The Blood and The Bear

 

When someone asks me how to get blood out of the rug, my first question is what the hell have you been doing that made the rug bleed in the first place? Hehehe.

Aren’t you supposed to take the bear out of the bear skin before you bring it in the house? Haha.

Well, I thought it was funny…

But sometimes, I guess, when the moon is right, or the stars are bad, when there’s a chill in the air, you wake with a start. No noise, no words. You just know that it’s happening. Sometimes, the bear wakes up. It doesn’t roar or wail or growl, it just comes looking.  Real slow. It crawls across the hardwood, sliding and dragging itself to you because it has no bones.

No bones, but it wants yours.

And you lie still as a mouse under your covers, trying not to make a noise, trying not even to breath, and you hope that if you’re quiet and still there in the pitch black, if you pretend you’re asleep that it won’t see you somehow, that it’ll just crawl on by your open door.

God, why do you keep leaving the door open?!

Did you leave it open?? Did it open the door? Is it in here already?

You know that scratching, dragging sound; know it deep inside you. You know it’s getting closer. You know it knows where to find you.

It doesn’t need bones or lights or eyes to smell you. You remember what they always said, always warned you about when you went camping… How a bear can smell what it wants for miles. How it will tear into nylon, plastic, through garbage, metal and flesh if it gets just a whiff of something sweet…

Chocolate or bacon or blood…
Or you.
Something sweet.

And now it’s right there. Right down along the edge of your bed. You know how this will end. How it always ends. You know it’s too late and it’s already dragging itself up on to the bed, on top of you. You can feel its weight pressing in on you, sliding over you, heavy and thick, and you know it should weigh more, will weigh more once it takes what it wants.
What it needs.
What you have.

It’s got the covers back and it’s sliding up under them, up along your leg and you know it’s too late. It’s starting all over again. Too late to run.
Why didn’t you run?!
Why don’t you
ever run??!

You were too chicken shit to move but now… Now it’s got you and you can’t move, can’t even force out a scream, can’t do anything but feel the tears slide down your cheeks. And feel everything else.

And it’ll come up your legs, shove them apart, hook a claw inside you and start peeling your skin away, one strip at a time. It’ll peel back everything and pull on each bone until the tendons tear and they snap away from the cartilage, and it will take them for its own. One at a time.

It will make it last all night and you won’t say a word. Not a peep. Because you’re too fucking scared. It’s too late.

And when it’s done with you, it’ll lumber off into the darkness, leave you lying there in a puddle in your own bed, a soft, putrid, bloody mess. Crying and still being you, unable to be anything or anybody else, but still unable to move, unable to run, knowing that you will forever be unable to stop it from doing this OVER AND OVER!

Taking the spine out of you, eating your soul, piece by piece and leaving you there like a cowardly puddle of piss, hating yourself even more than you hate him for doing this to you over and over.

God…why won’t he just stop… Will he ever stop? It just keeps happening and you never have the strength to run, to leave, to get away, to tell somebody, ANYBODY! HELP ME!! THIS ISN’T RIGHT!

Who would even believe you? Who would believe you over him?
You’re just a little slut.
Telling lies about a good man. A hard-working, honest, family man.
He’s harmless, your dad.
Just a big ol’ teddy bear.

How do you get blood out when it’s in real deep?

You might just have to tear it out and get rid of it.

We’ve got some good sharp carpet knives in aisle four.

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