Horror D’oeuvre #7
by Dustin LaValley
© 2006 by Dustin LaValley
All Rights Reserved
The hoarse-gagging of my roommate choking on his own breath wakes me. I glance at the wall clock: 3:13 AM.
Motherfucker! I scream in my head.
Stupid bastard filled his lungs with poison for over forty years, no doubt killing his family along with each cigarette. Turning white walls yellow and pink lungs black. He woke me in the first few minutes of sleep I’ve experienced in the three nights since the surgery. Operation. Whatever the hell you call the removal of a colon.
It’s August and the humidity has overtaken the air-conditioning. I lay naked with a white, bloodstained hospital sheet half covering my lower body. A dirty golden line of piss flows through my foley catheter and drips into its bag. I can feel the water-filled balloon trapped in my bladder, creating a dull ache to accompany the sharp pain of the tube rubbing against my tender dickhole. I’m covered in a sticky glaze of perspiration, I smell horribly of body odor, and my cock is uncomfortably shrunken and stuck to my prickly balls. With my wooden backscratcher, I flick the damp sheet farther off my body, uncovering my new friend: the stoma. My little pink buddy is entrapped by a clear ostomy bag. Shit spilling almost constantly from its mouth.
Kind of like some people I know.
The surgeons warned me, every little detail printed and pushed under my nose to dissect and mentally ingest. But they never said a word about the itching. The itching! It’s fucking insane. Growing worse the longer my mind stays on topic. I fidget and fuss and become angry and agitated.
I tear the adhesive strip painfully from my abdominal skin, ripping the Tupperware-like appliance from my body; I expose my little friend.
My nails dig into the wrinkled, pink skin and I scratch like hell. Digging harder, scratching faster. The fresh air hitting my stoma is like a drug: drowning out all mental comprehension, asking for more and more and more.
A nasty sharp pain sends my body into a quick convulsion. I stop scratching and throw my hands into the air. I notice the blood coating my fingers and knuckles. Out of breath and scared, I glance down at my stomach.
My little buddy is staring back at me, frowning, slick with blood, with a bit of bloody stool slipping from its mouth like drool. “What the fuck was that about?” it asks.
I stare wide-eyed, stupefied, and motionless.
“You got a fuckin’ problem? Keep staring, asshole. It’ll help mend this shit up.”
“Wha—” I begin to say.
“I’m all you got left now, and you try to kill me?”
“No.” I say, “No, I was only….”
The stoma tilts to the side just a little, like it’s cocking its head at me. “Guess what, asshole.” It pauses, sinks into itself, and then pushes out and sprays blood and shit onto my upper stomach. “You fucked up.” It coughs, “Now I’m un-fuckin’—” The stoma begins to jerk back, hacking something from deep within. Shit slaps warm across my belly in a big goober of liquid. “Now I’m un-fuckin’-usable, you piece of shit!” it manages to say, spraying blood.
“What? Why?”
“Don’t you fuckin’ question me, you damn idiot. You fucked me up. Now I’m permanent.”
I close my eyes for a long moment, “The doctors, surgeons, they said you’d only be…I’d only have an ostomy bag for two, three months.”
“Yeah, yeah, unless you tear it…me all up to fuckin’ shreds!”
The stoma goes silent, leans back, and seems to be staring me down. I stare back, silent. “No one will like you anymore, nobody wants to be friends with a shitbag,” it says with a hint of superiority in its voice.
“What? Why wouldn’t—”
It leans forward and shouts, “Forget about ever gettin’ laid again.” It laughs, hard and loud. “Your life is ruined, buddy. You’re already dead.”
The foley catheter hurts like a bitch as I yank it out of my dickhole. Blood follows, pooling on the sheets, but I don’t care. I slide the IV line out of the fold of my arm, a fine trickle of blood slithers down my forearm, but it doesn’t bother me. With all my strength, I stand, grow dizzy and feel nauseated, but it won’t stop me.
I stand on the ledge of the roof, a trail of blood behind me. My little friend laughs as I consider the next step.
All Rights Reserved
Comment by jpokela on 28 December 2006:
Doc Solamman… EAT YOUR HEART OUT!!!! A new star is born!!!
Comment by diego on 28 December 2006:
Wow! Dustin, flesh that out to about 15,000 words
Comment by kresby on 28 December 2006:
this is icky.
Comment by Chris Hansen on 28 December 2006:
Huh, my stoma never talked to me. Maybe ’cause I never called it “little pink buddy.” But, anyway, I agree with Kresby.
Comment by macker on 28 December 2006:
i thought that when i read it this morning, but didn’t quite know how to articulate my feelings…..icky sums it up nicely
Comment by SLIM on 28 December 2006:
I’m not sure what to think when I read this this morning, but I do know it was way to early!
Comment by Chris Hansen on 28 December 2006:
“but I do know it was way to early!” Hehe, agreed.
Comment by djl on 28 December 2006:
Wow. Cool feedback. I’m happy it’s doing its job and I think “icky” is a nice summation of the whole. Man, I hated that stoma.
Comment by SLIM on 29 December 2006:
You and me both, what a piece of shit!
Comment by jpokela on 30 December 2006:
Wadda bunch a wimps!!! Ths Dritiphilist by Ed Lee is my favorite piece of fiction followed by his Splatterspunk and Matthew Stokoe’s Cows. Doc Solamman is up there also!!! there is a market for this krappe and I am it!!! Peace out
Comment by siralabamawashington on 12 March 2007:
Kind Sir, I find your filth untolerable. You should be hospitalized for mental instability. I have seen your work two or three times before, and never have I been so disgusted. Though as I enjoy the taste, your tale of a talking intestinal stoma has me reading once again. I praise you, Sir.