Trypanophobia (Original Short Story)

01:00 Jazz Blackwell 0 Comments

 Carl Schroder has a crippling phobia of needles.

 It began in his childhood when, at the tender age of four years old, he was dragged against his will to the doctor’s office and promptly stuck in the arm with a vaccination he was told was necessary.

 Sharp scratch. Over before you know it.

 Only three small beads of blood formed around the wound, and they were quickly wiped away and covered with an Elastoplast. He was presented with a lollipop and a Spongebob Squarepants sticker and called a good boy, brave boy. And still, he wept the whole way home.

 Carl Schroder is a heroin addict.

 It began in his teenage years when, at the tender age of fifteen years old, he was introduced to his mother’s new husband, an absolute brute of a man. They were married not a year when Carl began to seek something to simultaneously dull the pain and to help him forget. He was introduced to just that through a friend of a friend of a friend.

 Sharp scratch. Over before you know it.

 The first time, he was violently sick and struck about the back of the head for ruining the hearth rug. His headache the next morning was enough to see him swear off going anywhere near the stuff.

 The second time, it felt like flying.

 Sharp scratch. Over before you know it.

 Carl Schroder turns his head away when he presses down the plunger, can’t bear the sight of gleaming steel piercing scarred and weathered skin.

 He winces, hisses through his teeth at a split second of pain. But only a split second. And then – and then numbness, painlessness, the nothingness that he craves. He lives alone, his only company a flea bitten mattress propped up on four stacks of old phonebooks, the hypodermics he both fears and yearns for, and two anorexic-looking rats who have made a home for themselves inside the walls.

 Sharp scratch. Over before you know it.

 Carl Schroder is, despite everything, a clever man.

 He’s always been aware that, one day, he’d turn his head away and press the plunger down for the last time.

 As a child, he was told that his fear was silly, irrational, unfounded. Injections would never hurt him.

 He always knew they were wrong.

 Sharp scratch. Over before you know it.

 In the flickering red light the neon signs shine through the dirty window, on a cloud of numbness, Carl Schroder dies.  
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Happy reading, 
Jazz xo 

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