Within the Polaroid I Have No Place
A short horror by Matthew Tonks
She thought she could bargain her way back into a life the photograph stole. The Polaroid keeps accounts and remembers debts no bank would count—tonight the ledger is opened and the price is exacting.
They sit opposite each other, silently staring. A broad smile stretches across his lips, while a nervous quiver shimmies across hers.
A waitress strolls up to the table, gum chewing lazily between her teeth. She pulls a notebook from the pocket of her apron, smiles at the man, and thrusts her hip playfully to the right while tossing her shoulder-length auburn hair over the same side.
“What will it be?” she asks with a high-pitched, poshed-up accent—then swaps her hip and hair to the opposite sides.
“A coffee, black, no sugar or sweetening agent. Two pieces of white bread, lightly toasted, with three satchels of peanut butter and one of strawberry jam, no butter. If you don’t have jam, honey will suffice,” he says flatly, before nodding to the girl sitting across from him.
“I-I,” she stammers, folding the menu closed as her cheeks flush.
The waitress forces a fake smile, swings her hips from side to side, then drops into a squat before popping back up with one arm raised high, giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Take your time, honey—we’ve got forever,” the waitress purrs.
The girl’s eyes swim. Her cheeks glow redder. Her lip quivers—then she shakes herself free of the waitress’s gaze, fanning herself off with a hand.
“I-I,” she stammers again. “I-I’ll have a water, n-not from the tap, no ice—and a slice of that lemon cheesecake you’ve got on the counter.”
The waitress turns to the counter, chewing her gum loudly, before turning back with a broad grin on her face.
“Excellent choice! The cheesecake’s worth dying for,” she sings in an over-exaggerated pitch as she collects the menus, deliberately gripping the man’s arm.
Their eyes meet for uncountable moments, she mouths several unidentifiable words, winks, and sashays off toward the counter—casting a playful look back over her shoulder, winking again.
“D-D-Do you know her?” she whispers, eyes wide.
“No, I’ve never seen her before in my life,” he says as he turns his gaze toward the waitress. “Although I feel before the night is through, I will know her better than anyone ever has,” he adds as he turns back to her. “Now, tell me, Diane, what is it I can do for you?”
She draws a breath, closes her eyes, and clenches her fists.
“I want my picture b-back,” she spits as she opens her now tear-filled eyes. “I want to be free. I want this all to be over!”
His smile shifts as he puckers his lips, reaching into his pocket to produce a Polaroid. She catches her breath, and the tears flow down her cheeks.
“You mean, this picture?” he asks as he places the photo on the table and casts his gaze upon her.
“What do you have to trade? Have you wealth? Have you power? Have you anything I want? Or, are you nothing but the pathetic child I found you to be all those decades ago when I took your photo?”
“I-I,” she stammers as she pulls rolls of money from her purse, throwing them on the table.
“I have sixty-seven grand, my home in Old Grove, and the Buick Monster outside,” she says, tossing her keys onto the pile of cash.
He laughs, snatches up the photo, and stuffs it back into his pocket before standing.
“Call me when you’ve got something worth trading,” he says.
But before he can step away, she pulls a pistol clumsily from her handbag and fires two shots into his chest. He stands, staring—his smile quivering as he presses his fingers against the burning holes. Crimson pours from one, then the other. He stumbles back, and collapses into his seat. All eyes in the café turn their way for a moment, then drift back to their meals and murmured conversations as if nothing had ever happened. Her eyes widen, sweat pours, and her trembling lips curl at the corners.
The gum-chewing waitress appears at the booth, coffee and a plate in hand.
“Here you go, darling,” she says with a playful giggle as she places them in front of the man’s motionless corpse, before turning to Diane.
Her face sours, and she sneers. “Sorry, we’re all out of water, ice, and that fancy lemon cheesecake,” she says matter-of-factly.
Diane takes a breath, blinks, the room ebbs. The cheesecake still sits at the counter, then it’s gone. Water runs to mud, ice melts, and a puppy dog is gutted from head to toe. Her eyes quiver, her lips tremble, then she finds a piece of cake is on her plate, half-eaten, a fork in her hand and she can feel it in her mouth. She gags, gasps, then swallows—her eyes widening in animated panic as she chokes and splutters.
Across from her, he laughs. The second piece of cheesecake sits on a plate in front of him, untouched.
Her eyes widen as she stares at the crudely sewn-in buttons over the bullet holes she had just punched in his chest. His eyes glimmer with sarcastic energy. His smile curls as he forks a piece of cake into his mouth and chews.
The room moves around her again, as if it were alive. She clutches the table—then, almost instantly, she’s pulling the fork from her mouth again. The waitress stands by the register, her chewing louder than ever. She stares with wide eyes, watching, locked on Diane.
Her stomach churns and her mouth waters—a sea of nerves washes over her, and she grabs herself as she falls forward.
“What’s happening!” she screams.
“You are happening, my dear—for you said you wanted to be free,” the man scoffs wryly, as he places what now appears to be a torn piece of her photo into his mouth and chews with a wicked grin upon his twisted face. Grotesque black bile runs from his lips. “Did you really think death would be a gentle ride?”
💬 Did this one echo?
Tell me—before it forgets your name.
—
Written by Matthew Tonks
→ Read more nightmares at mtonks.com
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