Chaos

10/'04 - This is an excerpt from a parody our Fiction II class did of Gogol's short story 'The Nose.' In the story, the main character discovers a disembodied nose that he attempts to return to it's owner. My story is about a goth kid who finds a wrist.

Chaos crept into the kitchen where his mother was cooking dinner. The secret, deathly personae he tried to exude at all times was announced loudly by the clanking of his ridiculously long wallet chain. His mother turned around from her pot of meatloaf and jumped.

“OH! Jeremy…Christ, you look frightening,” she said, grasping her chest.
“Thanks…but I’ve told you a thousand times, Martha, it’s CHAOS!” he yelled.
“Well, Chaos,” she said with a laugh, “my name is ‘Mom,’ and I was perfectly fine with you calling me that for the past seventeen years.”
“Whatever…I gotta go,” Chaos said with forced apathy.
“Wait, Jeremy,” his mother pleaded, stepping in front of the back door. She held his arms, having to avoid the rows of metal spikes that he had sewn down his sleeves. “Why are you doing this? This isn’t you. Is it because of that girl…what’s her name? Fanny?”
“Sally!” Chaos yelped, his voice cracking at the mere thought of her.
“Well, whoever," she said, returning to the stove, "you know, I don’t appreciate this life style, I’ve been against it from the beginning. I was in college when the punks started showing up. Nasty bastards with their home-made piercings and spiked up hair. I don’t want to see you go down that road, Jeremy. One time some kid named Piss just ran into our sorority living room while we were having a party and puked all over me! Then he just ran out laughing!” she said.

Chaos wanted to laugh but he had forgotten how because he was so fucking goth.

“Look, that’s not me,” he said to her, “I don’t even drink anymore.”
“Well you’ve started that terrible band that practices in the garage…what’s the name, Shallow poop?” she asked.
“SHADOW WOLF, Martha!” he screamed. Chaos heard his father shift in his recliner from the living room where he sat watching a football game with increasing volume.
“I was also around when Ozzy Osbourne was biting heads off bats and snorting trails of fire ants up his nose!” she complained, “I know what goes on in the music scene, Jeremy, and it’s despicable.”

Before the word “despicable” had even left her lips, something small and pink jumped out of the boiling pot and landed on the kitchen floor.
“Oh My God!” his mother exclaimed.
Somehow, a piece of flesh had found its way into the pot where Chaos’ mother was preparing the family’s meatloaf for dinner that night.
“Is this your idea of a joke?!” Chaos’ mother screamed at him, “Is this some prop for your fucking band?! You get that out of here right now! Don’t come back with it!”
Chaos quickly picked up the flesh, wrapped it in a paper towel covered with farm houses and flowers and exited through the back door.

As he approached the Fast Stop at the end of the street he took one quick look at the terrible burden that had been given to him. It resembled a pork chop. The skin was delicate and soft. He stopped under a street light and took a closer look. It was a wrist. He could see it now. No hand or arm to accompany it. It had been severed from both by someone with a very steady hand. He swallowed hard and his spine shook.

He approached the trash can in the convenience store parking lot. Just before he got there, he saw the red truck pulling in. The same red truck that he saw so many nights full of the same drunk assholes looking for a fight. How did these guys always show up at the same time he did? It was getting to be routine by now. Before the driver could even park the truck, four or five of them had hopped out and were running towards Chaos.
“What’s up, faggot?” one of the clones called out.
“Whatcha got there? Your mom’s douche? Man, you are a homo,” said another.
Chaos didn’t say anything, just opened the paper towel to reveal its contents.
The one with the popped collar puked at first sight.
“Oh, you are one sick fuck,” he said in between heaves.
The others moaned and turned away in disgust.
One of them spat in Chaos’ face and delivered a hard blow to his cheek. The wrist flew out of his hands and into the alley way. Chaos' elbows hit the cement hard.

“We’re gonna have to beat your goth ass a little bit harder for this one, aren’t we shitbag?” said one of them.
“You are a fucking steamed shitbag, bro,” said the one who was still puking.

Just then the clerk, a young woman, ran out of the store, crying and yelling at them in broken English to 'run off!' Directly after came her father, the owner of the business, carrying a large sawed-off shot gun and screaming in Arabic.

“Oh fuck, let’s fuckin go, dudes!” yelled the popped collar. Within seconds they were all back into the truck, flipping off the scene as they left.

Chaos slithered over to the wrist and picked it up just as the young woman came to help him up. He quickly tried to hide the wrist but was found out. The woman gasped and covered her mouth, praying quietly to herself. Chaos looked up, faced with the barrel of the owner’s shotgun. In his best English, the man said “You have to go now…LEAVE!” Chaos jumped up and continued to run down the street into the cold night.