Bad Appetites: A Body Horror Novel Page 3

  “God...” Cindy whispered, shocked.

  A pale-skinned woman stood in the doorway. Her frizzy gray hair protruded every which way. Her face was gnarled like a moldering tree trunk. Her eyes were milky – whitened and expressionless. She was nude, revealing her thin figure. Her bones could be seen on her skin. Her ribs, in particular, protruded from her torso. Her breasts were small, too. She looked as if she could fall apart at any moment.

  Awed and terrified, Cindy stuttered, “You–You're the woman from... from the theater, aren't you? Who are you?”

  The woman growled and sprinted into the room. She grabbed a shard of glass from the counter, then she lunged at Cindy. Cindy shrieked at the top of her lungs. She tumbled near the toilet, shocked by the attack. She turned on her stomach, then she crawled towards the bathtub.

  The mysterious woman staggered to her knees and grabbed Cindy's ankles. She pulled on her legs, trying to drag her to the center of the bathroom. Over the weeping and squirming, the intruder crawled forward and sliced Cindy's upper-thighs – three swift slices directly under her butt.

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, Cindy screamed, “Stop! Please, stop!”

  The intruder tugged on her ankles, crawled forward, then she sat on her thighs. Left-and-right, she swung the shard of glass and sliced the small of her back.

  Cindy tightly closed her eyes as she endured the excruciating pain. She blindly swung her elbow at the intruder and hit the woman's jaw, which caused the woman to stagger back. Back drenched in blood, she grabbed a shard of glass from the floor and held it away from her body as she crawled back to the tub.

  Cindy yelled, “Leave me alone!”

  Silence befell the bathroom – an eerie dead silence.

  Cindy opened her eyes. To her utter surprise, the woman vanished into thin air. Blood was smeared on the white tile floor, but there were no footprints in sight. Blood oozed from a laceration on Cindy's palm as she tightly clenched the glass. She dropped the shard, then she glanced every which way. She was hurt, the pain was real, but her attacker was gone.

  A frog in her throat, the young woman stuttered, “Wha–What the hell was that?”

  Cindy staggered to her feet, then she exited the bathroom. She shambled towards her bed as she carefully examined every corner of her apartment. There was nowhere to hide, though. She fell onto her bed like a falling tree – stiff, groaning, and heavy. She squirmed across the bed until she could nuzzle her pillow. She whimpered into her pillow as she contemplated the assault.

  She couldn't comprehend the attack, though. A logical explanation did not exist in her mind. She considered calling the police, but she didn't know what she could possibly say. Hello? 911? I was just attacked by a crazy woman who disappeared into thin air. Can you help me? She buried her face in her pillow and cried, hoping sleep would whisk her away from her nightmarish life.

  Chapter Four

  A Lunch Date

  The cell phone vibrated across the nightstand. An obnoxious pop song by an arrogant young man blared through the speakers. The music was solely used because of its shrill sound. The pop singer's screeching vocals, like a woman's shriek as she was stabbed in the shower, was the perfect alarm for even the heaviest sleeper. It was difficult to miss and even a bit catchy.

  Cindy groaned and coughed as she awoke. She lifted her head from the pillow and glanced around. The bloody handprint and blood spattered on her white bed sheets were worrisome. Her hand wasn't leaking, but the cut was severe. A twinge echoed from the small of her back, too. The lacerations stung with the slightest movement.

  She glanced towards the other end of the apartment, squinting as she stared at the sunshine pouring through the window. Morning had arrived to pluck her from her dreams and drop her into another nightmare.

  The troubled woman rubbed her eyes as she grabbed the phone with her clean hand. She frowned as she stared at the screen. The stock photo of a person's silhouette was plastered on the incoming call screen. The caller ID read: Peter. Peter was her manager and she frankly wasn't in the mood to talk about work. Yet, she knew she had to explain herself – or, rather, excuse herself.

  Cindy swiped her finger across the screen, then she held the phone to her ear. She said, “Hey, Pete. Sorry I couldn't come in today. I know, I know: I messed up.”

  In a raspy tone, Peter responded, “Yeah, I noticed, Cindy. What's going on? Huh? Where are you?”

  “I'm still home.”

  “Home? You've got to be kidding me. What the hell, Cindy? We need you here answering phones. It's a busy day. You know how it is with the strikers. We can't keep losing people. I thought we were on the same page. I thought you were on our side.”

  Cindy sighed as she sat up in bed and stared down at her lap, contemplating her career. She worked as a customer service representative for a large cell phone service company. While many of her peers marched for higher wages, she stood her ground with her bosses in hopes of receiving preferential treatment. She wanted to be on the winning side, but she was still disappointed in her actions.

  Cindy said, “I am on your side, Pete. Believe me, I understand. I had an accident, though. I, um... I cut my hand last night. I have a gash on my palm and my fingers are cut up real bad. I think I'm going to need stitches. I'm sorry.”

  Peter exhaled in disappointment, then he said, “Alright. Don't worry about it. Go ahead and handle your business. You might as well take the rest of the day off. We'll use your sick leave. Just call next time, alright? You had us worried. Shit, we thought you joined the dark side.”

  Peter chuckled. He thought of the strikers – his challengers – as selfish, lazy people.

  Cindy frowned as she lowered the cell phone and disconnected from the call. She stared at the screen, dejected. The clock read: 11:23 AM. She was trapped in her depression-induced slumber for nearly twelve hours. She spent half of a day sleeping. Usually, she would force herself to the gym at sunrise to avoid the crowds.

  She whispered, “Shit. It's too late to exercise. All those bratty college kids will be there now.” She tossed the phone on the nightstand and said, “Whatever. Might as well go back to sleep.”

  Cindy fell onto her bed. Her comfy mattress and soft sheets swallowed her body. The rotten world vanished as she closed her eyes. She rested on a cloud, floating away from the pain and suffering. Her eyelids became heavier with each passing minute – a career bodybuilder would struggle to pry them open.

  Before she could slip into her slumber, the cell phone rang again. The buzzing vibrations and the annoying music drilled into her ears, like the mewling of a newborn baby. She tried to ignore it, hoping the tone would end, but the caller was persistent. As soon as the tone ended, the vibrations and the music started again.

  Through her gritted teeth, Cindy shouted, “Damn it! Why won't you let me sleep?!” She sniffled as she stared at the caller ID: Charlotte. She sighed, then she reluctantly answered, “Hey, Charlotte. How are you?”

  Charlotte responded, “How am I? How are you, Cin? Peter just called me and asked me to take care of you like if I'm some sort of babysitter. I don't mind babysitting, especially if the money is good, but I'd like to know what the hell is going on? What happened?”

  “It was nothing. I broke a glass and ended up cutting my hand. It's not too bad, but I'll get it checked out later. I thought I should just take a day off so I don't aggravate it, you know?”

  “Okay, sure. I... I get it. Well, if you're taking the day off, we should meet up. Let's have lunch at Henry's Cafe. We'll talk a little more to catch up, and I can check on your hand. Sound good?”

  Cindy stared down at her damaged hand. The lacerations were grisly, smeared with dried blood. The rosy skin around the cuts tingled, as if ants were marching across her hand. The wounds would surely become infected if she didn't clean them soon. She couldn't imagine the condition of her back and thighs. She glanced at the front door and nodded – fresh air with a good friend seemed like a decent option.

  Cind
y said, “Okay. Let me just clean myself up a bit, then I'll meet you in an hour. Love you.”

  “Alright. See you soon. Love you.”

  As she tossed her phone on the bed, Cindy murmured, “Shit. I need to find some bandages...”

  ***

  With elastic bandages wrapped around her left hand, Cindy sat in the small cafe. She nervously smiled as she sipped her coffee, trying to keep a semblance of control. Charlotte sat directly across the small round table with her arms crossed and her lips puckered. She resembled a heated mother scolding a misbehaving child.

  Charlotte shook her head in disappointment as she stared at her friend's damaged hand. She was perplexed by the supposed accident. Cindy raised her brow, smiled, and shrugged – no big deal. She glanced around the small cafe. There were only a few customers in the eatery, sipping coffee, reading books, and, of course, writing the next big thing.

  Charlotte grunted to grab Cindy's attention, then she said, “So, I'll be honest: I don't think that was an accident. It doesn't look like one. So, are you going to tell me about it? Or should I start guessing?”

  Cindy sighed, then she said, “I don't think you want to know the truth. It's... It's personal.”

  “Personal? What's personal about cutting your hand?” Charlotte asked. Cindy remained quiet, biting her tongue and retreating into her shell like a frightened turtle. Charlotte asked, “He didn't hit you, did he? It wasn't Joseph, was it? Oh, no, don't tell me you guys fought...”

  “No, no, no. This had nothing to do with him, I swear. How could you even say that? You know he wouldn't hurt a fly.”

  “I'm just guessing, Cin. If you don't tell me, I can only guess. Please, just talk to me. What happened? Was it really an accident? Huh? Talk to me, sweetie. You know I'm always here for you.”

  Cindy despondently stared down at her dark brown coffee. The beverage rippled with the slightest movement of the table. She couldn't help but feel as if she were being pulled into a vortex of melancholy. She was at a lost for words, struggling to form a simple sentence. She considered confessing about the peculiar intruder, but she knew it would sound absurd – she didn't even believe it herself. So, she pondered the only logical explanation. The truth was difficult to reveal, though.

  How do you explain an attempted suicide to a close friend?

  Without taking her eyes off of her coffee, Cindy said, “I was... I was feeling very sad and alone last night. I was, um, very angry with everything. So, I–I ended up breaking the mirror in my bathroom and my scale because I just didn't want to see myself anymore. I didn't want to deal with... with the bullshit anymore.”

  Charlotte frowned and slowly nodded, fighting to contain her tears. She stuttered, “O–Okay... What happened after you broke the glass? How'd you cut your palm, hun?”

  In an attempt to avoid the lurking eavesdroppers, Cindy leaned closer and whispered, “I... I... I held a shard of glass to my wrist and thought about... about... about killing myself.”

  Cindy wiped her tears and leaned back in her seat. She felt some relief due to her confession, but the depression continued to cling to her like a needy pet. Charlotte held her hands to her mouth as she whimpered. She was an empathetic young woman, sharing the pain of those she loved. She was overwhelmed by her emotions.

  In a cracking voice, Charlotte said, “I'm... I'm sorry to hear that. I'm so sorry.” She gently placed her fingertips on Cindy's damaged hand and said, “I'm glad you're still here, Cindy. I'm glad you didn't go through with it. Thank you.”

  Cindy nervously smiled and said, “I'm glad I'm still here, too. I guess I snapped out of it in time. I'm lucky, but I still have to fight to keep moving. This depression, you know, it comes from my weight problems and–and society. It's hard to overcome all of that. It's very hard.”

  “There are options, Cindy. If this is because of your weight, then there's still hope. You can lose it. Hell, I can help you come up with a diet if you want me to. I'll even help you stick to it.”

  “Diets don't seem to work for me. I can stop myself from eating all day, but I still won't lose weight.”

  “You will. Listen, if you get yourself a diet that works for you and a solid exercise plan, I'm sure you'll shed some pounds. It won't happen overnight, but it can happen if you work towards it. After I work on your diet, I'd be honored to be your personal gym buddy, too. We can do this together. You don't have to fight by yourself, Cindy.”

  Cindy's bottom lip quivered as she stared into her friend's beautiful eyes. She could see Charlotte's pure heart – a soul fueled by unadulterated kindness. The troubled woman wiped the tears from her cheeks as she smiled and glanced around. Fortunately, the other customers did not care about her public breakdown.

  Cindy said, “Thank you for everything, Charlotte. I'm not sure you know what you'd be getting yourself into, though. When I say it's hard, I mean it's hard. Depression, real depression, can stop you from doing anything. Believe me, Charlotte, it's... it's toxic.”

  “I understand that. Trust me, I get it. I might not be going through it, but I get it. I'll be by your side as long as you let me. And, when you need time for yourself, I'll back off and let you breathe. I think it'll work.”

  Charlotte's suggestions were sincere and logical. The idea was far from preposterous after all. Yet, it was difficult to accept the helping hand. Pessimism still tormented her psyche, doubt still hindered her hope. She wondered: why would someone be so willing to help someone else? Ulterior motives crept into her mind, but she quickly swept them under the rug.

  Charlotte said, “Anyway, if you ever feel like you can't get results with a diet and exercise, you can always consider surgery and diet pills, right? I've seen it work for a lot of people. I think you can make your stomach smaller or something like that. Some pills stop your appetite, right? I don't know, but it might be worth looking into if it gets too hard.”

  Cindy nodded and said, “Yeah. I'm going to try exercising for a little longer. I'll... I'll look into everything else, though. I guess it wouldn't hurt.”

  “No. It's perfectly fine.”

  The friendly couple chattered as they drank their coffee and munched on small baked goods. Cindy remained as attentive as possible, listening to half of the words uttered out of Charlotte's mouth. Her dreadful thoughts kept pricking at her mind, trying to pull her into an abyss of depression. She was a fighter, though, and she wasn't ready to quit.

  Chapter Five

  Back to the Gym

  The weights clicked and clanked with each careful rep. The treadmills buzzed and rumbled with each hurried step. Some people babbled about their exercise and schedules, others spoke enthusiastically as they tried to motivate their partners. Yet, the gym's atmosphere remained nonchalant. The people were not malicious or arrogant – fitness was a common goal.

  Cindy walked briskly on a treadmill at the far end of the gym. Beads of sweat glistened on her skin, streaming across her entire figure. Her sweater and sweatpants were drenched in sweat, as if she had jumped into a pool without disrobing. She kept her eyes locked on the treadmill's control panel, watching as the numbers on the burned calorie counter increased.

  The obese woman was not a health professional. She wasn't well-informed in terms of gym equipment, either. Yet, she understood the counter wasn't completely accurate. She simply used her sweat and the numbers to measure the exercise. If the number was higher than her previous exercise, she succeeded.

  In her mind, it was really that simple.

  Cindy closed her eyes and whispered, “I can do this. I can keep going. Baby steps, Cindy, baby steps. You don't have to run to the finish line to finish the race. We can walk out of this, alive and healthy. I can do this.”

  She opened her eyes and stared at the mirror in front of the treadmill. The human blob was still there, but it appeared smaller. The figure wasn't dainty, like the common woman in Hollywood blockbusters and the occasional novel, but it appeared more human than before. She didn't feel like a monster, she
didn't feel like the troll under the bridge.

  Although she felt insecure around her athletic peers, Cindy felt a bit of optimism in the gym. There was a glimmer of hope in her grim life. She could see a new path opening before her very eyes – a path to happiness. She could only hope to bottle her newfound emotions for her next bout with depression. Optimism was a limited resource after all.

  Cindy stopped the treadmill. She wiped the sweat from her brow and the nape of her neck with a black hand towel. As she chugged her water, gulping louder than a dehydrated man in a scorching desert, the young woman glanced around the gym. The gym was not yet hit with the afternoon rush. With her surge in confidence, she figured she could fit another exercise into her routine.

  She whispered, “I guess one more wouldn't hurt. Something easy, something where I can sit...”

  She weaved and bobbed her head around the expensive equipment and the other patrons. Her eyes widened upon spotting the stationary bikes near the front desk. She could have a seat while performing cardio – it was the perfect exercise.

  As she approached the bikes, Cindy whispered, “I should have been using you before. At least there aren't any mirrors around you. I can–”

  She hopped and gasped as a man bumped into her near the first row of bikes. Wide-eyed, she stepped in reverse and examined the man. He followed the woman's lead, nervously smiling as he stepped in reverse and stared back.

  Cindy was flabbergasted, caught off guard by the man's appearance. She didn't know him, but she was attracted to him – he was her type. She found herself facing a charming, handsome young man – the type to cause a swarm of butterflies to flitter in her stomach.

  The man had straight black hair, neatly combed over to the right. He had stubble on his chin and upper-lip. He wore a sleeveless black shirt, black sweatpants, and matching running shoes. The outfit was fitted, molding perfectly around his sculpted figure. The dark clothing even matched his dark brown eyes.