Flash Fiction Friday - Eye of the Beholder

Just the thumbs will do

The Friday pieces are generally different in that I have my horror group members provide prompts. I choose one at random and write it in a single sitting. No lifting the hands off the keyboard until done. I then post it as is, no edits, so expect errors. I really enjoy seeing what comes tumbling out when I do these.

Eye of the Beholder

Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. What happens, though, when fire takes away any possible sense of exterior beauty? Does anyone then care about what’s inside, about the loving heart that beats beneath the ravaged flesh ruined by flames?

Drake Maddison sat on the edge of his bed and watched his maid place his breakfast tray on the table by the window. As always, she cast the smallest glance his way, the smile on her face obviously forced, and said, “Breakfast is served, sir.”

He gave her a nod, which she failed to see as she scurried out of the room. Drake was sure she would quit were she not so handsomely paid. While he looked like something out of a horror movie, he was a kind man, yet no one ever saw beyond the exterior. Such treatment may have driven some to rage, but for Drake, it was sorrow that filled his soul.

He barely remembered the fire now, the one that took his parents and beloved sister. Sometimes, he would have dreams from which he would awake, choking on imaginary smoke and feeling his skin tighten as though it were being burned once more, but those moments were fleeting now.

Drake stood and hobbled over to the table. He sipped at his coffee and looked out at the massive expanse of land upon which his stately home rested. He had enough money to buy companionship, but he craved an organic experience. He hoped that the box sitting on his tray would solve that problem.

A collector of oddities, Drake found himself unable to resist the pruning shears offered up by an online vendor of the bizarre. The claim was that the shears were possessed by a demon, and that said underworld creature had the power to “make a man whole” if the owner of the shears simply obeyed its commands.

The story was obviously nonsense, but the shears themselves spoke to Drake. He found himself staring at the online listing and imagined them in his hand. He could almost feel the cool steel against his flesh, and the entire feeling was so profound, he paid well above the odds to ensure that they would become his.

The package sat there, almost begging to be opened, but Drake remained calm. He ate his breakfast slowly, flicking through the daily news on his tablet, all while trying to ignore his heart, which was beating wildly with unbridled excitement. When he could put it off no more, he opened the box.

A gasp escaped his lips as he removed the shears from the box. They were even more stunning in person; the sigils carved into the blades seeming to shift when touched by the light. Drake slid his thumb and pointer finger into the handled and worked the shears, opening and closing them repeatedly.

“Just the thumbs will do.”

Drake spun around, looking for the source of the voice that filled the room. It came again, repeating the same phrase. “What do you want of me?”

“Just the thumbs will do,” the voice said again.

Holding the shears aloft, Drake watched as the sigils, swirled and moved aside so that his reflection appeared in the cold steel. What it showed was a man that looked like a movie star, like the object of every woman’s desire. It was Drake, free from the scars that had tormented him his entire life.

“Just the thumbs will do.”

Drake thought of a future where people would look him in the eye and admire him for his beauty and wealth. A future where a beautiful woman would be by his side, loving him for that tender heart that lived beneath perfect flesh.

Tears fell from his eyes as the shears easily removed the thumb on his left hand. He had to fiddle with the implement to make them work to remove the digit on his right hand, but he felt no pain through it all.

Drake ran to the ensuite bathroom, a trail of blood in his path. He stood in front of the mirror and sobbed when he saw the same disfigured face staring back at him. “You promised,” he screamed.

He jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear, warm breath tickling his lobe.

“I promised nothing. You gave willingly.”

Drake looked at his reflection and saw a man, the one reflected in the blades of the shears, standing behind him.

“I promised to make your life memorable.” The man raised the shears and drove them into Drake’s neck. “Too bad you won’t be here to experience it.”