Horror Stories For The Mad

Cheshire

Staring back at him was his reflection. He placed one of his pale hands on the cool cracked glass. Perfection was overrated, and his face screamed perfection. His face had no blemishes. He had no signs of wrinkles or crevices. His lips curved perfectly over his perfect white teeth. His eyes gazed back at him perfectly. They were overly perfect in so many ways. They were slightly magnified because of the angles of his face, but that made them better. His eyebrows were perfectly shaped without one hair out of line. His nose had  slight up-curve and went smoothly with his perfect face. His dark hair had been grown out and sat perfectly on his perfect forehead and dangled slightly in front of his perfect eyes. It wrapped around his ear.

Perfection was not right. Perfection was not what he needed. Oh God, how it made him so sad. How much anger it brought.  He glared at himself . He couldn't take this! He brushed some of his hair behind his ear. He sucked in his cheeks and looked at himself from every angle.  He despised it. Every angle was so perfect. Perfection  was so boring. He had no idea why someone would want to be perfect. He stuck his fingers in the corners of his lips and stretched them.

He took a deep breath and looked in the mirror. He wasn't sure yesterday, but today nothing could sway his mind.  This had to happen. He picked up the thin steak knife from the counter. He stared at it uncertainly. He looked at himself in the blade and for a second fear gushed into his veins. Some voice in him asked what he was doing. He ignored that voice, and the fear left as sudden as it came. He slipped it in his mouth. It pricked against his upper lip. It felt odd. How could he do something like this? He only had one shot. He regained his stamina and began to push the knife into the side of his mouth.

Carmine got home and removed her shoes. She placed her coat on the coat rack. "Damian, I'm home," she yelled for her older brother. She went up the stairs to the floor where the bedrooms were. She heard laughing. She couldn't help smiling at that laugh. "What's so funny," she asked with an eye roll. She went to his bedroom. No one. "Where are you," she asked? She followed the laughter to the bathroom. She warned, "Hey, I'm coming in. You sound like you're going to suffocate."

She opened the door. The lights were off. Odd. She flicked the switch. She jumped back and hit the hallway wall. She stared at the scene and tried to understand it. Her brother was in the corner of the room. He was against the wall with his face buried in his knees. His fingers were tangled in his hair. She noticed the glint of the knife beside him. Blood drenched everything, the sink, the counter, his shirt, his pants, and the floor. His finger matted the blood into his hair. She began to feel faint.

"D-Damian," she asked, "What happened?"  She took a step closer with caution. The laughing ceased. The world stood silent. He slowly looked up at her with his big puppy dog eyes. The left side of his mouth was drawn-out. It almost made it to his ear. It was a bloody gory mess of blood and torn tissue.  She almost collapsed as she noticed the teeth through it. She saw his tongue casually playing with the skin.

"What did you do," she screamed in panic? She hesitated and tried to gather her thoughts for half a second. "I'm calling an ambulance," she promised. She rushed downstairs and into the kitchen. She found the phone. Her heart was racing. What kind of nightmare was this? She dialed the only number that was rushing through her thoughts.

She hunched over the sink to try and focus on not fainting or puking. What happened while she was gone? A clear feminine voice came over the phone. "911. What is your location," it asked? She focused on her voice and keeping it steady. "I need an ambulance to 623 Cheshire Drive," she explained.

Damian didn't go willingly. He had to be sedated before they could get him to the hospital. He was bent on harming anyone within his sight. He had to be handcuffed to the bed. They planned on reconstructing his face the best they could. Carmine went through questioning. They planned on moving Damian to a mental hospital. No one was sure what to do with Carmine though.

The night before they reconstructed Damian's face things went downhill. Damian's mind wasn't any better. He hadn't talked at all. Carmine felt it was better than laughter, but his eyes were still sick with some sort of amusement. Carmine went home to take a shower.

Damian had been messing with his handcuffs ever since they were first put on his wrist. Every time no one was looking. He finished breaking them that night. His eyes lit up at the dropped pair of handcuffs colliding with the floor.  He quietly got up and glanced down the hall with his good side. The hospital  was almost empty. He rushed around in search of something. It took him a while and a lot of hiding behind corners, but he found a scalpel. He rushed to his bathroom and locked the door. He shoved a chair against the door. He sat down and took a hand held mirror out. He glanced at his unfinished look. He started working on his right side. He felt the pain. It was almost unbearable, but his eagerness to finish was unstoppable.

He loved the way this was turning out. He was getting used to the amount of pressure he needed to carve his cheek. He was beginning to enjoy the tangy taste of blood on his tongue. He went slowly and carefully. He was done after a half hour. He went to the sink and threw water on the stinging cut. He winced at it, but his happiness almost blocked out all pain. He let the blood drip on his fingers and carefully traced the cuts. He liked it. He slid the chair from the door. He almost opened the door when he heard a voice. It was Carmine. His little baby sister was here to check on him. Well, he could assure her that he was finally right. "Damian," she  asked? He pushed his lips together to stop himself from laughing out loud. How helpless. How cute.

She walked deeper into the room. He turned the bathroom light off and silently pushed the heavy door open. He quietly grabbed the door to the room and shut it.  She didn't notice. She was fixed on the window's view on the outside.  His hand tightened on the scalpel, He hurried to her and fluently wrapped his arm around her neck. She chocked out, but no sound penetrated his grasp.

She heard the quiet command to hush hiss in her ear.  His hand cupped her mouth. He lowered her to the floor. They were both kneeling. His eyes were fixed intently on her's. Her pushed her back so she was lying on her back. She worried. His face was even more horrifying. He placed his knees on either side of her. "I can make you perfect," he informed her with some proud eagerness. His words were slightly mispronounced  because of the cuts. His eyes seemed lost as if they were somewhere else. They had snapped. They were insane. His smile was broader than ever. He slipped the blade in her mouth. It fell and hit her jugular.