Story: Head… by Matthew Chrulew

This week, a classic tale of heads…. we hope it sends chills down your spine… *OR DO WE*???

Man, I’m getting lazier and lazier at these intros:

head.pdf

 

Head

by Matthew Chrulew

 

 

Hi, how’s it going? I’m a detached, semi-functioning head, artificially arrested post-decapitation but pre-decay (Human of course). You may know me from such urban legends as “there’s a psychopath loose, your boyfriend hasn’t returned from getting petrol, and there’s a banging on top of the car, but whatever you do, don’t look back”. But that’s not the story I’m here to tell today. Today I wanna tell you about something that happened to me recently.

 

But first, a couple of points:

 

(1) This isn’t fantasy or whatever else. And I’m not a metaphorical head, though I do get around. I’m drip-on-your-boots real.

 

(2) There’s no secret or profound symbolic undercurrent to this. It’s just a story. That’s what human heads do, tell stories, and detached heads are best for telling stories on the more… uncomfortable side.

 

So anyway here goes:

 

I was between a coupla gigs when it happened. I’d waited around in a box for hours just to appear all gross-like when the dumb bastard finally opened it, and so I was a bit stiff around the ears, and what was left of my neck was sore from cramps. But I had to get to the next job – I forget which, some cavern or jar or shelf or other story. And so off I was going when Whooshka! something just came out of nowhere and belted me sideways and into the pavement. I bounced twice, slicking thick blood into the unlucky cracks before I came to rest, reeling, and looked up.

 

It was a foot, a hairy, gangrenous, ingrown-toenailed foot. It had tripped me, kicked me, and was now hopping there as I righted myself. And then behind it gathered a host of other body parts. My attacker was joined by a torso, a pair of arms, a couple of knees, and various other oddments that presumably had joined the rest in their heyday.

 

There was an uncanny familiarity to all these phantom limbs. Like I knew them from somewhere, these pieces of flesh that hopped and rolled and dragged towards me. I swallowed, and the saliva splatted out of my oesophagus onto the footpath. There was barely a sound except for the scrape of skin and concrete, the rub of opened flesh.

 

And then I had it. They were mine! My old pals from my original bodily assemblage. The resemblance was still there, despite the decay and necrosis.

 

But the stench! If only olfaction wasn’t part of the old “head” deal, or I had some fingers to pinch my nostrils against that invasive reek of exposed rotting meat.

 

But this was no time to wish for a body, or muse on the irony. I’d sacrificed such physical aids for my freedom, and no way was I letting these dumb slabs have their homecoming.

 

I waited, but what were they going to do, speak to me? That was exactly the problem! It was quite clear what they wanted. Since I’d liberated them from our bonds, given them their individuality, they were mute. Stupid. Uncoordinated. Hopeless.

 

And so they needed me. Their leader. But they were a prison.

 

They advanced in dribs and drabs, and I backed up, sweat now running through my wispy hair. I looked around for an escape route, and realised that they’d failed (again) to surround me, that they came at me in a disorganised clump. I might just make it. And so I darted, dodging a swiping, arthritic-knuckled hand, and twisted, avoiding the flatulent slam of a stained butt-cheek. Fortunately the lack of a head had also severely hampered their ability to coordinate, and I managed to get away before the flabby stomach lurched into position.

 

So anyway, that was what happened to me just now. Happens all the time really. Horrific, I know. (I do get away each time. Though each time, they do come back.) And that’s what I’m here to tell you about. To take you through your fear.

 

“My fear?” you might say. “But that’s your fear. You are the head – the detached (though very real) story-telling head – who is afraid of being subsumed again by your body.”

 

You might say that.

 

“My fear?” you might say. “I don’t know that fear. I’m not such a head. I’m not threatened by a multitude of limbs and lumps.”

 

You might say that, too.

 

But that would be because you’re still under the impression that the “I” and “you” you’ve constructed here are actually distinct. That right now you are an autonomous human being, and not a decapitated story-telling head.

 

Go on, keep telling yourself that you aren’t me. Pretend you’re not in this story to get away from your body. This story about how you can never get away from your body.

 

This story like all stories.

 

But when this story stops, and you go back… When, I should say, you read the last word and you’re forced, sucked, jolted back, taken over again by your filthy sticky body, just like what happens to me on the pavement – then you might change your tune.

 

The story has to end.

 

(At least I get to leave.)

 

—

“To escape the horror of your body once more through Matthew Chrulew’s flash fiction,

construct a nasty road tale here, or distract yourself with some repugnant puns here.

Even better, buy this or this.”