Fiction by Devin J. Meaney
Jack stared out into the liveliness of the street with disdain. As all the kids walked by in their colorful spooky costumes he couldn’t help his hateful writhing. It was true that if it wasn’t for those kids he wouldn’t be here—as he didn’t “come to life” until he attained his “true” face. But oh—how the knife hurt as his crooked smile and triangular eyes were cut and widened, the hacking and slashing of the plastic orange blade plummeting deeper and deeper with every twist and turn of their wretched little wrists. The kids laughed with festive glee as they carved him into existence for another year, and although Jack’s screams were silent he could hear his own bellows ringing within the confines of his freshly birthed mind right from the start.
Oh, how he wanted them to pay for his suffering. Just like his true face and the sentient existence he learned to hate, if it wasn’t for those kids he wouldn’t have a hot seething flame burning within him.
Jack wondered aimlessly.
What the hell kind of name is Jack anyway?
They gave him the same name every year and placed him on their front porch as a decoration, and as more and more children came to collect the offerings of the night he continued to get lost in his own little world. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t speak. He was nothing more than just a festive ornament, his mind and his thoughts meaning nothing to the oblivious tricksters and treaters of Halloween. He wanted his torment to end, but as the night progressed the chaotic whirlwind that swirled within his fleshy orange cranium continued to seethe and boil as the dim light inside of him flickered on, orange shadows dancing in the blackness that consumed the front porch and all that surrounded it.
For hours his plague pushed forth, and just as he was reaching the peak of insanity, his personal hell nearing completion, he saw three older youths approaching the porch. He knew what was coming next. His mind teetered into a frenzy.
Do it. End it quick, you little wretches…
They picked Jack up from the front porch, and with a symphony of dark cackles they smashed him into the ground. Three good well placed kicks ended him, his vibrant orange guts spilling out into the street. He would be left to rot until he was cleaned from the pavement, and just as his mind flickered back into the direction of non-existence, his hatred exploded into his thoughts just before they were snuffed out for another year.
…Lights out!
But on an endless cycle, he would return the very next year. Year after year his curse continued, and just like the spirit of Halloween, Jack’s seething soul would never truly die—nor would it ever truly “live” again…
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