THE HORN by johnny ngo
i’ve been staring in the mirror for the last 15 minutes and all i keep looking at is the horn that’s growing on the side of my head. it’s not ugly — i mean, if you think horns are disgusting because of it’s phallic-resemblance then yes, i’m ugly.
really ugly.
but i’m not staring in the mirror wondering why i suddenly have a horn growing out the side of my temple. i’m wondering why my horn is pointing down. have you heard of such a thing? people are going to think i’m sad.
“hey buddy, why is your horn facing down? are you down? is something wrong?”
i dug around and found my saw. it was old and rusty. i wondered if my horn would get an infection because of the rust. i don’t know, i don’t want to risk it.
i sat in my kitchen alone for the rest of the day wondering. my wife and our adopted son came home around dinner time. they asked why i was sad. i shook my head and cooked dinner for them. they had some questions but i told them i didn’t want to talk. before they went to bed they hugged me and gave me a kiss, once on my cheek and once on my deformed horn.
i couldn’t sleep that night. was i being punished for something? was it something i ate? and then it hit me.
i was sad.
why? when did it start? why didn’t i grow a horn all those other times i was sad? why now? i’m fifty-three, but i look fifty. i still have my six pack. i can still summon a confident erection. my wife is beautiful. i cannot be more proud of my adopted son. we have a home. we have food. we have each other. what do i have to be sad about? i sipped on my aged-scotch, staring into the woods.
what do i have to be sad about?
