hannah knows she’s there. Maybe she’ll come out and decide she wants to talk. Leanne opens her closet, pulls out the half-full hamper. In their old house, they’d moved the washer and dryer upstairs; here, though, she has to go down to the basement. As she walks by Hannah’s room again, she lifts her hand to knock, but instead, clears her throat and says, “I’m doing laundry if you have something you want me to run through.”
There’s no answer, not that she truly expected one, but at least now Hannah knows Leanne isn’t angry with her. A subtle olive branch, of which she thinks her own mother would approve.
She adjusts the laundry basket balancing on her hip. Once this blows over, she’ll explain that her reaction had nothing to do with Hannah and had everything to do with the move, with her
Slut was scratched into the paint on her locker; Hannah is a whore written on a bathroom stall in bright pink lipstick; Show us your tits on a piece of paper left on her desk. When she found the note, Mrs. Langan asked if everything was okay, and Hannah’s cheeks grew warm, then hot, and the truth pressed against her lips, but she said instead that yes, everything was okay, even though a small voice was screaming. Long after Mrs. Langan nodded and walked away, that small voice continued to scream.
If she could talk to her mom, she’d tell her that she’s tried to ignore it, hoping they would stop, she’s tried so hard, but inside, she’s all broken glass and she can’t put her pieces back together. There’s no way anyone can. And real monsters don’t hide under the bed or in the closet; real monsters aren’t afraid of sunlight.
If her parents knew, they’d hate her. They’d be ashamed and would never look at her the same way. Mostly, though, she doesn’t know how to try anymore. She’s tired, and all she wants is the water, the weightlessness before the cold.
Just past a gas station and a half-constructed fast food restaurant, she drops her phone into the gutter. Steps on it until she hears the screen crack and rocks her foot back and forth to make sure. The light changes and she moves on.
***
Leanne tiptoes upstairs and perches on the top step, the way she did when Hannah was a baby, resting her elbows on her knees and chin atop linked fingers.
Girls can be cruel, she thinks. It’s always been that way, even when she was in school. The surge of hormones brought something dark and primal to the surface, a savage sort of competition that, sadly, never went away for some. Even when the cruelties were relatively minor, the hormones brought sensitivity that affected perception. Maybe it wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt that way to Hannah, and Leanne knows she belittled her feelings.
She wants to go in Hannah’s room, sit at the foot of her bed, and read her a story or sing a song. Would that such devices would work for a teenager. At best, she’ll get a roll of the eyes and an impassioned Mo-ther ; at worst, she’ll make it two steps into the room before Hannah yells Leave me alone!
Silly, maybe, sitting here, stressing about a fight that in a few days will fade into memory, and in a few years to nothing at all. She allows herself a smile. All the angst and the chaos. Her memories of her own early teen years are threaded with band names, pining for cute boys in the neighborhood, and yes, fights with her own mother, for reasons unremembered.
Leanne heads downstairs, makes it to the bottom, and turns around, wincing when one of the steps creaks. If her mother were still alive, she’d call and ask her for advice. God, how many times did she do that when Hannah was an infant? Far too many to count. Cancer took her when Hannah was three, and the thought that she won’t see her grandchild grow up still sends thorns twisting in Leanne’s heart.
She passes Hannah’s room on the way into hers, making enough noise so Hannah knows she’s there. Maybe she’ll come out and decide she wants to talk. Leanne opens her closet, pulls out the half-full hamper. In their old house, they’d moved the washer and dryer upstairs; here, though, she has to go down to the basement. As she walks by Hannah’s room again, she lifts her hand to knock, but instead, clears her throat and says, “I’m doing laundry if you have something you want me to run through.”
There’s no answer, not that she truly expected one, but at least now Hannah knows Leanne isn’t angry with her. A subtle olive branch, of which she thinks her own mother would approve.
She adjusts the laundry basket balancing on her hip. Once this blows over, she’ll explain that her reaction had nothing to do with Hannah and had everything to do with the move, with her
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