The Next Generation
It was Marc’s worst nightmare—at seventeen years of age a clump of hair came loose in his fist while showering. As his ginger strands slithered down the plug hole, dreams of being a normal teenager perished with them.
Marc’s father was bald as an egg and Marc knew his hair would recede too, but just not so soon, or by so much. Marc screamed over the noise of the flowing water, and then ripped apart the mouldy shower curtain.
What would people say at school? What would Carly think?
Marc lived in a sleepy seaside town where word got around quickly. Everyone knew Marc had a crush on Carly, and that despite his obsession, they’d hardly exchanged a word—he was as awkward and shy as they come.
It was rumoured Carly would take regular midnight swims, paddle out of the bay in freezing temperatures, and try to drown herself under the stars. It was well known she had taken a knife to her wrists. Everyone said she was a freak. But that only made Marc want her more—she was a lost soul, an outsider. Only Marc could save her.
One summer, Marc’s dad started taking cheap Japanese hair loss pills, bought from eBay. Marc’s mum had left him for a beefy fireman with a ponytail a few years ago. It still hurt. But there was a spark of hope as he quickly grew some imperceptible tufts of hair around his crown. That was enough for Marc to track down the pills for himself, and take double the recommended dose.
“Dad?” Marc said as they were eating toast and drinking wild redcurrant smoothies for breakfast. “When did you start losing your hair?”
“Truthfully?” Marc’s dad said, fingering his new shoots. “Your age. I see you’re suffering too. I don’t know what to say, it’s tough.”
After knocking back his smoothie, Marc found something floating in the remnants of his juice.
Marc said, “Looks like a chicken nugget.”
Marc’s dad instinctively reached for his earlobe and then excused himself from the table.
Pinching the flesh in between his fingers, Marc felt it squelch and ooze puss. He threw it out the window in disgust.
More strange things began to occur around that time. Marc discovered what looked like a mangled nostril in the recycling bin. It was surrounded by writhing maggots and tiny spiders. There was also the smell of brine and decomposing dog food wafting through the house.
Although Marc could hear his dad pad around upstairs, sometimes even groan like a stricken beast, his father mostly remained in his room and Marc decided not to disturb him.
Despite the weird goings on at home, Marc felt cheered by his hair growing back somewhat, and while sunbathing on the beach, he even caught Carly eying him up from across the dunes as she sucked on an ice lolly.
His hair must have been looking really good because something incredible happened. Carly sauntered over to Marc and as she blocked the sun, she cast a long shadow over him.
“Hi,” she said. “You’re scorched, should I rub some lotion on you?”
Marc looked up and smiled, but before he could flip his body over, he felt like ants were crawling around his chest, biting his raw skin.
Marc rolled back onto his stomach and shook his head without a word, blushing violently.
“Suit yourself,” she muttered.
Carly dropped her lolly stick in the sand and walked off as Marc inspected his body—surely he was suffering from some kind of sun stroke. But instead, he found strange lesions and mottled bloody bruises.
“Shit,” he said, looking around to see if anyone had noticed his lacerated skin. He quickly pulled on a shirt, but putrid sores soon soaked the cotton.
Thankfully, Carly had flopped onto a nearby deckchair and pulled a baseball cap down over her eyes, so Marc assumed she hadn’t noticed, but other sunbathers had begun to point and whisper.
Marc’s only option was to lay back down into the sand and suffer, and then wait for everyone on the beach to leave.
As the sun slowly set, sunbathers shook sand from their flip flops, packed up their well-thumbed books and disappeared into the night, while Marc’s skin continued to break out into vicious pustules.
As the stars peppered the clear night sky, the only person left on the beach was Carly, sitting up in her deckchair streaming music on her phone, lazily smoking a cigarette. She seemed to be staring right at Marc. He was convinced she was smiling.
Finally she packed up and left the beach, leaving a smouldering cigarette lying in the sand.
However, before he could scuttle up the steps to the carpark, a torch blinded him and he shielded his eyes, startled.
Carly said, “Stop right there.”
“Carly,” said Marc struggling to wrap a cardigan over his shoulders. “Please look away, something terrible has happened and I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Take your clothes off,” ordered Carly.
“Carly,” pleaded Marc, “I think I might love you, if we could just talk…”
“Strip, or I’ll say you raped me on the beach.”
So, Marc carried out Carly’s demand and peeled off his clothes, while she did all she could to stop herself falling into a fit of laughter.
Marc’s body clung to his clothes like sap and as he prised himself free, he let out an agonised cry.
Carly took a step closer to Marc until she could smell his odour of piss and turpentine. She reached out and touched him, felt his swollen body and exposed blood vessels.
That night the couple slipped and slid inside each other like wet seaweed. Carly licked Marc’s shredded skin and his beating veins. She gargled his fatty guts like she was feasting from a pregnant woman giving birth.
It was an orgy of sucking blisters, and chewing on succulent human flesh. Carly gently stroked Marc’s hair that was now lustrous and flowing, almost covering every portion of his scalp. For now, he had no skin but his baldness was history.
What could be better than that?
Horror Sleaze Trash 