crawl space

flash horror

tw: child abuse

He wakes to the beep-beep of the mailman, of Larry (who, in addition to delivering his mail, is an old high school wrestling buddy) reversing. Larry’s worn tires struggle to grip the snow. He breathes slow. He closes his eyes and imagines Larry—Larry in his lime-green wrestling singlet, little lime Larry behind the government wheel of his white box truck, sitting in his dumb box truck with its blue eagle-ish swish stalling out at his mailbox. He smiles and shoulder-nudges Beelzebub, ha! remember?! remember how excited we got seeing mailmen in December?! Larry’s tires find purchase; he drives off to stuff Mrs. Harrelson’s box with Safeway coupons. …remember when ma called the mailmen elves?! Footfalls creak above. Someone’s standing overhead. You bite his hand, again, harder this time. fuck...shhhhh. He tenses and hisses. Beelzebub calms him: yes, obviously darling, of course...of course I remember darling. Yes, of course...elves...elves darling…

You’re smushed in his crawl space; your nostrils clogged with dust bunnies. His left hand is dry—dry and big and chapped, it’s pressed tight over your mouth. He’s pulling you close, against his body, he’s big-spooning and engulfing and hissing shhhhhhhh if you squirm, shhh shhhhhhh if you mumble or bite or squirm. He is naked. Old and naked and weak-bladdered. Pressed into your butt, he’s pissed six? eight?...ten times over the six hours you’ve been down here …remember how the boxes were alive? alive and purring…alive with potential? He pissed on the corduroy knickers mommy got you for Christmas, they’ve gone stale, stale and cold on your thighs. …of course, darling….potential…alive…

Radios squawk. Someone’s wearing heels. Biting is no use. You taste his blood. Bloody saliva trickles down your chin, down into your hand. It’s dried on your knuckles. For fun, you open and close your hands. You feel the dry blood crack against your skin as it stretches. Every now and then, red-blue lights flash through the window. Your heart shakes when the red-blue comes, you want to sneeze—you want to sing or moan the heaviest decibels your body can muster, but his hands tighten shhhhhh... they tighten when the red-blue comes. Nine pairs of boots and two pairs of heels walk over your face. He mumbles to Beelzebub about the shoes, about the dumb pig bitches, about how the dumb pig bitches are wearing their filthy fucking pig shoes inside, trampling his nice clean insides, tracking their pig shit and scum onto his nice clean pristine sparkling shag…his breath smells like candy canes. It’s hard to breathe. He pinches your nose when you bite, pinches when the red-blue comes, pinches you semi-conscious until you hear the vents whisper yes…yes darling…of course...pig shoes...pigs darling…

Drawers are being opened; furniture moved, ancient armoire feet scream on his hardwood …fat pigs leaving their wet melting scum on my goddamn motherfucking hardwood…yes dear, scum piles...pigs...of course…When this is over, he will bake you a pie. Cherry or apple; whatever you’d like. He will let you stay home from school and watch cartoons in your PJs. When this is over, he will get on his hands and knees and scrub pig scum from his shag, crawling, quadrupedal, watching you from his downward dog.

A muffled voice says something about blood, says something about a smell; it’s hot and Beelzebub’s ignoring him. It’s hot, hot and wet and wombish. His skin folds writhe against your nape and stroke you towards sleep. You sleep. You sleep dreamless sleep and when you wake, you float in pure dark. Your eyes stare out, unfed, your nostrils hop with bunnies. You listen. You focus. There is blood in your temples; low thrumming blood and a high-pitched whir, thrums and whirs but no noon shining through the small window slit, no red-blue, no feet or squawks or talk of smells, no Larry or heels…just a snoring thing pulling you into its belly, just the sharp hand tickle of dried blood cracking as you open, close, open, close…

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