This is the last time Sally will hug a stranger, unwillingly forced to press her budding, yet bird-like body against some unknown man. This happens with sickening frequency; she meets some friend of her father’s, and he insists she hug them goodbye because it is the polite thing to do. The fluorescent pink neon light above them reads BAR and glares back from the cracked pavement slicked with rain. The stale stranger sweats through his stained white t-shirt, a pack of crumpled cigarettes in the pocket and keys jangling from his waist. He stoops down, arms open with eagerness, unknowingly licking his own chapped-raw lips in anticipation. The stench of gin seeping from his pores, mixing with the rot of vomit caked on the top of his dirty-white tennis shoes, laces haphazardly hanging in a pool of rainwater. Sally sees her reflection in the window and understands that her body is hers alone, and a simmering courage creeps to the surface. Let the chips fall where they may, she thinks. A distant cargo train whistles against the breeze, cutting through the decrepit town. Breathing steady, Sally embraces the stranger with an uncanny strength and squeezes until he screams in suffering, ribs cracking and popping, broken bones puncturing lungs. The stranger gasps one last foggy breath in the bitter cold of late evening, a final wheeze escapes as he crumples into a silent heap. Sally hesitates, a sly smile flashes across her face.
Sam (he/him) emerged in 1984 from the depths of the Chesapeake Bay off the Maryland shore. He somehow made it to Oregon where he is a university professor and somehow convinced someone to let him teach a course about body horror. Sam Lives with his partner, kiddo, and Dune the dog.
Comments