horror short story <3

[trigger warning; horrific themes]

Pomegranates are delicate, so I am careful when I cut them open. The tops must first be cut with care to avoid the seeds. I find the ridges in which the pods are separated, and cut into them, separating it into several pieces. The skin acts as a shield and is unimportant to consumption, and so it must be dissected.

I wake up in the morning and brush my teeth, the mint acting like fire to my half awake mouth. I wander aimlessly. The sun peeks through the sheer curtains onto my table. Moments like these make me wonder why I chose cream furniture; the light refracts and assaults my eyes. Then I am reminded the choice was not my own, but my ex-wife’s. The thought passes my mind and I return to the bathroom, spit out the toothpaste, and rinse. I smile at myself, seeing a man before me I no longer recognize but tolerate each day. I am a normal man, bored of his painfully uneventful life. 

Five sections lay before me, each filled with delicate seeds with the potential to grow. I pick one piece up, it is clean, I am clean. I merely hold it in my hand and I know I must pull it apart to eat the seeds but I merely want to hold it.

The bus is full so I must stand, yet I am unbothered. I observe the unclean people of the city. A woman sits cross legged, shaking under the pressure of the world, covered in the filth of anxiety and another stands holding the bar above her head, beaten to survive the streets. A man sits with his legs spread wide, anger fuming in his eyes and another sits on the ground fearful of all, tainted with the illness that humans spread only through speech. It doesn’t matter how many people are here, it is still filthy, and they all feel the same. I am no better. My eyes glide around and catch the only undisturbed soul; a young boy. His eyes are bright just as ours all were and he smiles, despite his father next to him who is soiled. I am compelled to stare, and when he leaves the bus I choose to follow. Only for a moment, I see him skip up the cement making the world a field of flowers all for him to enjoy. Then I return to the bus, as my world is simply what it truly is. 

The pomegranate shines bright red in the light. As tempted as I am to only stare, it must be prepared. A bowl of water is prepared beside me, and I carefully aid the seeds in falling off the skin. Each seed is a perfect jewel, and yet I know how good they will taste.

Clocks tick away, each noise reminding me of my increasing mortality. It’s no matter, everyone must die. My thoughts wander from the endless flow of words swallowing my screen. I wonder what the boy could be doing at school, such a soft child cannot even comprehend algebra. The teachers teach them how to smile although they have long since forgotten. They are no less filthy than you or I. The children however will never notice that, seeing a smile as just that. They do not see the pain behind their eyes or the grime underneath their teeth. Their tongues are snakes filling the average child’s ears with lies about how wonderful growing up is. They are not wrong for this, it is only their job to keep the innocent clean for as long as possible. I want to keep them clean. 

There are so many seeds. How can I ever keep them all clean? The gentle pushing is becoming increasingly repetitive, and my hands slip and squish the juices out of a seed. The juice plumes in the water, turning the clear color pink and tainting my own cleanliness. 

On the bus again, and there is no refuge from the intoxicating smell of willingness to die. We may never be saved, perhaps we are in hell. Each day we face the same tasks, writing, and reading, and thinking, and repeating every single day. We are tired and disinterested in anything we can possibly do. If it continues this way the children will be this way too. My attempts to break free and feel some semblance of cleanliness are feeble and do not last. The thought of it does not upset me, or make me feel any form of rage. I feel nothing. I wonder if we are all robots, but when I see the children I am reminded we all started there as well. I would pray to feel clean of the world I live in, but why would I pray to a god I do not believe in? It is pointless, just like everything in my life.

I would cry over the mess but that does not change anything. The thick red coats my hands as I give up on being clean. I am far too hungry for the innocent seeds. I pull haphazardly, too far gone to care about the seeds lost along the way. I no longer care how much I get in this feat, as long as I get something. I rip the seeds from the flesh. 

My home is empty as it always is. Perhaps it is my own fault, perhaps it is not. It does not matter now. The once bright living room now is consumed by the dark of night. If I cared I would turn on the lights but I cannot convince myself to care. I sit in the darkness and return to the thought of the boy, and think about how he could return light to this room. Then I am reminded that I must eat. Any excitement I could have is soiled by the mess it made. What once was clean is dirty but perhaps innocence lurks inside. Maybe I will feel it, but I doubt it. 

It is prepared. I lift the seeds to my mouth and hope to feel the joy I thought they might bring. As I chew the red streams down my face and drips on my already soaked hands. 

I am hungry, but I cannot find the joy in eating. 

It is dirty, I am dirty. 

I feel nothing. 

And all of a sudden it is only another fruit, that takes too much work to obtain, and is not worth the work. 

I can tell myself maybe it was not truly innocent, or maybe it is my fault. All I know is it is not what I wanted. 

I’ve killed potential trees, and ruined their innocence. I will try again  tomorrow, maybe I can save him from the filth.