Despite the lengths gone to cauterize the wound, Jerry was seriously wondering if his perhaps-ill-advised self-castration had resulted in him bleeding out and dying.
Death—and him awakening to some kind of afterlife—somehow made more sense than reality.
How else could you explain the arrival of BelleSong12—Jerry's benefactor, the subject of his infatuation, his obsession, his digital girlfriend—now gracing the meek, humble doorstep of his apartment?
It was impossible. She was supposed to be somewhere on the other side of the country.
BelleSong12. Twitter influencer with something north of two million. Jerry's definition of a vision of beauty wore tight jeans and a baggy, grey hoodie that did little to detract from her small, slight frame. Jerry's eyes roved over details he had long idolized: alabaster skin (somehow not as flawless in real life? Maybe this wasn't death after all?), trademark purple locks seemingly just this side of lifeless (how was that possible?), a pixie-face with those crystal blue eyes (wait, almost grey, and definitely a little smaller than he had seen in photos), and those orgasm-inspiring lips.
Half-bit. Wink.
"Hey, kiddo," Belle said.
Jerry stood at the open door of his apartment wearing a white tank top and hastily (gently) pulled-on jeans, unzipped and unbuttoned, held in place with a hand to allow for maximum breathing room. He blinked at BelleSong12, confusion grabbing hands with castration-induced trauma and spinning in dramatic circles in Jerry's head, dancing an energetic tango that promptly stamped down any logical thought.
"You gonna invite a girl in or were you interested in fucking outside for the whole world to see?"
"Uh—" Jerry's throat was dry and his voice cracked. Not that it mattered, he couldn't find any words.
Jerry—prolific writer, lover of words, and passionate obsessor of written communication—didn't know what to say.
Another impossibility added to the bill.
Jerry found himself stepping aside without actually thinking about it. Belle entered the apartment and Jerry closed the door behind her. He followed her out of the foyer and into the small dining room that opened into a living room. Jerry's apartment was furnished cheaply, a sofa from Goodwill, a dining set rescued from the trash (not unlike his writing desk, but without the weighty charm of the latter's construction), a small television purchased off craigslist.
"Have a seat, Jerry," Belle said, more of a statement than a suggestion. She gestured at the dining table while glancing around the apartment. "You look like you need to take a load off."
Jerry shambled painfully and lowered himself into the chair. Belle glanced back at him, a mischievous look twinkling in her eyes.
"Another load, that is," she said with a quirked brow.
Powerful emotions were still dancing a brutal tango in Jerry's head and he couldn't understand what she was talking about until he followed her gaze past him and into the kitchen.
His phone was still lying on the floor.
Knives scattered against the wall.
Bloody towels.
The red, clumpy detritus that was his severed testicles and scrotal flesh looked like a small animal had made an unceremonious mess on his kitchen floor.
Belle crossed his path as she went to the kitchen, pausing to whisper in his ear.
"You should really clean up after yourself," Belle breathed, lips grazing Jerry's ear. "You wouldn't want ants, would you?"
YOU ARE READING
#TextMe😘 | a #WritingCommunity Horror Story
Short StoryA lonely, frustrated writer has a terrifying brush with popularity after he falls victim to a mysterious influencer with 2.2 million followers. ESTIMATED READ TIME: 60 minutes Enjoyed the story? Found a typo? Drop a comment and let me know!
