Would You Fancy That...

Genre: Horror

August wasn’t supposed to be born. His older sister, Georgette, had Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. His parents created him as a source of umbilical blood and bone marrow. He was produced by means of preimplantation genetic diagnosis. When it was confirmed that he, over the other eggs, was the best stem cell match for Georgette, he was deposited into his mother’s womb. She didn’t survive the childbirth. His father, George, left the hospital without looking at him. The name August was written on his birth certificate in reference to the month in which he was born.

After years of transfusions, August’s marrow eventually failed Georgette and her frail corpse was buried next to her mother’s. George was left with only August and unmanageable debt. He sold the family house and bought an enormous used moving truck. He converted the vehicle into an RV. George and August moved inside the vehicle and began a life that consisted of traveling from trailer park to trailer park. George did odd jobs along the way making just enough to survive. August kept quiet, which was all George asked of him.

When August was 6 years old, the monster came for the first time. It appeared from the depths of the darkness. He could hear its heavy, clumsy footsteps first and then its manic breath. A dingy, faded blanket separated August’s “room” from the other areas of the truck. The weathered piece of fabric swayed slightly as the monster’s breath heaved against it. Its feet cast thick shadows across the floor. August stared in terror. The heaving stopped completely then, without warning, the animal burst through the barrier. It stood over the bed in careful speculation before grasping August in its calloused hands. August could feel its skin pressed against him. The skin was slick and wet, patched with intermittent tufts of hair. August gasped as the beast stabbed him in the back with a hard horn. It then threw him against the inner wall of the truck. August’s head hit the wall and he fell backward onto the cold metal floor. He rolled onto his stomach and covered his throbbing forehead with his hands. The beast lunged on him again. This time it didn’t let him go. It moved the horn lower and lower until it found a place to stab the boy. It tore into him again and again. Tears streamed down August’s face but he didn’t make a sound. He knew that he was always to be quiet. When August awoke the next morning there was blood on the floor and he writhed in pain. It hadn’t been a nightmare—not even close. The beast continued to haunt him on a nightly basis.

On a particularly hot day, August sat outside of the truck in the shade. A man walked by in a peculiar manner. August’s eyes followed as the man hobbled along. Something about his gait was off. Not knowing why, August trailed him around the corner. Eventually sensing the boy’s presence, the man turned to face him. August kept his gaze fixated on the leg. The man raised his trouser to reveal a prosthetic limb. He knocked it with his fist to demonstrate its falseness.

“Satisfied?” The man asked calmly.

A pang of envy shot through August’s being. “Yes sir.” He responded. “I am.”

**************

With each haunting, August’s feeling of worthlessness heightened. What did he have to live for? He had no misgivings about his original purpose in life—George had made it clear. He was to be a source of cells and nothing more. He was born with a single function: to give parts of himself to someone else in order to keep her alive. He had failed. He couldn’t help but feel that the portions that dangled from his core were not his own. Were they not hers? He wanted them gone. One afternoon he came across a pair of pliers. He sat on the floor in his room and pulled out his toenails one by one. The sensation was liberating. He bandaged his bleeding toes and placed the parasitic outgrowths in a lavender piggy bank on the dresser—a piggy bank that had belonged to Georgette.

In the following months August removed 6 teeth and his left thumbnail; he placed each one in the bank. Each time he removed something he felt relief and liberation. He then began using a small pocketknife to cut off tiny slivers of skin from his thighs and shins. The pieces fell off easily, like orange rinds. He collected and deposited each one.

On his 9th birthday, August doused a hatchet blade with rubbing alcohol. He sat in front of a tiny nightlight and wiggled his outstretched toes in the light. They looked particularly menacing in the orange blush of the tiny light. He took one last look at the strange, parasitic beasts before he swung the blade down. They were detached immediately, rolling forward like swollen, pink pill bugs. He then raised the hatchet again and slammed it down into his thigh. The skin split easily and the blade chipped into the bone. He raised his arm again and again, hacking at his appendage like a tree’s trunk. As the blood pooled around him, an unfamiliar sound rang out…it was his own voice. He howled and cried and then slumped back against the wall, propping himself up as the room spun around him. The monster must have heard him because it emerged suddenly, bolting towards August’s voice. It slid in the blood and fell to the floor. Illuminated by the nightlight, the boy was able to see the monster’s face for the first time. George’s eyes were wide and his mouth was agape.

“What have you done?”

“What have you done?” August whispered as he slung the blade one last time, catching George in the throat. August slid completely to the floor and collapsed.