(HSSC2) There's Poison in the Macaroni

I sat in my room, the cold wind gushing through my window, the trees shaking violently, creating a cascade of snapping branches. I never liked the storms, nor did I like trees much for that matter, I always seemed to have a TV-dinner personality; Butter me up, put me in a pretty bowl, and you�d never know that I only cost 5.95 at Kroger�s, and there are hundreds more exactly like me waiting there. We wait, we sit and wait for someone, anyone, to scoop us up, take us home, and use us until we�re emptier than before we began. So naturally, I didn�t have much time for silly things like nature, I was too busy heating up more Lean Cuisine and brandy.

I began to shuffle through my record collection, an accumulation of gifts received from my many buyers, a consumer digest top pick. I�ve always been fascinated with records, ever since my collection began when II snuck several vinyls out of my mother�s closet when I was young. She wasn�t around anymore, she never really was. When I took those vinyls, she took her bags. By the time I learned that she was gone, she was never coming back.

I had a section for each time period of my life. They ranged from hard metal to jazz, classic punk to techno. Sifting through a stack I didn�t usually look into, I noticed a record I had never encountered before.

There�s Poison in the Macaroni.
*

My mother always hated the fact that boys were always around the house. Even at a young age, my father�s friends would come and go, his business associates would stop in town for drinks and end up staying the night in my room. My mother saved me from it on several occasions, but never really solved the problem, seeing how she was tangled in it as well. But she knew how I was treated, she knew how I would cry, she knows how I would run away and always be found, how I always tell the truth but am blamed for treachery. She knows, knew, knows it all. She was gone by the time my father had died, but in a phone conversation we had many years later, she had told me he deserved what he got, choking to death on all his lies.

And drifting through her collection, the records she once had owned, I found one hidden I had never seen.

There�s Poison in the Macaroni.

Taking the worn 45 out of its plain envelope, I placed it on my dusty turntable. As it began to turn, it�s scratchy harmony resonated in my ears, and the tune sounded like something out of a advertisement�s jingle. I sat peacefully, in a sense of awkward nostalgia, a forgotten memory melting on the tip of my tongue. I did this often throughout my life and I still forgot things then, and if no one else had known they were to occur, I would never know the truth. I heard the past, and suddenly, all I heard were screams.

�CINTHIA!!!!!!!!!�

Screams coming from the other room.

*

�Cinthia, get the hell in here, the game�s on!�

I ripped the vinyl off the table, nearly breaking it in two. Shoving in back into it�s blood stained envelope, I hurried into the living room, where Mark was sitting on the couch, Lean Cuisine in hand.

�Can�t even watch the clock, huh? Let it get cold in the god damn microwave why don�t you, you stupid whore. Get me a drink.�

She knew, she knows what I did, do not.

�I�m sorry baby.�

I walked briskly into the kitchen, opening the fridge for the brandy. In the reflection of the bottle, I noticed blood seeping down my lip, shocking me so intensely that I dropped the liqour. Shrieking, I stooped down to grab it, losing my balance in a pool of melted cheese which Mark had conveniently left lying on the floor from his meal. He didn�t know. I cleaned it up, forgetting what I had done, and went to him with his drink.

Snatching it from my hands, he pushed me out of the way of his TV, knocking me towards the wall. I did not speak, I didn�t know what was happening. Just then, I noticed a drop of cheese left on my fingertips. Hoping he wouldn�t notice, I licked it off my hand quickly, its sharp taste inching down my throat with every breath.

*

I sat in front of the turntable again, the unknown record playing over and over in my mind. Before it was ever complete, I picked it up and started it from the beginning, assuming I had been missing something. Hours later, I sat in silence, confused, tired, and heavy. The room began to darken, my hands began to tremble, my eyes began to flutter, the record began to play again.

And then, a crash.

I bolted up, stumbling as quickly as I could into the room where mark lay on the couch, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, blood pouring from his mouth. I ran over towards him, his face was cold, his eyes were white. Spilled macaroni and the remnants of a cold dinner were scattered all over the floor.

I could not speak, I could not scream. I did not know anything, but she knew.

The room began to darken, my hands began to tremble, my eyes began to flutter, and as I fell towards the bloody floor, the record reached its final, unheard verse. It was a woman�s voice, whispering, as if it was a secret only I should know.

There�s poison in the macaroni.

[edit on 10/14/04 by ArtStarr]

I know this is annoying, but I'm wondering if there's a limit to how many stoires we can present on this little competition. I feel like I've got too many going. Sorry if I'm bugging everyone.

i liked it keep up the good work

I read this story and I thought I posted a reply. It's a very well written story and very well on the dark side!

Artstarr, you've got the same talent for story telling as Stephen King!

If I'm ever invited to your house for dinner, I'll cook the Macaroni!:

[edit on 20/10/04 by Intelearthling]