Rice - A Short Horror Story

The girl walks through the front door, her shoulders hunched, her bag barely hooked on the inside of her elbow, grazing the white-tiled floor.

There is no burst of warmth when she walks in, which she would have liked but couldn’t receive. The heating was not to be turned on despite the autumn chill seeping in through the hidden crevices of the house, finding homes in beds and under her feet. She toes off her shoes and leaves them neatly beside the front door, as if waiting for someone to berate her for leaving them carelessly for someone to trip over.

The boy sat on the sofa in the living room says nothing to her; he stares listlessly at the screen of the television, and he does not react to the door opening, expecting her in. He does not blink at the sudden burst of cold; he is wrapped up in what looks like a dozen jumpers, collars peeping out from underneath each other, against his throat. He is moulded into the sofa. If he was to get up, his impression would remain there for days.

The boy and the girl have not been speaking for a while, they both have a bit of a temper and who else are they supposed to take it out on but each other? Their… altercation was a few days ago, the girl couldn’t even remember what it was about, it was something so small yet so peculiar. What was it?

She does not say hello to him, instead she walks into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. As it brews, she prepares dinner, just microwavable rice. It pours out of the package, clumped together unattractively, moulded into shape until she gets a slight bit of water from the kitchen sink to save it. She adds in a chicken stock cube, some salt and places it into the microwave, forgetting about the tea. She stands there and watches as the bowl spins around, her eyes dry and her skin itchy. She burrows her hands further into her sleeves and curls her toes against the tiles.

Hopefully, the boy will eat this time. The kitchen counter tops were clean, since last night it seems, the fridge hasn’t been touched. There is a faint buzzing around her and out of the corner of her eye, she bats away the small, pernicious fly. It must have come in when she opened the door.

The microwave beeps, jump starting her out of her stupor, she takes the bowl of rice out of the microwave, thankful for the heat against her palms.

She carries it cautiously and places it on the coffee table in front of her brother on the sofa, hoping his face would light up and she would hear his stomach would growl. To no avail.

She sighs and falls into the seat next to him, uncaring of the movement jostling him.

The fly seems to have followed her, annoyed she bats it away, and another, and then another.

She runs her hand through her hair and finally turns to her brother.

"I have notified people about your funeral, your body is prepared and I chose you a nice suit."

She looks at the corpse beside her. His fickle form had the sheen and pallor of bone. Marble like. He is swollen, his arms swarmed with small blisters. Some have burst like little caverns on the surface of the moon. His skin was also, saggy. Peeling away from his bones, she could pull it away and it would not flex back. Blood pools at the corner of his mouth, crusting and flaking away as the days go by.

His eyes are open and glazed, the sofa beneath him damp, breathing out repulsive odours that the girl is used to now. His face ravaged by flies and maggots, they were feasting on his face and his hair. Feasting like Kings.

The maggots look like rice; she thinks. No wonder he does not want to eat it.

His lips have fallen open, his tongue lolling. He needs a bath; the girl thinks.

A wash and some food and her brother would be good as new. And she could give this place a clean, make it feel like home again. Make him feel at home again.

And then, everything can go back to normal.

Everything can go back to normal.