Twisted Imaginings: Vol 4

  Garry Charles

  Published: 2010

  Tag(s): Art Skin Flesh Vomit Stomach Death Crossdressing Secret Whispers

  Twisted Imaginings: Vol 4

  Garry Charles

  Cover art and layout by Garry Charles

  Copyright Garry Charles 2010

  Feedbooks Edition

  Published by Garry Charles at Feedbooks

  License Notes

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  ***

  VOICES AND SHADOWS

  Greg was terrified people would think he was a freak, just the thought of one person discovering his secret brought on the dark caress of icy fingers along his spine. Yet, at the same time, he so wished he could tell someone, anyone…just to relieve the pressure of guilt he felt.

  But why, he asked himself, should I feel guilt for my true feelings? Why should I hide away in my safe haven every time I wish to be myself? What is the point of me trying to be comfortable with myself if the end result makes me feel this way?

  “Because you know we’ll hate you,” came the whispered reply from the other side of the louvre door.

  Greg moved further back into the safe realm of the walk in closet, shuffling between the soft fabrics of the hanging dresses…his dresses. A small yelp escaped from his lips as his back hit the rear wall and he quickly began moving the shoe boxes, arranging them in a protective wall between himself and the outside. He worked quickly despite the shakes of fear he had to endure every night. Fear of discovery, fear of ridicule and fear of the voices that haunted his mind.

  “We know you’re in there, we can smell you,” The voices taunted.

  “Leave me alone!” Greg cried, pulling the collar of the designer blouse tight against his neck. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “Why would we leave you alone?” replied the cacophony of voices. “This is so much fun.”

  Greg made himself as small as possible, hugging his legs close to his chest in a feeble attempt to become invisible. He cried softly, tears staining the mascara he'd applied only minutes earlier.

  Tonight was meant to be different, the night he finally came out to the world. No more secrets. At least that's what he’d told himself as he’d shed the tailor made suit he'd worn all day and prepared to shower, washing away the masculine scents of aftershave and deodorant.

  He hated the façade of normal life, the manly mask he wore each and every day. As soon as he came through the door he'd kicked off the leather brogues with their annoyingly flat soles and made his way upstairs at an almost run. This was the moment of each day he loved…the casting off of the lie…the point of metamorphosis from ugly caterpillar into beautiful butterfly.

  Not that the moment ever lasted long. With the change made he would then hear them entering the house, shadowy outlines that slid in under the door, through the window frames and up through the drains. They knew his secret and they came to grind him down and stop him revealing his true self to the outside world.

  At first Greg had ignored the voices, sure they were nothing more than the embodiment of his own fear and weakness. Before the voices had come Greg had always savoured the feeling of the soft nylons as he’d rolled them up the length of his freshly shaven legs, but it hadn’t taken long for their laughter to make him feel wrong…to feel unclean.

  After weeks of torment Greg had confronted the voices, a concerted effort to face what he thought was his own delusional guilt. He quickly discovered that the voices were stronger than he could ever be. In retaliation to his outburst they'd turned violent, the shadows accumulating around him in a fit of rage. Greg had run through the house, begging for them to stop, but his pleas only riled them up. They tore through the downstairs in a vicious tantrum, smashing everything in their path.

  Greg had fled, taking the stairs two at a time before running along the landing. The shadows followed, surrounding him in their darkness and pulling violently at the floral patterned dress that clung to his stocky frame. Greg had fallen into the bedroom, kicking off the low heels and crawling across the carpet as they slapped and kicked out him.

  “Why are you doing this?” he'd begged, tears rolling down his cheeks. “What have I ever done to hurt anyone?”

  “You hurt no one, but we are their hatred of the unknown,” the voices had howled. “We are the sum of everyone’s fear and loathing and we choose you for punishment.” Their laughter was deafening.

  Greg had pulled open the closet door and dragged himself inside, closing the door behind him and curling into a ball as he sobbed. The voices had quietened, nothing more than a whisper. Eventually Greg had slept, a fitful slumber filled with dreams of hateful faces and accusing fingers. The next morning the voices had gone, leaving a trail of destruction in their path. It was a mere hint of what would become Greg’s regular routine.

  Life outside the house became unbearable. Now that Greg knew the hatred that everyone hid behind veiled eyes and shielded smiles he grew to fear them. What if they knew his secret? What if they hated him with the venom the voices claimed? In reply he began to leave the house less and less, quitting his job and locking himself away from those who claimed to be his friends. But this didn’t stop the voices. Each night they would return and punish him for what they saw as his sins.

  “I won’t let you beat me down,” Greg screamed at the voices. “I’ll let the world know who and what I am.”

  “You haven’t got the balls,” the voices laughed softly, filling the bedroom with their swarming outlines. “You ain’t man enough.”

  “I’ll show you,” Greg hollered, standing up and kicking the shoe boxes out of his way.

  “Greg’s coming out of the closet,” taunted the voices, their laughter reaching a new high of vindictiveness.

  “Fuck you!” Greg yelled, throwing open the door and running into the room looking like the devil in drag. “Fuck you all.”

  The voices danced around him, screeching with joy as Greg launched himself at them, passing through their cloudy miasma with little effect. Greg spun around as anger took over the fear that had eaten away inside him; he trashed the room in his attempt to rid himself of the voices and their constant attacks. The voices defended themselves and attacked as one, coiling themselves around Greg and intensifying the verbal onslaught.

  “Freak.”

  “Weirdo.”

  “Unclean.”

  “Outcast.”

  Greg clasped his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes closed and ran, once again, for the safety of the closet. But the voices had turned him around and caused disorientation.

  The window shattered as Greg hit it at full speed, his weight taking him over the edge and out into the cool night air. The ground rushed up to meet him and he was engulfed, for a split second, in searing pain and then numbness. As the world darkened he looked up at the star filled sky and saw the voices swirling away and he smiled.

  “I came out,” he whispered on his dying breath.

  ***

  VOMIT BABY

  Ash wasn’t the type to fall ill often and, even on the rare occasion that she did, she didn’t let it interfere with her day to day routine. She was the kind of person to turn up for work with thick, green snot flowing from her nose and bloodshot eyes the colour of freshly boiled beetroot.

  This trait alone made her a scarce commodity amongst the workforce and they all noticed when she didn’t arrive for work at nine o’clock on the Monday morning. What was even more surprising was the lack of a phone call to explain the absence. This disruption in Ash’s timetable of life threw the office into disarray and turmoil. Her usual reliability threatened to be the company’s downfall.

  Not that Ash would have given two thoughts about Sheila in accounting or Norman in IT as her guts, not for the first time that morning, left her body in a vivid explosion of liquid acid.

  “No more,” she cried out, tears rolling down her cheeks as she sat on the toilet, her legs shaking as another fluid expulsion cascaded out of her like yellowed giblet gravy.

  She reached around and weakly pulled on the cistern handle, gagging as fresh water stirred up the foul aroma in a whirlpool of rancid stomach contents.

  “What the hell did I eat?” she sobbed, trying to remember the Chinese meal from the night before.

  ***

  It had been a wonderful night, all arranged by her husband, Michael. It was his unspoken apology for the downward spiral their marriage had taken of late, a way to show he was sorry for his outburst at her announcement of pregnancy. She knew he loved her, but the show of affection was appreciated. She could have cried when he'd walked in from work and presented her with the flowers and chocolates. He'd handed them over with a smile and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Go get ready,” he'd said. “You deserve a night out.”

  Michael wasn’t one known for showing his feelings; some would have called him deep. Because of this Ash had embraced the effort it must have taken for him to open up, accepting the romantic gesture with pleasure and excitement.

  ***

  Mr Fong’s Golden Lotus was the best Chinese restaurant in the area…hell, it was probably the best restaurant full stop. Trying to book a table was a mammoth task and, as they p ulled up outside, Ash had realised just how hard Michael was trying.

  Everything about the night had been perfect and all of Ash’s troubles were forgotten. She was sure things would be alright. It would just take a little time and effort from both of them. Things only started to go wrong after the drive home.

  They'd fallen into each others arms as soon as the front door had clicked into the frame behind them upon their return. Ash had returned Michael’s passionate kisses and had begun to unbutton his shirt when the phone had rung loudly from its place on the hallway table. Michael had pulled away from her, already doing the shirt back up. Ash tried to stop him, grabbing his arm but he shrugged her away.

  “Don’t answer it,” she begged.

  “I’ve got to,” Michael replied and she slumped against the wall, the happiness of the last few hours evaporating into a dull sadness she had become so familiar with.

  Michael picked up the receiver and lifted it to his ear. “Hello, Michael Flemyng speaking.”

  Ash left him to the call and walked to the kitchen, shutting the door softly behind her. Before it was fully shut she heard Michael’s inevitable reply. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He left the house without saying goodbye.

  ***

  Ash settled into bed, alone under the King sized duvet. She wanted to cry, but fought against it. To cry was to admit defeat. To cry wasn’t an option she was willing to consider. Instead she closed her eyes and placed a hand on the tiny lump of her stomach. Eventually she fell asleep, filled with hopes of dreaming of a better time.

  When Ash awoke, after what felt like only minutes, she was suffering the most blinding of pain. Her stomach felt as if it had been pierced by a thousand red hot needles, each one forced deep into her abdomen and then used to stir up her tender insides. She immediately thought of the life growing inside her, gasping as a fresh bout of agonising heat ripped its way through her midsection.

  It took all of Ash’s strength to pull herself upright and climb out of the bed, holding onto the wall for support as she left the bedroom and hobbled along the landing towards the bathroom. She struggle to pull the light cord, her fingers stiff and numb, panic nearly took over when she was unable to get them under the waistband of her panties. The burning sensation increased and Ash was petrified of the indignity she would feel if she soiled her clothing. Finally her fingers obeyed and she sat as she slid the pink briefs to her knees. And only just in time, another spasm of pain tearing down her intestine, into her pelvis and out of her backside. The agony exited her body in a wet splash that offered no relief from her inner turmoil.

  Ash spent the next hour in the bathroom before her stomach finally calmed. Only when she felt safe that all movement had ceased did she creep back to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, breathing heavily and feeling exhausted. She reached out and picked up the cordless phone from the bedside table on Michael’s side. She dialled his number from memory and waited.

  “You have reached Michael Flemyng. Please leave your name, number and a message.” Ash waited patiently for the beep.

  “Michael. It’s me,” she said weakly. “I’m not well. Please come home,” she paused. “Or at least ring me. I love you.” With that she hung up, rolling onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

  She didn’t have to wait long for the boiling sensation in her gut to return.

  ***

  Michael didn’t ring back and he didn’t come home as Ash had requested. She spent the next four hours in the bathroom, either trying to sleep on the floor or sitting on the toilet as her insides gradually slipped out into the world.

  She knew she should ring work, but the very idea of returning to the bedroom was the last thing she could contemplate. The bathroom was safe, the bathroom was easy.

  And Michael was bound to come home soon…

  Eventually she slept, an uneasy slumber littered with broken dreams of still births and miscarriages. When Ash’s eyes finally opened they did so onto daylight filtering through the frosted glass of the window.

  The respite didn’t last long… Ash’s nightmare was far from over.

  The new pain, when it hit her, was far more intense than any of the other. But it was intense in a different way. As it lanced through Ash’s gut her mouth filled with cold saliva, a signal of what was to come. She forced herself up and hung her head over the edge of the toilet bowl, her throat contracting and then releasing a torrent of warm, rancid puke.

  The very act of vomiting created a vicious cycle and more followed, spewing from Ash’s mouth and nose like water from a high pressure faucet. Her back arched and her shoulders tightened with each new convulsion, leaving her limp, spent and clutching onto the rim of the toilet.

  Ash could smell the sour stench of her own badness and wanted to flush it away, but the energy to reach up was inaccessible. She could feel lumps of undigested food and mucus lodged at the back of her throat, but feared trying to shift them, knowing that to snort them back would only start a new cycle of heaving and retching. She opted for the better of two evils and placed a finger over her left nostril, closed her eyes and blew. She felt the blockage fly from her nose and heard its moist landing. Her stomach turned over for a moment and then settled. She waited a while and then repeated the procedure with the other nostril.

  Tired and aching she rested her head on the toilet edge and let her eyes close once more.

  ***

  Ash wasn’t sure, but she thought she must have slept again. The morning sun had moved away from the bathroom window and left her sitting in the shade.

  “Michael?” she shouted, her voice dry and harsh. “Michael?” There was no reply.

  Ash lifted her head and was relieved to discover that her stomach felt as normal as could be expected. She felt as if she had been kicked repeatedly, but there were no further signs that she would erupt in any way.

  “You need a bath,” she told herself, preparing to stand.

  As she straightened Ash looked down into the bowl and frowned. She knew she hadn’t flushed, she had been incapable. So why was the toilet not only empty, but clean? As clean as if somebody had scrubbed it.

  “Michael?” she called again and received only silence as a response. “Fever and delusions,” she stated to the room. “You just can’t remember doing it.” Just saying it out loud eased her mind.

  Ash turned to face the bath, having no wish to look in the mirror until she felt clean and more like herself. She took a step forward and nearly fell, her foot sliding out from under her. She steadied herself and studied the splashes of vomit on the floor, a trail of off yellow that appeared to lead from the toilet to the bath. She followed the uneven line of thick droplets and reached out for the shower curtain hanging around the bath. Ash yanked the curtain back, sure that she'd find nothing.

  She froze, a scream strangled by fear before it could leave her lungs.

  The creature, a vomitous resemblance of humanity looked at her through bile filled eyes and gurgled a moist ‘welcome’.

  Ash tried to move, attempted to back away, but nothing would respond to her command to run. All she could do was watch as the vomit moulded creature lifted a dripping arm and touched her face.

  She felt the warm fingers trace a line along her cheek and down to her mouth. The creature almost smiled; licked its lips with a dirty brown tongue covered in pustules of sweetcorn and carrot.

  Ash found the drive to scream, her mouth opening to release the sound only for the space to be filled with the creature’s fingers; probing fingers that tasted of dead food and digestive fluid. The hand filled her mouth, melting over her teeth and gums, running under her tongue and enveloping her tonsils.

  The scream was drowned as the creature slid down her throat, joining the fresh vomit that attempt to flow upwards. Ash tried to breath, but the futile effort only brought death sooner, flooding her lungs with red hot acid. She slumped forward, sprawled in the bottom of the bath as the remainder of the creature fell lifeless around her.

  ***

  Later that morning Michael returned home.

  “Ash?” he shouted, heading up the stairs. “Ash?” The smell hit him before he reached the top step.

  Michael peered into the bathroom. He couldn’t see her face but he knew it was Ash laid in the vomit drenched bath. He made no attempt to touch the body, instead making his way directly to the bedroom and snatching up the phone. He stabbed at the buttons and placed the receiver next to his ear.

 

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