Halloween story

I have never celebrated All Hallow's Eve or Halloween or Anything Of The Sort but I admire the creativity and the perilous, insidious madness that adolescents brave as they obtain excessive amounts of processed sugar. 

A co-worker wrote a Halloween story and it was so good that I wanted to write one. Only problem: I don't do horror. While I love Poe, I cannot read King. I don't watch M. Night and have seen only one Friday the 13th.  Even the flying monkeys around Dorothy creep me out enough to turn it off. But I decided to give horror a shot. This is my Halloween story.

Before the Halloween of 2012, I had never believed in vampires. Or werewolves. Or that Taylor Lautner was a good actor. He never had to be.  On that Halloween 6 years ago, I was just hoping to impress everyone with my costume. My aunt,  a sewing spinster of sorts, was a costume designer for Sony Pictures. She still is actually.  Every year she makes the most awkward and amazing and grotesque costumes for all her friends. They become kings at boring parties. Or weirdos at amazing parties.  She does theatrical makeup too and can make everything look like blood and scabs and cholera.  She didn’t do it for her friends that year, because my parents had just split and she wanted to help darn the holes. 
 
She was putting the finishing touches on my decapitated Marie Antoinette when my little brother stabbed me in my side with scissors.  The bustier was so tight that it not only was cut, but it tore as well. But we already spent 70 minutes getting the outfit on and I was late. She was late too and we wouldn’t have time to take it off, fix it and put it back on.   She grabbed a giant, giant needle, put thread on it and pulled me to the door jamb. 

“Hold on and do not move. I don’t want to poke you." 

      She poked me anyway. 

“That is what it will feel like if you move.” 
     
     She started sewing the tear and the first time she poked my skin, my face winced, but I kept my body still. The second time, I grunted. She didn’t look up, huffed and kept working.   She had prepared fashion shows, made on set changes, and put up with pouty models and actors.  She had to be rough. I knew this about her. She was in the zone and I did not want to set her off.  When she poked my skin a third time, the needle went through my skin. I could not see it but I felt it. I gritted my teeth. She made about 30 more stitches and 3 more went through my skin. 

     She couldn’t see the blood because the costume was thick, but I felt the warm wetness beneath the fabric. I was now firmly attached to my costume. My blood was on it, in it. We were blood sisters of sorts. I would never be able to let anyone else use this costume. I would either wear it every day, burn it or be buried in it.     Auntie was irritated because my mom was in a bad mood and attacked Auntie when she first walked in. Then twice after that. That was her gift. That is why dad left. 

I had a tough time walking down the stairs. I tried to ignore the sharp stings that every step induced. But I liked that the real blood was mixed in with the fake blood, since it made the costume more authentic. Fresh blood. Who would've thought it would be so enticing. The thread was in my skin though. I did not know how I would get it out, or even get the bustier off to get to the threads, but I had seen enough television shows to know how to pull stitches out. It would probably be the same. Though, If I twisted my body at all, the wince would pop to a grimace. When we showed my mom the final result, she rolled her eyes. Auntie tugged on my costume and it felt like a chunk of flesh would come out. 

“Is something wrong honey?”  

“No. Auntie. Everything is fine.”   

     My mother chimed in.

“Kim. If you don’t think she did a good job, then you should just tell or, or just thank her properly.  You wouldn’t want her to think that she does crappy work?  Do you want her to think that?” 

   Auntie glanced at me, showing that I did not have to answer. I already knew that, though.  I already put up with 16 years of it. 

“I have to go.” Auntie said. “I have my own costume to try and get these huge thighs into.” 

   Her thighs were lean.  Mom’s weren’t.  She had 15 years more experience than I.  Touché   Mom, touché.

   Auntie left. I did too. 

Jenny’s party was great. And lame. There were a lot of minions running around, but no Gru. The slutty Wonder Woman made her usual appearance and there were too many Batmen for it to be a cool party.  As soon as I stepped in the door, a dorky, dorky dorky vampire could not stop staring at me. He was with two of his friends. They were dressed as Edward, Bella and the Taylor Lautner character, shirt off and everything.  They were sitting in the corner and when Edward saw me, he eyes widened and tried to get up. Bella looked at me and then she gripped his thigh to keep him down.  

     There was great music and stupid teenage conversation. I wanted to dance, but didn’t. Too painful.  So I took some of the anesthetic that was available and then some cheery cowboy caught my eye, and I caught his.  His undersized CostCo costume revealed his extensive workout regimen, as well as his lack of Halloween creativity. I cruised by to get a closer look and, and, and he smelled divine. “My Sharona” came on and I asked if he wanted to dance. It took four notes for me feel my stitches,  until “my motor run” to know dancing was a bad idea, and to the first "My Sharona" for him to put his hand on me.  Little did he know, he grabbed where the needle had entered my body four times.  I shouted in sync with everyone else’s “My Sharona” and no one noticed, even Cheery Cowboy. 

There was more blood inside my costume and the vampire kept staring.   He licked his lips. He tried to get up again, but I saw Bella mouthe, “Not yet.”  The Knack were winding down and I could not handle more dancing or another touch. I don’t know why he was dancing with me, anyway. He probably thought I was trying to do “The Robot” I was so rigid.  I was getting dizzy from the loss of blood, or the punch, or the love at first sight.  As I turned to find a place to sit down, the snotty, slutty, stupid Jenny was standing in front of me. 

“You can’t dance with him. He is my cousin and he has a girlfriend.” 

I refused to acknowledge her or reveal her stupidity to everyone watching. I knew that either action would prevent me from going someplace to lean or sit or lie to stop the pain. 

She was blocking a clear escape. I sidestepped and then twisted my body to get around her, but it pulled on the flesh-threads enough for me to exclaim, “Aaaghch.”  

“What did you call me?”   

   Jenny and I were close friends until 7^th grade when I kissed her brother, then spread some rumor about him and her. We didn’t fight then and I didn't want to punch her clown face. At least not then and there. I took 5 weeks of Tae Kwon Do classes when I was 12, which provided enough confidence to do something stupid.   But I didn’t want to turn around again.  Even when she used an expletive. Even when she threw a throw pillow past my head. Even when she said something about my tart mother.  

   But when that red Solo cup hit my neck and red juice showered me and everyone around, everything came up. As I considered turning around I noticed that Edward was no longer sitting on the other side of the house, but was standing next to me, leaning forward, giving me that constipated look he always gave Bella in the movies. If he really was a vegetarian vampire and was holding himself back from gorging on my blood, that would not be as bad as some strange teenager, dressed like Edward, pale face, lipstick and all, over-pretending to be a fictional character. Maybe he did smell my blood. 

I turned around, punched Jenny in the face. She fell back. I went right up and kissed the cute cowboy. 

“Call me.” 

  I said that without ever giving my name or number.  Even though it felt like my intestines were going to come out, I walked out the door cool as a cat. But the step down onto the sidewalk sent me to the floor in pain. Edward helped me up. 

“I’ll take care of you.” 

   The darkening darkness surrounded me as Edward helped me toward my car down the dark, dark street.  I was even more dizzy and began blacking out.  I never saw that cowboy again, nor my aunt, nor my mother, nor insipid Jenny, because I was never heard from again.