PYGG: By Charles Mirho
Monday, January 24th, 2011“Its watching me,” said little Sam, pointing through the window at the inflatable pig-faced inner tube floating in the pool.
“What is?” his mother asked while washing dishes.
Sammy said, “Pygg.”
She looked out the window toward the pool. “That’s not a pig. It’s a plastic tube. Do you want to play in the pool?”
“No! It’ll get me!” The boy shut his eyes and clamped his arms around his mother’s legs.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a toy. It can’t hurt you. Go to your room.” The boy slumped off down the hall and into his room.
“That child,” muttered his mother. It was of course mere projection. She often called little Sammy a “pig” when he made a mess at meals or in his room. Harmless, and necessary to instill discipline. Outside the plastic tube turned slow circles in the pool.
Moments later a scream split the silence. Sam’s mom dropped the glass she was cleaning and it shattered on the floor. She ran down the hallway toward the sound.
Sam huddled in a corner by the bed in his room. “Pygg!” He pointed to a blue plastic piggy bank on his dresser.
She yanked him to his feet by the arm. “I’ve had about enough of this pig business! The only little piggy in this house is you.” She pulled him out of the room and down the hall. “We’re going to a barbeque and I need to get ready. Not one more word about pigs!”
Sam waited in the hall while his mother put on makeup. Twenty minutes later they were driving to the barbeque. Small for his age and still in a carseat, Sam stared out the window as they merged with traffic on the highway. A billboard advertising car insurance appeared on the right. On the billboard a smiling purple pig exhorted drivers to “save 20% on their car insurance RIGHT NOW’.
“Pygg!!” Sam screamed, causing his mother to jerk the wheel. A cacophony of squealing brakes and enraged horns ensued before she straightened the car.
Furious and frightened she shouted, “Are you trying to get us both killed? You little pig, what is wrong with you lately?”
The boy sobbed but otherwise stayed silent for the remainder of the ride. His mother wondered what to do about him. He had been acting out ever since his father had left. Last spring it was a fear of dogs. Then it was an inexplicable fear of the refrigerator. His counselor believed the phobias stemmed from a deep rooted fear of loss and separation.
Sure she was hard on the boy, but he had to learn to be tough. She had enough on her plate without the burden of an insecure whining child. Besides, his irrational fears were contagious. For a split second, as they had passed the billboard, she had felt the eyes of the purple pig follow the car. Nonsense, of course. The boy’s weirdness was rubbing off on her, was all.
They arrived at the barbeque. She parked, turned, and said, “I’m going to a party in back of this house. I was going to bring you, but I changed my mind. You are going to stay here in the car and take a nap while I go to the party.”
Eyes red from crying, Sam nodded without a word. He seemed relieved.
She locked the car and walked around back of the house. A high wooden fence and gate surrounded the back yard. She went through the gate. Dozens of people were gathered in the yard behind the house, around a fire pit. Over the fire a pig turned slowly on a spit.
Good thing I left Sam in the car, she thought, eyeing the roasting pig. He would have freaked out for sure. She waded into the crowd. Two martinis and ten minutes later, she was dancing by the fire like a Vegas pro. A couple drinks later she was still dancing. She felt like she was moving underwater.
She looked over at the fire pit. The roasting pig on the spit turned its head toward her.
She screamed and tripped and spilled her drink on the guy next to her. He called her a name. She looked back at the pig. Blood oozed from its white dead eyes. Its skin peeled off in black flakes. Not moving. Dead. She shivered and tried to stand.
Suddenly people were running everywhere. They were piling into the high wooden gate like spectators fleeing a burning movie theater. The gate wouldn’t open so they tried to climb the high fence. It was total panic. They were trying to climb out of the yard but some force kept shocking them off the fence, and they fell back into the yard.
She turned back toward the pit.
The pig came walking toward her out of the fire, heat-polished fangs protruding from lips peeled back in a sickening black grin, bleeding white eyes aglow with lust and rage and hunger, blue electric bolts arcing from its body toward the fence.
Pygg.
In the car, a very special boy slept and dreamed his terrible projections as screams split the suburban calm and bodies slammed the fence and gouts of blood sprayed high into the summer sky.
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©2011 Charles Mirho
