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    Delicate Cutters
    Delicate Cutters
    Delicate Cutters
    Ebook197 pages2 hours

    Delicate Cutters

    By M.E. Purfield

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Friends are full of dark secrets that can harm you, but none are more dangerous to you than your own.

     

    Your art is special make-up F/X and you love horror movies. These interests don't fly in suburbia. You're an outsider in high school and your family.

     

    Except for your best friend Danny. He's also an outsider. He loves horror movies, too. He loves you. You can sense it and it scares you.

     

    When Heather moves back into town, she starts up your once longtime friendship from grade school. Heather is beautiful, popular, and confident, and she doesn't say anything bad about your interests; at least when she's sober.

     

    Now you're stuck between two worlds, between two people you love who are speeding down a path to self-destruction. Little do they know, you're racing on your own path.

    Buy Delicate Cutters now to experience the dark humor of teen love and obsession that will shatter your heart.

    LanguageEnglish
    Publishertrash books
    Release dateJan 19, 2016
    ISBN9781524202439
    Delicate Cutters
    Author

    M.E. Purfield

    M.E. Purfield is the autistic author who writes novels and short stories in the genres of crime, sci-fi, dark fantasy, and Young Adult. Sometimes all in the same story. Notably, he works on the Tenebrous Chronicles which encompasses the Miki Radicci Series, The Cities Series, and the Radicci Sisters Series, and also the sci-fi, neuro-diverse Auts series of short stories.

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      Book preview

      Delicate Cutters - M.E. Purfield

      Delicate Cutters

      M.E. Purfield

      Published by trash books, 2016.

      While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

      DELICATE CUTTERS

      First edition. January 19, 2016.

      Copyright © 2016 M.E. Purfield.

      ISBN: 978-1524202439

      Written by M.E. Purfield.

      Also by M.E. Purfield

      Auts Series

      Auts

      Auts World (Coming Soon)

      Books About Everyone

      The Satellite

      The Ableism of Salvation

      What Sorrow Flies Off Roofs

      The King of Dodgeball Goes with the Flow

      When the Lights Go Out

      Blunt Force Kharma

      Bound Kharma

      Kharma's Pursuit

      Kharma's Glitch

      Kharma's Gatto

      Desolate Kharma

      Blunt Force Kharma

      Cities That Eat Islands

      Cities That Eat Islands (Book 1)

      Cities That Eat Islands (Book 2)

      Cities That Eat Islands (Book 3)

      Fish Hunt

      Cities That Hide Bodies

      Complete Cities That Eat Islands

      Miki Radicci

      A Black Deeper Than Death

      In a Blackened Sky Where Dreams Collide

      Blood Like Cherry Ice

      Surly Girly

      Bawling Sugar Soul

      A Girl Close to Death

      Heart on the Devil's Sleeve

      Sinking Stones in the Sky

      The Ghost and the Stream

      Expressway Thru the Skull

      Hacker's Moon

      Miki Radicci Shorts

      The Ultimate Miki Radicci Omnibus Vol 1

      The Ultimate Miki Radicci Omnibus Vol 2

      Miranda Crowe

      Bagged

      Munki Moo Moo

      Munki Moo Moo

      Radicci Sisters Mystery

      Psychic Sisters

      My Dead Body

      Saints

      Squeezed

      Broken Psychic Hearts

      The Emptiness Above

      The Sludge Below

      Doe

      Auties

      The Killer

      The Deceiver

      The Sentinels (Coming Soon)

      Favors

      Bumper

      Rats In The Cage

      Short Story

      Natural Born Killer

      Limits of Stupidity

      MiLK

      Orange Flecks

      Through Tangled Nerves

      The Creative

      Defective Brain Club

      Line

      The Van Outside

      Doorway Down

      Just

      Short of a Long Holiday

      Lifetime Hallmark Scheme

      Malignant Little Bastards

      Pain Killer

      Sibling Rivalry

      Hole In The Head Freak

      Neurodivergence on FH-358

      Stories

      A Sandwich Can't Stop A Bullet

      The Morrows

      How To Make Friends with Teenage Anarchists

      Metal Balls: Stories (Coming Soon)

      Tenebrous Chronicles

      Party Girl Crashes the Rapture

      Angel Spits

      Six Feet

      Tweens with Pop Guns

      Lightning From The Fire

      The Subject

      Tenebrous Two

      Darby & Cain

      The Saoirse War

      Ealu

      Thainig An

      Ag Dul Abhaile

      Buama Ama

      Fealltoir

      Spas Reoite

      Standalone

      Breaking Fellini

      Delicate Cutters

      Jesus Freakz + Buddha Punx

      Buddha Punx + Ghetto Girlz

      Klepto Pyro Mojo

      The Pick-Up

      (R)Evolution

      Angst

      Watch for more at M.E. Purfield’s site.

      Table of Contents

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      Also By M.E. Purfield

      Dedication

      Delicate Cutters

      Sign up for M.E. Purfield's Mailing List

      Further Reading: Psychic Sisters

      About the Author

      Many thanks to the following people who have helped shape this story and are brave enough to tell me the truth: Stacy Barnett, Nathalie Mvondo, Linda Covella, and Liz-Liza-Lisa.

      If you hold still, I won’t have to punch you, you say.

      God. The abuse I go through for you, Danny says.

      You grin and try to apply the prosthetic to his face, but he keeps looking down at last year’s yearbook that rests on his lap. He points to a picture of you; one of the candid shots that show off your fat butt and flat chest in a side profile while your ugly face looks annoyed at the photographer.  The real subject of the photo poses next to you: Paula Bukowski who smiles so sweet holding her books and wearing jeans, a college sweatshirt, and penny loafers.

      You look pretty here, Danny says.

      He means it; you can tell when he’s lying. Danny didn’t snicker after he said it.

      Tingles run up your spine. You smile then give him the look of death. Keep still.

      He sighs and places the yearbook on your bed. Sorry.

      Thank you. You pick up the bottle of spirit gum to re-attach the prosthetic to his face.

      Direct-to-video horror movie posters surround you and Danny in the bedroom. Your parents are out but it’s no big deal. They’ve known Danny and his parents for years. He’s safe, not a sexual threat.

      After the prosthetic is attached to his face, you bend down to grab a small bottle of liquid latex to blend in the seam, and then stand back up. You catch his eyes moving away, probably staring at your butt. So maybe he is a threat, but you kind of like it.

      You seal the appliance, dry it with a blow drier, paint on the grease make-up, and blend the prosthetic with Danny’s skin. You finish in a few hours. The final result is brilliant. It doesn’t look like some 1980’s VHS backyard-shot-on-video movie; this is Rick Baker, Greg Cannom level, Oscar worthy. Danny looks like a black bear mauled him. A flap of his cheek hangs down. The eyeball dangles from a latex-coated wire made to look like a vein, and his tongue - connected by a few strands of muscle - lolls out of the side of his mouth. Perfect.

      Well, am I fuckable? Danny asks.

      You laugh. To a necrophiliac maybe.

      He laughs.

      Don’t do that, you say. You don’t have a lot of flexibility with your jaw.

      Sorry, he mumbles.

      You grab Dad’s 35mm camera off the desk.

      What are you going to use this for anyway?

      I don’t know. Just to have.

      You definitely have to put this in your portfolio. Use it for your college interviews next year.

      Portfolio being a shoebox full of your special effect make-ups that you have done with Danny as your model that no one will ever see, then yes they will go in there.

      Yeah. They should do back flips over them, you say. Not.

      You snap a few pictures at different angles. His eyes are open, alive.

      I look so cool. Danny checks his reflection in the mirror over your dresser.

      Yes, you do, you say. Now pretend you’re dead.

      Danny leans his head back and opens his mouth.

      You punch his arm.

      I told you not to stretch your face.

      Shit sorry. He closes his mouth and keeps his head back. Why don’t I lay on the floor in the corner, more dramatic.

      Good idea.

      Danny takes the bib off his neck and sits on the corner against the closed bedroom door.

      Like a bear mauled me in here, you know, he says.

      That’s believable, you say, shaking your head.

      His eyes close and his head rests on the wall, showing off the clawed off flesh and the drooping eyeball.

      You snap the pictures.

      Perfect, you say.

      From a perfect person, Danny says, his eyes still closed, not able to see you blush.

      Mom stands at your bedroom door. She wears a one-piece bathing suit and a floral wrap around her waist. The bright, festive and fake colors of the pattern aggravate your eyes. It’s a perfect day for the beach. The perfect day to be a normal family, she says. This could be your last chance before school.

      You sit on the bed, back to the wall, and look at your feet. A Rolling Stone magazine rests on your lap, your thumb marking the record reviews. I don’t feel like going to the beach.

      Why not?

      Why not? I can’t tolerate other women lying around half-naked and confident with their breasts, hips, stomach, and legs. They should be embarrassed. And that includes myself.

      Stop talking like that. You’re not fat.

      Anyway, I made plans with Danny tonight.

      Nice try. I know Danny is in Cape May with his mother and father. I ran into her a few weeks ago and she told me.

      You sigh and try to think of another excuse.

      You’re not going to stay in this room, Mom says. "We let you stay in all summer without working. You understand? We let you. Your father wanted you to get a job, but I had to talk him out of it."

      Yeah, I understand. You’re saying I owe you. Right? You sigh. Fine. Whatever. I’ll go.

      Thank you. Mom smiles like you just saved her ass. Maybe you can finally wear that bathing suit I bought for you last spring?

      You flinch.

      The fancy one/two deal with the metal loops that shows my huge stomach to the world?

      Your stomach is not huge. Besides, you’re sixteen. Your body is not fully developed yet.

      Mom, I can’t wear that bathing suit, you say. Trust me, I can’t. You wish you could tell her the real reason why, but she will flip her wig just like any normal person would.

      You’re not wearing sweatpants to the beach.

      I’ll wear shorts. Okay?

      Okay. Be ready in thirty minutes. She leaves the room.

      You get up, close the door, and change for the big day at the beach.

      You walk down the stairs and find Dad in the living room. He sits on the couch and holds the newspaper in front of his face. He wears a pair of dark blue shorts to match his dark socks and a yellow buttoned-down shirt with martinis patterns all over it.

      Dad lowers the paper and looks at you. He appears shocked. You’re going with us?

      You shrug.

      Why don’t you help me load up the trunk? He motions to the cooler and stuffed beach bags by the front door. The keys are on the kitchen counter.

      Yeah. Okay.

      You go to the kitchen for the keys and then walk back to the family room to the pile of bags.

      As you bend to pick up the cooler, Dad places the paper down and rushes over to help you carry it.

      No. No. I got it, Dad says. Not going to let my baby carry something so heavy.

      He remains behind the newspaper. You carry the cooler to the car and maneuver it into the trunk. After loading the last bag, you return to the house and sit on the couch. You cross your arms, catch your breath, and wait. You try not to look at Dad who didn’t lift a finger to help.

      Mom walks down the stairs, way past her ‘be ready in thirty minutes.’ She slips on her sunglasses, I’m ready, and smiles at you and Dad. Today is going to be so beautiful.

      Dad drives the car while Mom searches for a radio station. You lie in the back seat and divide your attention between an old issue of Fangoria - reading an article on Mark Shostrom’s F/X for Evil Dead 2 - and the few small houses on the wooded road seen through the backside window.

      You didn’t bring any of your summer reading for school? Mom asks.

      I finished it in July, you say.

      I’m sure there’s something more legitimate you could be reading than that.

      She is so clueless. You have told her a thousand times that Fangoria is not what she thinks. It’s not just a magazine with gory or scary pictures. They actually write on-set reports and interview filmmakers and make-up effects artists. But for some reason it doesn’t sink into her brain.

      Did you pack your flip flops? Mom asks you.

      No. Um, I forgot.

      Well, you can always take your sneakers off at the beach. The sand shouldn’t be too hot on your feet.

      And risk getting a needle in my foot and catching A.I.D.s? Gee, thanks Mom.

      You’re not going to step on a needle. It’s not that kind of beach.

      I’m still not going to take my-

      A crash of metal spins the world. Rubber scratches across asphalt. Wood breaks. The world stops spinning.

      You’re sitting up in the back seat. You have no memory of doing that. You were just lying down, right? Then you notice your heart racing and your body shaking.

      What the hell just happened? you whisper.

      Mom turns to you. Are you all right? A small cut drips blood down her forehead. Her eyes are wide in fear.

      Dad leaves the car and runs down the street.

      Where’s Dad going?

      Baby, are you all right? Does anything hurt?

      I’m fine. I think, you say. I just...I can’t feel my legs.

      The water damn behind mom’s eyes breaks down.

      Police cars, ambulances , and - for luck - fire trucks arrive at the car accident. You’re in the back seat. Everyone tells you not to move or asks if you’re okay. You don’t move but you wish you could get away from the commands and questions. Why won’t they leave you alone? You were just in a car accident and everyone feels the need to jump your bones. You keep telling them that your body feels fine except for the legs being numb and a pain in your back.

      Mom continues to sit in the front seat. The cop gave her a Band-Aid for her head. She either wrings her hands or looks at you. She’s getting on your nerves. You wish she would be with Dad, wherever he is. At least she stops asking the dreaded questions: Are you all right? Can you feel your legs now? Does it hurt? You appreciate the silence. You grow calmer and convince yourself that you are not paralyzed and you will walk home tonight.

      Two Emergency Medical Technicians approach the cop standing next to the car. You can only make out their bodies and uniforms.

      The guy drove into the back yard?

      Sort of. Some old guy ran a stop sign and hit the rear of this car passing through the intersection. Sent the bastard spinning like a top into the yard.

      Damn.

      Could have been worse, though. Could have hit the pool.

      The back doors open on either side. The EMTs peek their heads in and look around. The cute one has a goat T and spiked hair, at least in his early twenties; he belongs in a late-night video on M.T.V. The other is way older, like your father’s age; he could be on a late-night infomercial.

      You smile at the cute one.

      He smiles back. What’s your name, sweetie?

      You tell him.

      "My favorite name. Well, I’m Paul. We’re gonna

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