Short Story – Plastic

A short story, written for a Halloween Challenge – The first line was given as a prompt, and the story was free to go anywhere from that point on … I believe the first line I’ve used is from a Harry Potter novel? Hmm … I don’t think we’re in Hogwarts anymore, Toto … 😉


Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain, I thought as I pulled the axe free from Lucy’s skull.  The retreating blade squeaked against … no, not bone.

Plastic.  Her skull was made of plastic, a thick shell smooth on the outside and oiled within by some stinking black resin like melted rubber.  I peered into the breach in her head, finding it as hollow as her promises had been back when we were lovers.

She had a new lover now, or at least she had before everything had crossed over into the Twilight Zone, before I started to see that they were all …

Before I started to see everyone as mannequins.

I still don’t understand how it took me so long to realise their true nature.  Looking back, I see they’d been plastic all the time, fake people fooling me with synthetic smiles and polymer platitudes.  But no longer.  About a month ago, I started to see it.

There was something in their eyes, or more accurately, there was something missing from their eyes.  A spark, a glint, a humanity.  A month ago, by strange coincidence the same day that Lucy ended our relationship, I sat on a train and saw that the eyes of my fellow passengers were as dead and unfeeling as the eyes of dolls, orbs of plastic, their interiors inked with make-believe irises and pupils.

I drank that night.  I drank and thought about the Plastic People.

I next saw Lucy a week later, when she came to collect the last of her belongings from our … from my flat.  She’d been wary, expecting me to plead for reconcilliation.  I’d expected to do that too, until I saw how flat and counterfeit her gaze looked to me now.  She carried off her clothes and CDs and books in her plastic arms.

After that, I saw them everywhere.  My work colleagues, smiling with laminated teeth.  My friends, feigning concern at my whiskey-breath when their own exhalations reeked of burnt nylon. My father, crying fake tears on the anniversary of my mother’s death. All of them mannequins, all of them plastic.

Last night, I drank more than ever. This morning, I endured the cliche of waking up in an alleyway, next to a skip. There was a mannequin in with the rubbish, a real one this time, from a shop window. Its naked head and one of its arms had come loose – the arm jutted upwards, slender fingers reaching for the dawn, and suddenly I knew what I had to do, and where to make a start.

Now I heard a key in the front door, heard a voice calling Lucy’s name. The lover.

I stayed where I was, waiting. As soon as he entered the room, as soon as he saw what I had done to his fellow mannequin, he screamed.

That scream … for a moment it had sounded real, full of shock and horror and fright, an impressive illusion from one so artificial. His painted eyes snapped wide, his gaze leaping from Lucy to me, and from me to the axe in my hands. The axe was at my side, lowered, the resin-greased blade almost touching the carpet.

I glanced down, and for one horrible, dizzying moment I imagined that the severed limbs and ruptured torso at my feet were flesh and blood, and that Lucy’s eyes, staring up at me, were wet with real tears.  The world lurched around me, too loud and too bright.  I think if what I was seeing then had been real, if my axe really had sliced through meat and tendon, scattering bone instead of plastic, then the sight of it would have driven me insane.

But one blink and that terrible lie was gone, and there was only the broken shell again, a nerveless facsimile that had once tricked me into giving it my heart when it had none to return.

I looked back up at the lover, and heard his scream for what it truly was now, an empty, echoing bellow from a hollow chest.  His eyes were wide, and though there seemed some glimmer in them, I wasn’t fooled.  They were doll’s eyes, as plastic as the rest of him, and there was no more life in them now than there would be when I cut them out of his skull.

I smiled, and raised the axe.


13 thoughts on “Short Story – Plastic

  1. I’m an enormous fan of your writing / voice / storytelling. You deserve to win the challenge. I don’t usually read or make it through “horror” or gore, but you’re quite something else.

    1. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work, and for your very kind comments – MY scary skull face might even be blushing 😉 Seriously though, the feedback means a lot … Thanks again 🙂

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