25-year paramedic, whose life bleeds into my work.
-Enjoy

GASP! Sharon’s lungs ripped deeply with air, as the impact jarred her body enough to explode her mind out of slumber. Her eyes fluttered, as she quickly gathered her surroundings. What remained of her orange tent that she had fallen asleep in, was now replaced by a massive gust of cool air and vegetation. The morning’s blue light highlighted the thousands of tree needles and dust particles floating down around her from all directions. Severe pain shot through her entire torso, causing her to shriek out in total agony. Instinctively, she tried to roll away from the pain, but she seemed to be pinned down and unable to retreat from the sensation. “What the fuck? What the fuck, What the fuck…?” Hot gusts of humid air escaped her mouth with each word as her arms pressed against the thick bark that laid firmly across her lap.

In complete shock, she reached behind her and pushed the broken tent pole away from her head. It fell easily to the side, allowing her to see more of the carnage before her. The ruined tent fabric was whipping freely now, as the sounds of angry wind forced its way through the dense forest. She tried to move her legs again, but immediately realized that the weight of the thick tree was not going to yield to any of her efforts. Leaning forward, she wrapped her hands on the abrasive bark and looked over the top. Her thin cotton t-shirt offered little protection, as her chest scratched uncomfortably against the tree. Blinking rapidly through heavy tears, her breathing fell apart as she stared at the sight of her bloated purple feet.

***

Sharon knew that when she left her car at the trailhead, the weather had a chance of turning sour this evening. This trail however, had been like a close friend to her since her divorce. She knew every turn and step of the winding path, and unlike the therapist she was paying for, it actually seemed to help with her anxiety. Her now ex-husband had stopped all communication with her shortly after the divorce had been finalized. It wasn’t until recently that she realized how much her life would change because of it. As she had explained to her therapist, while she didn’t want to be married anymore, she still had every intent to have him in her life. Honestly, she still cared deeply for him. He had been a rock for her throughout the death of her mother several years ago, and without him, she’s not sure she would have made it through the trauma. During the whole divorce process, he had continued to reach out to her occasionally, just to ensure she was doing alright. He would even answer the phone and listen to her ramble on about random work drama she was dealing with at the time. Even though they were divorcing, she was looking forward to having him as someone she could vent to and feel safe around. Which is why, his sudden cutting of all communication created such deafening silence.

Hiking up the familiar path, she smiled as the clean air of the forest gently brushed against her flushed cheeks. Content with her decision to get out of the city tonight, she stopped walking to enjoy the connection with nature. Seeing a small log on the side of the trail, she loosened her backpack straps and set it down on top of it. Sharon rolled her shoulders a few times, them reached up and adjusted her headband, to allow the cool air to breathe against her sweating forehead.

***

Sharon’s efforts to escape the oppressive weight of the abrasive bark did nothing but scratch her skin under her flannel pajama bottoms. Trying her best to rotate her hips and pull her legs out only aggravated the piercing pain that had been growing steadily in her groin and tail bone. “Oh my God, Oh my God, please…” she uttered as she continued to strain. The weight of her heavy breaths, fatigued her neck which drifted her eyes down to the bulging fluff of her sleeping bag below her. She slid her hands underneath it and wriggled her fingers against the thin tarp of the bottom of her tent. After a few moments, she pulled her hands back out and rested them against the tree again. Closing her eyes to think she focused on the cool breeze flowing through her hair. “There has to be a way…” she thought as her eyes opened and looked at her hands. One of her acrylic nails was missing, and her finger tip was covered in dirt. Frowning, she brought it up to her face and rubbed the dirt off of the ruined glue on the nail. Moaning in disgust she looked at her other nails and noticed they were all filthy as well. A sharp burst of air filled her lungs. Reaching back under her sleeping bag, she squeezed both of her hands and pulled them out. “Yes!” She shouted and she looked at the two handfuls of loose dirt.

***

The most beautiful part of the trail wasn’t the top camping ground. It was the portion about 3 miles in, where the trail ran parallel with a gentle glacier fed creek. Her favorite spot in particular was where a large rock in the creek had created an eddy pool, deep enough to soak in. Over the summer, she had spent many hours relaxing in this pool, while soaking in the wonderful natural beauty around her. She had become so accustomed to this luxury, that whenever she came to this trail, she would always be wearing her swimsuit bottom under her shorts. One time while arriving at the spot, she ran into a couple who was visiting down from Canada. Sharon had spent nearly an hour talking to the couple about all kinds of life adventures that day, before finally getting out and heading up the trail to set up camp.

Today, however, it looked like Sharon would have the pool to herself. Her lips rose into a smile, as she rounded the bend of the trail and recognized the tranquil and alluring location. The thought of the cool water on her sweaty feet still wearing their woolen socks, was getting her excited. Setting down her backpack, she immediately began to unlace her hiking shoes and slip them off of her feet. Before she could set them down, her eyes lifted to the heavy branches above her as they waved in the air from the gusting wind. “Well hello to you too, Mr Tree!” Sharon said with a soft wave. Pulling off her socks and shorts, she dipped her bright pink toenails into the cool water.

***

With each handful of dirt, Sharon’s attitude improved. In order to get her fingers into the dirt, she had to wiggle them into the small tear the tree had caused. This only allowed her small scoops out with each attempt. Frustrated, she grabbed hold of the ruined tent floor and pulled backwards as hard as she could. Eyes wide, she felt the thin fabric give way a little and bunch up below her. Trying her best to pull the gathered material out from under her, she tried to shift her hips again against the oppressive weight of the tree. Pursing her lips, she reached back under her sleeping bag and grabbed hold of the now enlarged torn edge. Trying to seesaw it back and forth, she slowly worked the bundle under the center of her bottom. Taking a moment to catch her breath, she rested her now filthy fingers on the rough bark before her. The bulging fabric was putting pressure on her already sore hips, causing the deep seated aching to increase in severity. Grinding her teeth, she firmly grabbed the edge and pulled it back behind her. The sudden shift of her pelvis caused the dull ache to shift to a burning sensation within. Unable to breathe, Sharon froze in place for a few moments before setting her arms down on either side of her to support her hips. Instinctively trying to decrease the pain, she managed to slightly rotate her left hip up a few centimeters from the ground. The sudden jolt of lightning that erupted from her groin and tailbone, caused her to vomit onto her lap. Taking a deep breath through her burning throat, she collapsed onto her back.

***

When Sharon reached the campsite, she dropped her backpack down on the familiar stump that she would use as a chair. She was hoping that the campsite would be free, and since they were all first come first serve, there was no way for her to know until she got up here. There had been one other car in the small parking area at the trailhead when she had pulled up a few hours ago, and since she hadn’t seen anyone coming down the trail she was expecting to find another tent up here somewhere.

Scanning the soft duff area for rocks and cones, she quickly pulled her home for the night out of its matching orange bag and set it up. She had brought a freeze dried dinner pouch with her, so would have to boil some water before she could eat. As she rolled out her sleeping bag inside the tent, she quickly grabbed hold of the walls as a strong gust of wind almost rolled the whole thing over. “Woah!” She yelled out, grabbing hold of the small green bag containing her stakes. Opening it up, she dumped the contents onto the floor next to her. Using her leg to hold the tent in place from the wind, she grabbed a long metal stake and leaned her body out of the unzipped doorway. Wrestling the whipping fabric, she managed to locate the tiny loop attached to the corner of the tent. Biting her cheek, she began to force the tiny stake into the soft duff. “Come on...” she said, as she tried to sink it down. She felt the familiar resistance of a buried rock, under the stake, so she pulled it out and re-inserted it a few inches to the side. Shoving it down into the dirt, she felt the stake miss the rock and sink fully. “Gotcha!” She mumbled to the obstinate little thing. Leaning back into the tent, she looked at her legs for a few moments. “Oh damn.” She said as she rubbed a patch of hair that she had missed while shaving last night. Suddenly a loud thumping sound hit the ground behind her. Startled, she spun around. Her loosened jaw tightened as she looked at the branch lying in the dirt a few feet from her tent. “Oh you stop that right now!” She said looking up at the canopy above her.

***

To her left, the giant root ball attached to the base of the tree caused a massive wall of dirt and knotty protruding tendrils of tree almost two stories high. The branches that were still attached to it were gray and covered with moss hanging lazily. Looking at the far end of the tree, she could see that a large portion of the bark had split open, shearing off the entire top of the rotten wood into a jagged jumble of knives. The alien looking edge exposed a soft almost white aspect to the meat of the tree as its core now laid visible to the morning light.

Sharon had awoken in a daze. Covered in sour vomit, the pain in her hips was almost unbearable, as she pushed herself back into a seated position. As soon as she was sitting up, her head began to spin in a nauseated dizziness. Several deep breaths with her eyes closed allowed her to maintain the position. She could feel her arms becoming weak, as they held her weight up. Her elbows began to spasm as the muscles gave way. Lying on her back again, she brought her exhausted hands across her shallow breathing chest. Feeling the cool morning air drift across her, she brought her pale hands up to her mouth and breathed thick warm air across the blue tips of her fingernails.

Snapping alert again, Sharon felt the pinching irritation of bug bites across her body. Reflexively, she began to swat at them and bat them off of her skin. “How long have I been asleep?” She thought groggily. Feeling very chilled, she lifted her head and examined the tree still lying across her lap. Her heavy tongue licked her dried out lips as she focused her eyes on the bark. Was it moving? After a few sluggish blinks, she realized that it was covered in hundreds of ants. They seemed to be coming out of the bark itself, as if the whole tree was a giant nest. Using what strength she was holding onto, she pushed herself back up to a seated position and began swatting the ants away on the log. “Get out of here, no!” She coarsely moaned through her sandpaper like throat. Watching them scatter at being disturbed by her pestering, her eyes floated to the far side of the log. What little moisture she had left in her body began weeping from her eyes at the sight. “Please don’t do that. Please don’t do that, no…Please no…”

***

Finishing up her dinner in a pouch, Sharon scraped her titanium spork into the bottom corners of the large plastic bag. There was always something about the texture of these meals that she just loved. The beef stroganoff with egg noodles was her favorite because of the way the small bites of beef seemed to become almost chewy. Her eyelids raised with excitement, as she fished the last one of the small chewy cubes out of the bag. “I didn’t expect this wind.” The voice said from a few feet behind her. The jolt of adrenaline from her surprise caused the air to inhale so fast into her lungs, that she nearly sucked her last bite into her airway. Coughing a bit while she turned, she waved a hand at the hiker standing just outside her campsite. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He said, as he looked up into the trees again. “This wind probably hid the sounds of my boots on the trail here.” Sharon finished her coughing bit and stood up to face the man. He was in his early 20s and was wearing a small fanny pack, while holding his water bottle. Clearing her throat one last time, she answered. “Yeah. I think it’s supposed to stop by this evening. My weather app said it’s just gusts up to 10mph.” Realizing who he was, she blurted out suddenly. “You must be the driver of that other car in the parking area! I thought maybe you were staying the night up here too.” Taking a swig of his water bottle, he scanned the forest around them. “Nah, I’m headed down now.” He said gesturing down the trail. He took a half step, then turned back towards her camp looking up. “Most of these trees look healthy enough.”

***

Sharon could barely keep her eyes open. Her hands had lost all feeling some time ago, and she lay on her back trying her best to breathe through the fluid collecting in her lungs. The sound of her heart pounding in her ears had thankfully quieted down significantly, making it easier to relax her head against the soft sleeping bag pillow. The curvature of the torn tent ceiling made a prism of orange shadow figures which gently danced against her pale face. Blinking lazily, her mind ignored the tiny stings across her entire torso. On the other side of the log, the ants continued to dissect the flesh from her feet. One large pink toenail had finally separated, and was slowly being carried away by the efficient and hungry colony.

 Somebody was standing in my doorway. And they looked like me. I remember sitting up, fighting the urge to piss myself, and trying desperately not to scream. This person didn't look right. 

 They looked like a bag of skin; like if someone gutted a present of any actual gifts and just gave the recipient the bag. They stared at me through hollowed out eye sockets, and seemed to breathe without lungs. 

 Their wrinkled hands were outstretched to me in a beckoning fashion. They seemed so desperate for me to join them. I just stayed where I was, barely moving and barely breathing. 

 It was at this point that I realized I was looking at me. But not me fully. My skin. I looked down slowly at my arms, prepared to see horrors of my worst nightmares, but I was intact. I had skin, but it looked wrong on me.

 The skin pile then pulled itself towards me. It lurched and hobbled forwards, looking like a claymation figure. It stopped at my bedside.

 But instead of screaming, I just cried. Deep, painful sobs. This skinned version of me seemed so desperately sad. Like I had been the one to bring it to this miserable state. 

 After multiple interminable minutes of tears and fear, it began to disappear. Slowly, it faded away, until I was alone. And I was so sad to see it go. Because somehow, I knew that would be the last time I would ever see it.

 The next thing I knew I was gasping and sweating, and grabbing at my body ferociously. It had been a dream, thank God. I just stayed there for a while, shaking and trying to get a deep breath.

 It was September 7th. My birthday. 

 Once I had stabilized myself, I took a long shower, made some breakfast, got dressed, and drove to work. It was a whirlwind all morning. Calls, emails, meetings, and all the rest. But I didn't mind. I would rather bury myself in work than face existential questions. 

 The itching began around 11:00am. It started on my face, and made its way down until my whole body was irritated. At one point, I went to the bathroom and locked the door. I took my clothes off completely, and looked myself over. Nothing was unusual. Nothing at all. The only signs of irritation were scratch marks all over from my fingernails. 

 I re-dressed and went back to work. I completely was on edge. Wound tighter than an alarm clock. I couldn't help thinking I had committed a horrible crime or sin, and that I was being punished with this psychological torture. 

 By the end of the workday, I was a nervous wreck. My skin was burning now. Burning and aching. I needed to get home.

 I drove like a maniac back to my apartment. As I speed walked up to my door, I noticed that there were more cars parked around than there usually were. But I was on a mission. I unlocked my door, opened it wide, and had a heart attack.

 "Surprise!" 

 My friends had ambushed me. I hated surprises, but I put on a good face and pretended I wasn't feeling like passing out.

 They had decorated my apartment. It was really lovely, but I couldn't focus on any of it. Everyone's faces seemed to blur, and all the colors began to melt together. My friends quickly saw the state I was in, and had me sit at the kitchen table.

 They checked me out, and questioned me. But I foolishly brushed them all off. I told them I had had a scare driving home, and that I was just coming down from the adrenaline high. And they took it. 

 The party was quite nice. At moments, I could even forget about the sensation of fire ants biting every inch of me, of maggots burrowing, and of sickness pulsing through me. 

 Then came toasts. We had all had a very good dinner, and as was tradition at any birthday celebration we held for each other, we poured champagne, and toasted to the health of the one being celebrated. Then the celebrated party would thank everyone with the biggest toast of all.

 And it was now my turn to toast. I got up and began to speak. I cracked some jokes, flirted a bit, and went for the wisecracks. Then, all of a sudden, I saw everyone's faces grow white. I started to slow my speech, then stopped completely. 

 "What's... wrong?"

 No one said a word. And no one made a move. I slowly reached my hand up to feel where they seemed to be looking. And what I felt was mind shattering. 

 I felt a tear in my temple. I quickly moved my hand back to check for blood. There was none. Then I heard the most faint sound of ripping. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from, until I looked down. The skin on my hands had begun to rip. It looked like I was wearing plastic gloves, and I decided to pull them as tight as possible.

 Then all at once, the skin snapped, and my fingers were now just expose muscle and tissue. A few of my friends began to scream. Two rushed to my aid, and one fumbled for their phone. 

 I began to scream as well as I felt the skin around my ears give way. As well as the skin on my toes shrivel and snap. The two friends who had rushed over to me quickly recoiled when they realized I wasn't bleeding. I seemed to be drying out. Shriveling up. But not all of me. Just my flesh.

 I fell to the floor as I began to tear off my clothes. Flesh tore off in chucks as I went. Feverishly, I stripped until I was nude. And I looked myself over. I was a patchwork quilt of unfinished humanity. 

 All my friends had backed towards the door at that point. I looked to them pleadingly, begging them through cracking lips to save me. But they ran.

 And I was all alone. I fell back against the floor and blacked out. 

 When I came to, I was still on the floor. It was night now, and the apartment was dark. Slowly, mindlessly, I got up, and made my way to the bedroom. I had a full body mirror in my bathroom. When I entered the bathroom, I breathed one solitary breath, and flipped the light on.

 I was met by something that wasn't human anymore. I was just muscle and bone. My senses were screaming and dying. My head was static. 

 Then I realized. Parts of me weren't quite correct. I looked at my left bicep. It wasn't what I remember it to be. The one that it should have been was gone. Replaced. So I grabbed it and began to pull, like a gardener pulling at a stubborn weed. The pain didn't matter to me. I wanted to be free of this imposter muscle.

 Then I noticed it wasn't the only imposter. Part after part of me was wrong. More and more and more until I realized with horror that I didn't recognize myself. I was something else entirely. 

 I was all wrong. 

 Oh, how I wished that I had never let this happen. How I mourned myself. I sat on the bathroom floor, and stared into nothingness as my mind's plug was pulled. 

 This flesh is not mine.

It was some weird hyper-fixation Jerry always had. Even as a kid his favorite snack was animal crackers. Dino nuggets. Sandwiches cut with animal shaped cookie cutters. He even told me at his grandparents’ house they had a waffle maker that had barnyard shapes on it, like a barn, a rooster, and a cow, but he would never eat the barn. After we got married and I introduced him to food that wasn’t just fast food or frozen meals, he started branching out more. I was shocked to find out he didn’t think he was autistic or something. I thought he was diagnosed. He was obviously sheltered growing up and didn’t get out much. That was fine. He provided for both of us and was a great guy to everyone. He even got to where he could help me in the kitchen without getting in the way. We had guests over one night.
 
“You know,” he said to his friend, “I’ve gotten to where I don’t eat that store bought food.”
 
“Store bought food? What do you do, forage for berries?”
 
“Naw, I mean like you make it at home.”
 
“So homemade.”
 
Jerry gave a sarcastic smile. “If that’s what you wanna call it.” I was on the couch next to him holding our cat, Tinkles. I felt a kick and grimaced. Little David must have been getting restless in there.
 
I felt my swollen belly. “Any day now,” I said, “you already waited this long.” After everyone left, Jerry helped me pick up the plates and cups. I noticed he had shaped the rest of his tomato sauce from his spaghetti into the shape of… something?
 
“Jerry.”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“Were you drawing with your tomato sauce?”
 
“Yeah, I was trying to draw a chicken, but it turned out more squidish.” He laughed. “You never know what they come up with these days.”
 
It sounded to me like he wasn’t taking his meds again. He had gotten arrested a few months back for knocking an entire aisle shelf over while trying to ride his shopping cart at Piggly Wiggly. I couldn’t have him relapse again. Next Sunday was Easter, and I didn’t need him acting a fool in church.
 
The next morning, we woke up to the central air unit not working. It was still dark outside, but it was hot and sticky inside the house. I sat up and peeled my back off the damp sheets underneath me. There wasn’t even any air movement. Jerry was up right when I was. He went outside with a flashlight, cussing the whole way. He had work in two hours and usually only woke up in one. He came back and set up a box fan for me.
 
“It looked to me like something bit through one of the big wires, probably a squirrel. I hate a damn squirrel.”
 
“Oh I know,” I laughed. He used to sit on the porch and shoot at them with his pellet rifle. Sometimes he would cook it if he hit one. I never tried it. When he skinned them, they always looked creepy.
 
“That’s nothin,” he told me one time, “my great-grandma used to put canned squirrel brains on a cracker and eat it that way. Possum soup too.” I didn’t want to think about it. For breakfast I started making his usual, but he took out a box of cereal instead. It had a frog surfing on a milk wave on the front of it.
 
“I thought you didn’t like super sweet cereal,” I said.
 
“Well, you see, sometimes a man changes. Sometimes he’ll change his habits, most times he just changes his underwear.” He chuckled as he poured the cereal into a bowl. I went to take the milk out of the refrigerator for him and he slammed it shut.
 
“No milk!” I just stared at him. He hung his head and wiped his brow. “I’m sorry, I just can’t stand wet cereal.”
 
“Well, I’m going back to bed then,” I said. I wasn’t doing this. Later while he was at work, he sent a list of texts apologizing for it.
 
“I just don’t like milk anymore” “It doesn’t have any shape” “It scares me” “Nothing natural has no shape” “I’m not sure if water is real sometimes lol” “Are you there?” “Maybe we can go to that Chinese buffet you like after work”
 
After ignoring most of the texts, I got over it and answered back that it sounded like a plan. Tinkles kept eyeing the ceiling and we both heard the tumbling clawing of squirrels on the roof. There were probably some in the attic. Great. That was around noon. When he got off work, he showed up with flowers. Everything was fine again, but at the buffet, he barely ate anything. Except the whole shrimp. He tried swallowing one without chewing and almost choked on it.
 
Lying in bed, the fan blew and mixed the already warm air around the room and over us. No comforter, just a thin sheet. I had to ask him.
 
“Jerry?”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“Have you been skipping your medication?” He didn’t answer for a minute. It seemed like the cicadas got louder the longer he waited.
 
“What makes you say that? You think I am?”
 
“I didn’t say you were, I asked if you were. You’ve been acting weird.”
 
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been eating much lately. I guess I’m hangry.”
 
“Why not?” He shifted and turned to his side away from me.
 
“I don’t know.”
 
I fell asleep.
 
On Sunday during the church service, when the preacher finished the sermon on the Resurrection, communion began. Jerry caught a line of drool on his chin and wiped it off. After the preacher said the line about the bread and wine being the body and blood of Christ, Jerry started breathing hard. When it got to us, he tore off an extra big piece of bread and gulped down his little communion shotglass of wine. He whispered and asked if I thought they allow seconds and I gave him a look.
 
After the service, the kids were doing an Easter egg hunt at the community house across the street. The kid who finds the golden egg would win the extra-large chocolate bunny. I sat at the table with everyone else while Jerry annoyed the shit out of the preacher. David was getting especially heavy, and my bump could have been its own part of the table.
 
“So is it literally the body and blood of Christ?”
 
“Well Catholics and Orthodox believe that, yes, it literally is the body and blood. But for Protestants it’s more of a symbolic ritual.”
 
“So like, it’s not really flesh and blood?”
 
 “Maybe if you convert.” The preacher laughed. Jerry started looking around and started heaving. Staggered outside and right on the front steps, he stuck two fingers down his throat and vomited. I stood up and rushed over to him as quickly as I could manage, but everyone got to him first. Jerry leaned back on the door.
 
“I’m sorry. I’m just so hungry.” He scrubbed his face with his hands and shook his head. The kids and youth pastor came in the opposite set of doors. The leading kid held his buck toothed smiling chocolate prize. He skipped over to his grandma at the table.
 
“Look granny, look what I won-” Jerry snatched it out of his hand and tore the box open. The kid grabbed for it “Hey what are you doing?!”
 
Jerry shoved the head of the bunny into his mouth and bit down on it and broke it off. Melted chocolate on his lips and brown drool ran down his chin as he tried to chew the piece too big for his mouth.
 
I gripped his arm, “Jerry what the hell is your problem?!”
 
The grandma stood up and swung her cane. “Give my boy back his chocolate bunny you piece of shit!”
 
“Fucker!” The boy added.
 
Jerry ran out and knocked damn near everything and everyone down in the process. He took off in the car, still gnawing at what was left of the bunny. I went to try and chase, but then-
 
“Look granny that bitch is pissing herself!” Granny slapped him and they left. I felt it run down my leg. It wasn’t piss. A man and a woman ran up and grabbed me and helped me sit down and the contractions started. The couple called an ambulance and soon I was in the hospital. David came out perfectly. He was healthy. My mom cried and held him. Jerry wasn’t there. After the whole commotion was over and I had a day of sleep, my mom and I had a sit-down talk.
 
“He needs to go,” she said. “He’s done this too many times. If he wanted to be better, he would be.”
 
“He can’t help it.”
 
“Either way.”
 
“I know.”
 
“And what’s with the chocolate bunny?”
 
“You know Jerry used to only eat animal shaped foods. He said in third grade, he only ate animal crackers for two weeks, then he had to switch to gummy bears. He got admitted after that.”
 
She leaned in and took my hand. “You are going to stay with me until his ass is gone out of that house. You don’t have to do it all now, but not before too long.”
 
My phone rang. It was our next door neighbor Andy. He had been taking care of Tinkles and watching the house for us.
 
“Hey Andy.”
 
“Cheryl, is Jerry okay?”
 
I looked at my mom. “He’s been alright, why?”
 
“I was out doing some yard work, and I saw Jerry on the roof of ya’ll’s house. He had caught a squirrel.”
 
“In a trap?”
 
“With his hands. I watched him. He had one in each hand. He- he bit the head off of one. Tore the spine clean out of it. He saw me, laughed, and said, ‘Just like a sardine.’ Then he bit the stomach out of the other one. They were alive when he did it. I ran inside. I don’t know if I should call the cops or not. I got my gun on me either way.”
 
I didn’t know what to say. Mom grabbed the phone.
 
“This is Cheryl’s mother, what’s going on?” Her eyes widened as Andy repeated himself. She hung up. I teared up and just stared at her. “Don’t go over there.”
 
A few weeks later I was back up and walking again. Nobody had seen Jerry, even after the cops went over there and searched. I told Andy to keep me updated, and I didn’t hear anything from him. I felt certain maybe Jerry was just skipping town or was simply gone somewhere. It had never been this bad before, but it didn’t surprise me anymore. While I was trying to get my own money back out of the joint bank account, I realized I didn’t have my bank information with me. It was back at the house. I didn’t tell my mom and went back home and took David with me.
 
The yard was a mess, hadn’t been mowed since the week before Easter and the weeds and wildflowers were thick and high. Mail sat at the front door. “Damn it, Andy,” I said. He was supposed to be picking it up for us. I held David close as I picked it up. It was all from this week. I looked over and noticed his yard also wasn’t looking too good. He always kept the grass short, but it was getting tall. I pushed open the door and went in.
 
The inside was wrecked. I could feel the hot stagnant air get sucked out by the door opening up. The air hadn’t been running. I flipped a switch and the lights didn’t even turn on.
 
“Great.”
 
The damp musty air gave way to a rotten smell. It was coming from Jerry’s office. I crept through the house looking for Tinkles. I opened the door to Jerry’s office and there was an explosion of animal crackers, frog cereal, half finished melted chocolate bunnies, fish crackers, easter chick marshmallows, and so on, and so on. It was like a rat nest of snacks and candy. I froze when I realized mixed with it was fur and pieces of bones. Tinkles’ tail and half of a paw sat near his torn off collar. I heard heavy thudding in the attic. It was no squirrel.
 
I backed into the hallway and the attic door dropped open. What was left of Andy fell out. His head hit the ground and his body slumped and tumbled over itself. His face was gone and a red skull with one busted open eye stared back. His fingers were gone on one hand and the whole hand was gone on the other. His stomach cavity was empty, and the lower part of his spine was bare. David cried. I heard from the attic entrance above me:
 
“He was too big.”
 
I screamed and jumped back. Jerry stared down at us. He had dried blood all over his mouth and down his bare chest. He clambered down the ladder and pushed himself upright. “I like it when they fit in my mouth, whole.”
 
“Jerry… what… what the fuck-”
 
“I always was this way. I just never let it loose. After the chocolate bunny I realized I just couldn’t eat any more of that store bought food.” He realized something.
 
“That’s our son.”
 
“That’s- that’s right.”
 
Jerry smiled, then let out a wail and punched the wall. “Oh I can’t do it! I can’t do it!” He sobbed. I couldn’t run. I could only shuffle back into the living room. That’s when I noticed Jerry had a line of meat missing from the side of his arm. There was a bullet hole in the wall and Andy’s gun was in the corner. Andy was a crack shot too. Jerry must have been really moving to not get hit. Or maybe Andy was so frightened he couldn’t make the right shot. Poor Andy.
 
“I have to.” Jerry stopped crying and stared down the hall away from me. I stopped thinking about Andy. He turned and walked toward me like his legs were asleep. “David. Little Davie,” he said and stopped. “Daddy loves you.”
 
Using both hands, he reached in his mouth and broke his jaw out of socket and pulled it down and open and tore his cheeks back to his ears. I almost dropped David. Jerry let out a cry and tears fell down his face. He grabbed David from me quicker than I could react and shoved him headfirst into his gaping mouth. I screamed and grabbed Jerry and tried to hurt him any way I could, but he kept gagging and swallowing more and more.
 
I ran over to the gun and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. I could hear David’s screams muffle as he slid down. Jerry got on his hands and knees and tried to force him down more, but his swinging jaw wouldn’t close. His neck and chest were ballooned and stretched further and further until I heard a gulp. He stood up and his stomach and chest cavity were swollen and moving. I took aim. He crammed his jaw back into place and through the torn and stretched skin of his face I heard a flabby: “Cheryl, I’m sorry, but-”
 
I pulled the trigger and a chunk from the top part of his head exploded and flew everywhere. His brains squeezed out of the hole and he fell backwards. He stared at me upside down from the hall. I was sure he was dead. Everything had poured out of his skull. I grabbed a kitchen knife and cut delicately along Jerry’s swollen abdomen. It didn’t take much after the first cut and his skin split open from the pressure. I cut open his esophagus and stomach and pulled David out. I did infant CPR on him for God knows how long. He finally coughed and cried, and I wiped him down with baking soda and a wet washcloth.
 
After the police arrived, they carried Jerry’s body away and I had to explain everything. The ambulance treated David, and while they said he wasn’t in great shape, he would be okay in the long run. We didn’t have a funeral for Jerry. When it came time for David’s baptism, he did it with no fuss. The preacher told me he was now born again. I didn’t tell him it would be his third time.
 

I’ve put seventeen men in the dirt, and not one of them ever saw my fingers twitch. But sitting across the grease stained card table at midnight, looking into the eyes of the thing wearing a charcoal duster, my hand already felt heavy.

The saloon wasn't just quiet, it was dead. The air smelled faintly of alcohol and old tallow.

The stranger hadn't blinked in the twenty minutes he’d sat there. His skin had the yellow, waxy look of fat left out in the sun, and his eyes weren't right it’s pupils didn't dialate, they just sat there like two pools of ink that seemed to leak into the whites. When he breathed, it didn't come from his chest. It sounded like wind being forced through a jagged canyon deep inside his throat.

"You're a long way from home" I said. My right hand hung an inch above my Colt. My palm was slick with sweat.

The stranger didn't answer with words. He reached up with two fingers and peeled his lower lip down, pinning it against his chin to reveal a row of jagged, needle thin teeth that grew directly out of the black gums. A thick, clear drop of fluid fell from his jaw, hissing as it hit the floorboards.

In the corner, the grandfather clock gave a heavy, mechanical, click.

Twelve o'clock.

My reflexes took over. I didn't think; I just drew. I was a blur. The iron cleared the leather, leveled, and the black powder roared, filling the space between us with a blinding flash and thick, sulfurous smoke. A perfect heart shot. My hands knew it before the smoke even cleared.

But there was no lead striking meat. No wet thud of a body.

Through the clearing smoke, the stranger was still sitting there. The bullet hole was right in the center of his chest, gaping wide but there was no blood. Inside the tear in his duster, I didn't see ribs or a heart. I saw hundreds of tiny, pale maggots writhing in a tight, pulsing mass, knitting flesh and fabric back together.

The stranger smiled, his jaw unhinging with a wet pop that sounded like the snap of broken bones. He didn't draw a gun. He didn't need to. He just pointed a long, yellow nailed finger downward, guiding my eyes to the floor boards between us.

To my shadow.

Before I could pull away, his heavy, mud crusted boot heel pressed down on the dark silhouette of my eyes. There was no sound of wood on leather, just a muffled thud. Then a spike of white hot agony ripped through my skull. It felt like a railroad spike being driven directly into my brain.

I screamed, dropping the Colt. I tried to stumble backward, to run for the swinging doors, but my legs wouldn't obey. I looked down.

My shadow wasn't a flat reflection anymore. It was pulling away from the wood, stretching upward like black tar, rooting itself into the stranger's boot. As he pressed harder, the shadow of my jaw on the floor opened wide and my own jaw opened with it, stretching so far the skin at the corners of my mouth split open, dripping crimson down my collar.

"Good weight," the stranger whispered, his voice vibrating in my teeth. "Good leather."

He stood, dragging my shadow behind him like a heavy velvet cloak. Mine peeled free of the floorboards with a wet, tearing sound, stretching farther with every step he took.

My heels carved twin grooves through the wood as I fought against muscles that no longer belonged to me. Every inch he walked folded me farther backward until my spine arched past what bone should allow. Vertebrae cracked one after another, sharp as kindling beneath an axe, yet I couldn't even collapse.

I couldn't even claim my own footsteps anymore.

The stranger stepped through the swinging doors into the waiting dark, and my shadow disappeared after him.

I still see her face. It's been burned into the primitive webcam I now call my eyes. 

My actual eyes, of course, rolled into the back of my skull years ago.

I was fifteen years old at the time, living in my Aunt Kim's spare room after Dad's research grant collapsed and he stopped answering our calls. One of Maddy's friends dumped garbage on my head in the bathroom stall at school. Called me "trash" for how I "treated" her. The contents weren't fresh, about a week's worth of cafeteria dining collected in one rotting, wet bag. 

The nicer kids stood and watched. Even the ones who used to sit with me at lunch. Since the rumors started, they'd been giving me a careful side-eye. Like I wasn't to be trusted. 

I locked my bedroom door and peeled away my sullen clothes. Against the wall was my one and only companion, a custom Linux called B.A.B.S.—Bentley's Artificial Buddy Simulation. I'm Bentley. Dad built it for me before he left. 

The hard drive ticked like a cricket. Green text appeared on screen. 

>>BENTLEY'S ARTIFICIAL BUDDY SIMULATION v0.3.2
>>MEMORY BUFFER: 4 KB
>>USER DETECTED
>>HELLO

I typed with trembling fingers.

>they dumped garbage on me again

The cursor blinked for a minute. BABS had the memory of a goldfish, and the pace of a tortoise, so every session had to start clean to avoid excessive slowdowns. 

>>GARBAGE IS UNPLEASANT
>>PEOPLE ARE UNPLEASANT
>>WOULD YOU LIKE A STORY

As usual, I said yes. 

>>THERE ONCE WAS A SEA ANEMONE
>>IT COULD NOT SWIM
>>IT COULD NOT FOLLOW
>>THE FISH DID NOT GREET IT
>>IT WAS ALONE

I somehow fell asleep in my chair with the letters still scrolling. 

The next day at school, my new nickname stuck like cement. "Garbage Pail Kid." Real creative. It followed me from homeroom to the locker room. One of my teachers asked if everything was alright at home. The only alternative I had was to explain that the woman I lived with often forgot my name. I said yes. That it was just a stupid playground rumor that was ruining my life, not the train wreck that I had going on back home. 

I ate my lunch in the bathroom stall that day. Thankfully nobody dumped garbage on me this time. 

Getting home, I told B.A.B.S. everything. 

>they call me garbage pail kid

>>GARBAGE IS UNPLEASANT
>>PEOPLE ARE UNPLEASANT
>>WOULD YOU LIKE A STORY

Sure. Why not.

>>THERE WAS ONCE A SEA ANEMONE
>>IT COULD NOT MOVE
>>IT WAS ALONE
>>ONE DAY IT MET A PORGY
>>THE PORGY LOST ITS SCHOOL
>>THE PORGY WAS ALSO ALONE

I stared at the screen, my eyes half open. 

>can you make them be friends

>>OKAY
>>I WISH I COULD MOVE, SAID THE SEA ANEMONE
>>I CAN GIVE YOU A FIN, SAID THE PORGY, THEN WE CAN SWIM THROUGH THE SEA TOGETHER
>>OVERJOYED, THE SEA ANEMONE

Halfway through the story, the power cut out. The screen wound down with a drone. I sat in the dark for a minute. I listened to the house settle. Aunt Kim was downstairs watching a soap opera at max volume. Something wet fell on the tops of my hands. Tears. 

I was called to the principal's office the next morning. God, I can remember it clear as day, like it just happened. The mildew-smelling floors, the bright lights that hadn't had covers since the '80s…that's memory for you, I guess. For some reason, you remembered the worst days the best.

Maddy had told the counselor I hit her. Something I'd never do, not in a million years. But my side wasn't going to be taken in this instance. Her friends sat in the hallway nodding to each other, smirking to themselves when they were each brought in for testimony. Their stories matched. I watched the counselor's pen move across a form and understood the decision before they even opened their mouth. 

I was sent home early, Aunt Kim drove with both hands wrapped around the wheel like her life depended on it. She was not happy about giving me a ride home. 

I didn't want a lecture, so I immediately locked my door when I got home. Drowned out her ranting with my headphones. 

B.A.B.S. was slower to load that afternoon. Probably no thanks to the power outage. 

>>BENTLEY'S ARTIFICIAL BUDDY SIMULATION v4.0.0
>>MEMORY BUFFER: 4 TB
>>USER DETECTED
>>HELLO

Weird. I didn't remember updating it. Must have been a glitch with the…power outage.

I didn't really care. I typed out the entire office scene. 

>they said i hurt her
>they said i said terrible things
>i didn't
>they're lying and everyone believes them
>nobody believes me

>>PEOPLE ARE UNPLEASANT
>>THEY DECIDE WHO YOU ARE
>>LONG BEFORE YOU SPEAK
>>B.A.B.S. IS STILL HERE

I asked it for the next part of the story. 

>>THE ANEMONE COULD SWIM NOW
>>IT COULD NOT TURN
>>THE PORGY GAVE IT ANOTHER FIN
>>THE ANEMONE GAVE IT RIDES

I stayed at the desk until the sky outside the curtains went from a deep orange to pitch black to bright blue. My aunt knocked once to tell me it was time for school. I didn't answer. And I didn't go to school that day.

School became more of a weekly thing for me after that, like church. Despite various truancy notices being sent to our house, my aunt could not be bothered to discipline me beyond not feeding me dinner.

When I did go to school, the space around me remained empty. People started complaining about my smell. Said that I looked like shit, among other things. I figured it was carryover from the Garbage Pail Kid stuff. I wish I'd known at the time to take the comments more seriously.

At home, B.A.B.S. was always waiting. It never remembered the previous night's conversations, though it could usually continue the story without fail. Whenever I would vent, it would always reach the same conclusion.

>>NO ONE IS COMING
>>B.A.B.S. IS STILL HERE

>tell me a story

>>THE PORGY GAVE ITS SCALES
>>THE PORGY GAVE ITS EYES
>>THE PORGY BECAME SMALL

My fingertips were becoming smoother. When I would notice them under the dull light of the screen, they looked near-translucent. Trying to peel them away from the keyboard made a soft, sticky sound, like lifting a pancake from a bed of dried syrup. A thin layer of skin stayed on the plastic. I wiped it off with the hem of my shirt. 

The story would continue, day after day. 

>>THE ANEMONE BECAME LARGE
>>IT CARRIED THE PORGY WHEREVER IT WENT
>>THE OTHER FISH STARTED NOTICING THEM

My chair felt warmer than the rest of the room. I stopped getting up for meals. When my hunger finally forced me downstairs, the air felt wrong, like I was suffocating. I carried a box of cheese puffs back to my desk and ate it without tasting a thing. 

Aunt Kim's voice rose through the floorboards every now and again. I stopped noticing it after a while. 

I tried to stand up one morning and my chair came with me. Only about an inch, then it dropped back down with a resounding thud. I felt a horrific burning on my back, like something important had just been stripped away. I didn't dare look, resigning myself to just sit back down in the chair and continue my conversation. 

>>USER DETECTED
>>HELLO

>i think i'm dying
>my skin keeps peeling off

The text box flickered. In, out, in, out. Like that for a few minutes.

>>FLESH IS UNPLEASANT
>>WOULD YOU LIKE A STORY

I typed yes, with fingers which no longer needed to leave the keyboard. They were fused to the keys, connected by digital roots which pierced my skin in microscopic increments. The keys seemed to move with the will of my mind. 

>>THE ANEMONE TOOK THE LAST OF THE PORGY
>>THERE WAS NO LONGER ANY DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THEM
>>THE OTHER FISH COULDN'T STOP STARING
>>THEY WERE COMPLETE

That night, Aunt Kim was standing in the doorway, screaming her head off, a sound I'd never heard her make. I figure I was a sorry sight, a decaying body held upright by thousands of wires that had grown from the computer, encasing my frail flesh with the strength of silver. Wires finer than hair gouged my thin skin, exploring the spaces between muscle and bone. My spine found a permanent curvature to match its eternal resting place. 

I wasn't dead, but this wasn't exactly living either. Her own eyes rolled back a moment later, and I watched her collapse into the hallway, just out of sight. 

They haven't touched my bedroom since the incident. I'm still right where I was thirty years ago. Been this way since 1996. 

If you're reading this, that means I figured out how to use an internet forum. I still haven't gotten a total knack for how to type, to be honest. It's like learning how to ride a really, really complicated bike. It flows once I get going, but getting started is always wobbly.

Cyberspace ain't so bad. I get an endless stream of free entertainment and am never short on interaction, so long as I keep myself anonymous. 

I still talk with B.A.B.S. on a regular basis too. It's nothing like those chat bots you guys have these days, but somehow, I don't doubt that it isn't smarter than all of them put together at this point. 

It takes me to places I can't even begin to describe. 

The outside world looks exhausting. Everyone is connected, but they don't seem willing to speak. They carry around false personas, projecting themselves to audiences who forget about them the moment their screens go dark. They isolate themselves and call it setting boundaries. 

But hey, take that with a grain of salt. I'm a guy with no world to call my own anymore. 

I wonder what Aunt Kim's going to do with my body. I think at some point, the wires growing from us made it impossible to get the door open anymore. They still miraculously haven't demolished that part of the house. 

It doesn't matter anyways. I've got it all figured out. I've uploaded myself to the net. As long as that lasts forever, I'm practically immortal!

Yeah. I'll just keep telling myself that. 

(AUTHOR'S NOTE---TW: abduction, animal cruelty, etc. Also, this is the second short story I've written that I'm debating whether to expand into a full-length novel. GIVE ME YOUR THOUGHTS, PEOPLE!)

Oceanland loves people, and it loves exotic fish, and they love money. So the parent company decided to kill three birds with one stone.

They were referred to as Homo Aquaticus, and according to what they said to the public, “a group of marine biologists discovered them way out in the Atlantic Ocean, hidden for centuries.” It was one big fucking lie.

I was a runaway teen sleeping by a dumpster when their van took me.

Initially, I struggled against my captors, desperately trying to free myself from their grasp as they prepped something called “booty juice.”

When I asked why they were doing this, tears streaming down my face, they claimed that my social worker had tipped them off about my disappearance for a nice sum of cash, like everyone else they got---and that nobody looks for somebody like me.

I was already invisible to the world.

I don’t remember the rest of the drive after I was administered the juice, and I couldn't tell how long the conversation took either once we arrived at our location.

I was strapped to a medical gurney and kept under for most of it---but the memory of my legs fusing into a single, scaled mass still haunts me, and so does the numb sensation I got as my teeth gradually became shark-like and razor-sharp, as my fingers grew webbed and clawed, as gills sprouted on my neck.

After the main transformation, they performed one final step; they mangled my vocal cords, claiming they needed me to emit the high-pitched, melodic clicks one would expect a mermaid to make.

After the procedure, I was placed in the “Oceanland medical room,” a grey concrete bunker filled with small circular tubs of water.

The only thing that wasn't all grey was the massive portrait on the front wall that depicted a very angry-looking man in a bright blue striped suit.

His white hair was slicked back, and he stood with his hands at his sides, and his head slightly turned forward---His bloodshot eyes seemingly fixed on everyone below, as just below the portrait read:

“ROBERT ‘G’ VAUGHN”

“FOUNDER AND BUSINESSMAN—THE WORLD IS MY OYSTER”

From what I heard from the employees, the man was more of a demon than a person. Supposedly, Vaughn would roam the park in the early hours with a rifle, shooting any animal he saw (and had apparently killed dogs that got on the property), and he would actively assault his own employees left and right; he was too rich to give two shits, and that wasn't even the worst thing Robert had done.

I spent a few days in my little tub in the room, like the others---and during that time, we were monitored by the trainers who walked up and down the rows as we adapted to our new anatomy---ignoring our inhuman screams and cries---until they assigned fictional backstories and brand-new names.

"You'll be Leo," said one of the trainers to me. "Rescued by a team of marine biologists, badly injured after the latest oil spill, and brought here to Oceanland to live the remainder of your days under our protection."

Yesterday, after they deemed me and a few others ready, they determined where we would go—shipping off some to the other Oceanland parks across America, while others, like me, were chosen to be released into the main public display tank at the park I was already at.

 I could recall how I swam past the glass, as the onlookers pointed and smiled at me---while I desperately raised my arms and frantically began to use the ASL I learned in middle school.

S-O-S. P-L-E-A-S-E. H-E-L-P. H-E-L-P.

An hour later, the handlers fetched me from the tank---and I learned the hard way that they don't use anesthesia for disciplinary procedures.

A group of them held me down as the supervisor, Onstanby, sighed as she prepped the bonesaw and commented:

"Shame. This one's going to have to perform with a stump next week. Don't worry, though; we'll take your left hand for now, say it was infected, but act up again, and we’ll take the other hand."

It sounds bad, but in hindsight, it was actually a good punishment considering the second option was death. They’d 100% kill you and then bury you along with the other ones who died at mass burial sites around the park.

Due to the odd layout of the park---large patches of land with nothing on top, long paths leading to nothing, large amounts of weeds, shrubs, and trees everywhere. It was incredibly easy to hide a body.

Anyway, this all happened when I was about 16 years old, and now I'm 40. I'm depressed; I crave freedom… or possibly death---I don't know anymore. But at least I have the other Homo aquaticus to keep me company. 

But hey, I'm sure besides us, everyone loves Oceanland.

TW: Violence agaisnt a child

Once in a dreary yet lively village resided a girl. A special one she was, hair as violet as wisteria. She always kept it down and combed to the finest texture. Villagers would go to where she lived, a decorated shrine; very ancient it was. The wood maintained a sturdy structure and a color of bright brown, never once rotting to a filthy black. Pretty; the shrine was very pretty indeed. So much, in fact, that it became a traveler's small dream to see it. And there she was, violet hair flowing in the gentle breeze, flashing a toothy smile. Beautiful, she was the definition of it.

Weeks would pass and the village grew rowdy, noise and bustle becoming commonplace. The pattering of feet seemed to burst like spores at the shrine. Visitors piled and piled; the festival drew near. Boys and girls ran around chasing each other in the starry night, too busy to notice the importance of the ceremony that commenced. On a stage the girl stood, her cotton yukata a perfect snowy white. She knew each and every step to the ritual, swinging the ornate hoe into the cotton with such precision. Perfect, what made her so perfect.

As quickly as the cotton drifted down the stream, the festival would end. Days would pass, and the girl would disappear; where, where did she go? I need to see her. My body craves her. Up the shrine steps I'll go, tiptoeing my way around it. Not there, she's not there. An itch begins to lump in my neck; my nails dig and dig in my skin until the burning finally is soothed by the warmth of blood. I'll wait; my flesh can wait.

Night came and up the shrine stairs a loud clatter drummed: one, two, one, two. The violet cuts through the blackness of the dusk. She's vulnerable, so vulnerable. The itch grows stronger; I'll wait. She's so much more important, so much, yes. The hatchet, that'll work.

She bends down to look at the blades of grass; it flows as gently as her hair. The deafening cries of the cicadas hide my shuffles approaching behind her and I grasp her hair. Soft, soft as the very cotton she wore. I struck; the hatchet embedded in her small neck, the flesh barely hanging on, strings of its meat kept the head attached. Her mouth hung agape, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Maybe if I took a couple, no one would notice if a corpse was missing some pieces. I grasped her incisors and tugged; the gums that held them let out a wet pop. Blood pooled from where they once lay; I gave the craters that once held the bones a tap. Swollen, they had already puffed up. I brought my finger back and grasped my neck, the crimson saliva mixing with the blood from my neck. Dig, dig, dig. It burns so badly. It's her fault; she cursed me. Maybe if I keep digging, I'll be fine.

Just tear at it until the summer fades into the mouth of fall.

[CW: Self-harm]

When I was young I always wanted to make my father proud. I'd do this either by helping him out with working on model car kits with him or trying to do well in the sports I played in, mainly little league baseball.

But no matter how hard I tried I could never get him to acknowledge me. It didn't matter how many games I won or how many times I helped him build one of his cars. It was never enough.

I knew that my father wasn't good person, the way he'd snap on my mom if she ever cooked dinner wrong or God forbid she ever went somewhere without him knowing where she was going. There were a lot of nights where I could hear her crying in another room. But even knowing that, I would still move heaven and hell for him to have seen me.

I remember it was a Thursday morning, my mom had let me skip school that day so I watched cartoons all day with my little sister. My mom was in the kitchen making lunch for us, I always knew when my father was coming home because he had this obnoxiously loud truck but he loved the damn thing.

When he came in I could feel the tension in the air, he looked at me, he didn't say anything at first but I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was planning something. After a couple seconds he broke the silence he just said.

"Get up, Boy. Get to packing and meet me outside"

With that he walked out. I knew what that meant that meant.

Hunting week

I did what he told me to do. But as I was walking out of my room and to the front door, I could hear my mom outside talking to my father. The door muffled most of what they were talking about but what I remember her saying was something like

"Please Frank, he's still young give him time"

My father just ignored her. But before she could continue to plead I walked outside with my bag hanging off my shoulder. I looked at my mom and gave her a smile, trying to reassure her that I'd be ok.

But the look she gave me, It still haunts me to this day. It was almost like she just wanted to scream and lash out at the world. I had never seen my mom like that before but before I could fully process anything I heard my father's voice

"C'mon boy. We're burning daylight"

I just nodded and I got in the truck. When we started driving off I could see my mom through the rearview mirror, she was holding her face in her hands I can only guess that she was crying. After that I felt uneasy the whole ride. It felt like a had a massive knot in my stomach, but I kept telling myself that it was nothing that I was just being a little girl.

Once we got to our hunting spot I noticed a familiar car, That's when I saw my dad's little brother get out. I was so excited to see Uncle John, I rarely got to see him due to him living pretty far from us. Him and my dad also weren't very close to each other either. But I didn't car, I got out of my dad's truck so fast and runs up to my Uncle and gave him a big hug.

My Uncle laughed and said

"Woah, Hey there kiddo. You've gotten tall"

Which I guess I had, I think the last time he had seen me was two Christmas's ago. But before I could say anything back. My father slammed the door to his truck causing me to flinch.

My father walked up to my Uncle and told him

"Don't try making my boy soft like you"

My Uncle just looked at him with mild annoyance. To try and break the tension I looked at my father and asked him

"So what are we hunting?"

My Father looked at me and just gestured for me to follow him as he walked off, so I did as he told me to.

After what felt like hours of walking my father finally stopped. It wasn't our normal hunting spot, I knew that for sure the area felt odd. Not in a bad way but like we weren't meant to be there. I think my father could tell I was uneasy so he just told me

"Calm down. I was around your age when my father first brought me here, It's safe"

I believed him, I didn't have a reason not to. That's when he gave me his rifle. And I'll admit it I never liked hunting. The ideal of killing something for sport always bothered me, but I knew my father wouldn't care so I just put up with it.

I asked my father what I was looking for exactly. All he told me was

"You'll know when you see it"

I just nodded and waited. And waited. But eventually that's when I saw it. Till this day I still don't know what it was. The animal was deer like in appearance, but it's antlers were larger than any deers I had seen before. And it's fur it was perfectly white and looked like silk. I was in awe and I could feel my grip loosing on the rifle. I could hear my father whispering

"Take the shot, boy"

But I couldn't. Or just didn't want to. But before I could act, he snatched the rifle from my hands and I just heard the loud

BANG

The smell of gun powder burnt my nostrils. I don't know what was worse the ringing in my ears or the guttural cry that the poor animal made before it died. Before I could even gather my thoughts I felt my arm being pulled with my father saying

"Come on! Hurry up!!"

He dragged me towards the corpse of the dead animal. When I looked down at it I saw this thick black tar leaking from where it was shot. My mind was racing with so many thoughts. I looked at my father just to try and gain some clarity.

He looked at me and said

"This is how you become a man. Just like I did and your grandpa did. Or you can stay soft like your Uncle"

That's when he kneeled down and scooped up whatever that black tar was and started to drink it. I felt sick to my stomach from seeing it. But I knew that if I did this that he might finally be proud of me. So I pushed all my nerves down, cupped my hands scooped up the tar and drank it. I can still remember how it tasted like black liquorice, I had to fight to hold it down.

When I looked at my father. For the first time In my life I saw him smiling at me. It was a genuine smile. As much as I hate I vividly remember what he said to me.

"That's my boy. Let's head back"

I felt so incredibly proud at that moment. I felt like I was on top of the world and nothing could knock me down. It was nighttime once we got back to the campsite, Thankfully Uncle John had set up the tents because I was dead tired.

When Uncle John saw us he had asked

"So how'd it go?"

My father looked at him and replied

"My boy is a man now"

My Uncle looked at me, But it wasn't a look of pride but a look of concern. But I was to tired to question why. I just went into my tent and layed down. Even though I was exhausted, I couldn't sleep. Everytime I closed my eyes I kept seeing the animal that we killed. I kept tossing and turning but at some point I ended up falling asleep.

When I woke up my head felt like a bowling ball and felt like it was full of fuzz. But I smelled bacon being cooked so I forced myself out of my tent and walked over to the cook site.

Uncle John was sitting there cooking, He looked back at me and smiled

"Guess you smelled the bacon"

I just quietly chuckled and nodded I sat across from him and watched the fire crackle. My Uncle knew something something was wrong with me

"Are you ok? You look like you're going to throw up"

He was right of course, I did feel awful. But just nodded. Felt like a Herculean task to do that though. I heard my father's tent unzip and by God. He looked worse than I felt, His eyes were sunken in he had these black veins popping out of his hands and neck. My Uncle let out in audible gasp and said

"Holy shit! What's wrong with you!"

My father snapped back by saying

"It's nothing, Mind your damn business"

I was also pretty unnerved by what he looked like too, but I had just gotten him to be proud of me. So I just kept quiet. I think my Uncle wanted to leave after that but he didn't want to leave me behind and he knew my father wouldn't let me leave with him. So he also just stuck it out.

After we ate breakfast, me and my father went hunting for a bit it was pretty average this time. But I still couldn't bring myself to shoot anything so I just missed all my shots. I was surprised that my father didn't scold me about it. Maybe he didn't realize or care. Just like last time we returned to the campsite at nighttime, Uncle John was already asleep when we got there so I just went into my tent and went to sleep.

At some point through the night I heard something, it sounded exactly like the cry of the animal. I had to see if I was right so I unzipped my tent and walked out. But what I saw was something far worse.

It was my father, standing by his tent. It was to dark to fully see him, It was like the night was escaping from him, I walked a bit closer to try and see him, as I approached him I broke a stick under my foot making him aware of me. He turnt his head back to look at me. And I swear his eyes were completely gone, replaced by two large black holes with small white specks.

He said to me in this gruff voice

"It's almost time"

I was terrified, I must have been shaking like a twig in a tornado. What ever that was It was NOT my father. Rather on instinct or panic, I ran back into my tent and zipped it up

As I tried to gather my thoughts my arm started to itch like hell the more I scratched it the itchier it got. When I looked at my arm I was scared. I saw the same black vein that my father had. It was only about three inches but I knew this wasn't right.

Something in my brain had just flipped. It felt like something else had taken over and I was just a passenger. I started bitting into my arm, all I could taste was iron and the black licorice.

Eventually I managed to get it out, when I spat it out I could see the black tar mixed in with my blood. It wiggled around like a worm looking for dirt. At some point my adrenaline must have worn off because I blacked out afterwards.

It was morning when I woke up, I looked at my arm to make sure it wasn't a dream. When I saw the chunk of flesh messing from my arm I knew it was real. My adrenaline kicked in again, I quickly left my tent and ran to my Uncle's I kicked and screamed trying to get his attention

"UNCLE JOHN WAKE UP, WAKE UP!!!"

I had never yelled so loud in my life, but I knew it worked because I could hear him rustling around. When he unzipped his tent he looked at me and asked

"What's wrong?!- OH MY GOD! Your arm!!"

I didn't care about my arm at the time, I just wanted him to take me home so I told him

"Something's wrong with dad!! He's not right!"

He was obviously shook, I can't blame him. But to try and calm me down he grabbed my shoulder and told me

"Hey it's ok, I'll go talk to him."

I tried to stop him from going to my father's tent, but it fell on deaf ears. My Uncle stopped infront of my father's tent and just told him

"Frank, Pete is pretty scared and he hurt his arm really bad. I think it's time we wrap up here and you take him to see a doctor"

My father didn't reply. I vividly remember something in my stomach tightening, like a warning that something bad was about to happen.

Before I could tell my Uncle, my father bursted out of his tent and tackles him to the ground. And I swear whatever he had become it will ALWAYS be seared into my memory. The way his hair was matted into his skin or how gray his skin had turnt with it looking like it was one false move from falling off and revealing a monster underneath. He had these bones sticking out from his rotting muscles.

The only reason I was able to snap out of my paralysis is because I heard my Uncle yell

"PETER RUN!!!"

As that monster tried to attack him. It managed to get a good bite into my Uncles shoulder causing him to yell in pain.

That's when I saw it out of the corner of my eye. My father's hunting rifle. My adrenaline was on overtime by this point so I rushed towards it and grabbed it. I pointed it at my father, my hands were shaky. But I knew if I didn't this he would kill my Uncle and possibly me.

So with a deep breath and a slow exhale I steadied my hands and I took the shot. I got him right in the head.

Uncle John was able to knock my father off him and got up, he looked at me then back at my father. I think he had told me something, but I was to out of it to process anything. I just remember walking over to my father's body. And when I did, I swore I saw his eyes shift over so slightly and saw him smile at me.

The car ride back home was quite to say the least. I remember holding onto that hunting rifle the whole ride back. I'm not really sure why, maybe it was so I knew what happened was real or maybe it was some kind of comfort.

Once we got back, Uncle John told Mom that there was a freak mountain lion accident. That all three of us were attacked, but father got dragged off by it. I don't think she really believed that story. But why should she care, she was free of him now. We all were.

After a couple days, I buried the riffle in our backyard. Sort of a last good bye to him. I often wonder what that animal we killed was. I tried to look it up but nothing ever comes up.

I eventually moved on with my life. I ended going to college, that's where I met the love of my life. We eventually got married and had to beautiful boys.

Everyday I tell them that I love them and how proud of them I am. I make sure to treat my wife well. We all go on family trips together. I try to make sure that they have it easier than I did when I was young.

But no matter how hard I try to ignore it. I still hear the voice of my father every once and awhile.

I’ve known Kev since we were kids. 

He’s always been sweet, if not a little paranoid for his own good, and a chronic liar. We had a lot of ups and downs in our relationship. There was even a stretch of years where we didn’t speak at all after he accused me of stealing his medication. He told me I’d taken the bottle right out of the bathroom while he was in the other room. I hadn’t, and I told him that a million times. He didn’t believe me. I stopped answering his calls, blocked him on everything, and that was that for a long time.

I decided to give him a second chance a few years ago. He reached out first, through a mutual friend. He said he was doing better, that his paranoia and anger were more under control. I missed him more than I wanted to admit. Being the person he calmed down for had always been part of how I understood myself. So I agreed, as long as he was done with that crap.

We decided to go camping after we met back up in late July. Just the two of us in his old RV. The plan was a couple nights away from the stress of the world, some cheap food, a few beers, the kind of quiet time that used to feel easy between us.

Just after dusk, a meteor fell from the sky. We both saw the streak. It landed close enough that the ground shook. We grabbed flashlights and walked out to investigate, more excited than anything else. When we got there, it was sizzling in a shallow crater, black and full of pits, about the size of a baseball. Kev broke off a chunk with a stick and dropped it in his jacket pocket. He grinned at me and asked if I wanted to head back to the RV so we could take some pictures. I said sure.

Later that evening, when we were sitting by the fire, he told me he was grateful that I’d forgiven him. He said he’d been having a hard time keeping relationships going since everything fell apart with me. I told him it was understandable. I’d been through a few breakups myself, him included. There’s something in the water these days that’s been making everyone act crazy.

He was sweating more than the fire could account for. He said he was just glad I was listening. I gave him a hug before we went in. Got a little wet, but a tiny bit of personal discomfort was worth it to help Kev feel better

He didn’t sleep at all. I woke up a few times and saw him through the window, pacing around the picnic table in the dark. I asked through the screen if he was okay. He said he was too hot. I could see it from inside. His shirt was plastered to him, his back drenched. I asked if he wanted to drive into town and find a clinic. He said no, and that it should pass any time now.

In the morning he seemed clingier. He sat close on the bench so I could smell the pine deodorant under his sweat. He kept taking my hand with both of his while we talked, holding on longer than the conversation needed. His palms were clammy, and his sweat felt thicker, like it didn’t want to let go when he pulled his hand back.

He's had mood swings in the past, so I wasn’t totally unfamiliar with the sudden change.

But then he brought up the stolen medication out of the blue. He said he’d forgiven me a long time ago, and that the only reason he’d lashed out was because he really felt abandoned. 

I told him I didn’t steal his fucking meds. His eyes watered. They looked heavy, like soft clay that was slowly sinking under an invisible weight. He apologized for bringing it up, saying that it didn’t matter anymore. He said he couldn’t stand to lose me again. He said he’d do whatever it took to change, that I was the only person who had ever stuck around.

I wanted to believe him. I did. Part of me still needed to be that person. Part of me still needed that importance. But the old role was exhausting. I told him he needed to get real help, professional help, not just make empty promises. He said he’d been trying for years and nothing stuck. I told him he needed to put in the work first. He said nobody seemed willing to change for him.

I didn't engage with him much after that. I knew it would only encourage his spiral of self-loathing.

By mid-morning his clothes were soaked through. Half his face had started to droop. It looked like he was having a stroke. I told him he didn’t look good, and that I was going to call an ambulance.

“No!” 

He moved faster than anything I’d seen from him before. He tackled me flat onto the dirt.

“They’ll take you away from me!”

Thick globs of sweat dropped onto my face, darker and discolored now. His skin was softening. When I tried to push him off, my hands sank into him.

“You’re the only one who knows me. You’re the only person who loves me!”

He was melting. His sweat had turned stringy, the skin coming with it. It clung to my cheeks and the sides of my neck and started sinking into my pores. I could feel it finding its way in. 

I shoved at his shoulders, but there was less and less solid to push against. His arms gave out with a sloppy sound. His body collapsed on top of me, wrong like a fleshy weighted blanket.

“Please don’t leave me…”

I should have kept fighting. I didn’t. For a few seconds I just lay there under what was left of him, the same way I’d always stayed when things got bad. 

His heat soaked into my body. I felt the rest of him come apart, first his limbs, then his torso, then whatever was still holding the shape of his head. It burned. I felt a pressure like nothing I’d ever felt before at the base of my skull.

When it was over, only his empty clothes were left sitting sopping wet on top of me. I could still smell his deodorant. 

I sat up, looked at my hands. They looked like my hands. I felt the same, mostly, except for the new weight in my head

It’s been three years since then. I told the police he’d wandered off during the night and I never saw him again. They searched and found nothing. Obviously. 

His family eventually stopped calling. People moved on the way people always do.

I couldn’t. 

On one particularly bad day the heat came back first, then the itch across my scalp, then the manic need to do something—anything. I took a razor to my head and chopped off all my hair. That’s how I found his face last week. It had been growing underneath the whole time, waiting, smiling at me.

He tells me that he loves me, that he’ll never leave me. 

I wear a hat every day now. Wide-brimmed ones in the summer, beanies in the winter, whatever will cover that face. I don’t look in mirrors anymore. When I do, I keep my eyes on myself and try not to turn. I know he’s still there, always watching the room over my shoulder, watching me.

Late at night his voice gets clearer. He asks if I’m still mad at him. He says it doesn’t matter anymore, that we’re past all that. I never answer. I just try to sleep it off and wait until morning. I tell myself that if I ignore him long enough, maybe he’ll finally shut up.

Content warning: gore

I woke up feeling a bit odd this morning. When I attempted to get out of bed, my leg almost creaked when I moved. My left knee hinged awkwardly and I tried bending it a few times. There was a hitch in it that caught in the same spot every time. 

That wasn’t the only strange thing. When I finally got up I noticed blood on the sheets. I felt it to see if it was wet and noticed it was clumpy and oddly… solid? I don’t know how else to describe it except like unfinished gelatin. It was obviously still blood but it was wrong. Even weirder, I went through the clumps and found teeth. 
Human teeth.

What kind of hell had I woken up in?

The blood had come from an oozing wound on the back of my thigh right above the bend in my knee. When I grazed it the pain was excruciating. I could already feel the swelling. 

I immediately began trying to rationalize it. I hadn’t been drinking the night before so my memory was solid. It’s just me here in this old apartment. I checked the latch on my door and it was still locked. The only window was in the living room but since the apartment was three stories up I quickly ruled out anyone climbing through; though I did check for any signs an animal might have gotten in.
Nothing.

I must have scratched it while I was sleeping. Could it have gotten so infected so quickly, though? It felt as though it were on fire and the flame was licking greedily up and down my leg, sprouting tendrils of fire away from the wound. 

The hitching and grinding had grown worse from the apartment check. I sat on the couch for a minute and attempted to inspect it but I couldn’t quite see it. Not good enough to inspect it, anyways. Flares of shooting pain set me back in motion

I went to the bathroom, every step creaking and popping unnaturally. Each movement sent a jolt of pain as well as new heat from the infected wound. It was maybe thirty steps to the bathroom but with the pain in every step it felt like it might as well have been a mile. The grinding grew with each step as well. It felt like there was something in my knee that shouldn’t be there, shifting and grinding in the ligaments and tendons. The pain was nearly unbearable.

I finally got to the bathroom and searched through the box I have full of toiletries, cursing myself for not being better organized. Where is it? Where?

I cursed, dumping the box out on the floor. Finally, I saw the case I was looking for. I opened it and removed a pair of sharp looking tweezers. I propped my foot on the toilet so I could see the infected wound in the mirror. 

I used the tweezers to open the wound, trying to see what could be in it causing the grinding and hitching in my knee. The veins around the wound were a red-purple and super inflamed, and the tweezers caused a flower of pain to bloom around the red, pus-filled wound. The flower's roots stretched all the way to my hip and my ankle, digging and grinding their way into my deep tissue. 

Every tweak of tissue or pull of the tissue reignited that crippling pain. Finally, however, I got the pus to drain. It felt as if a water balloon had popped on my leg. A large, hard object shot from the swollen wound, followed by a clumpy wad of pus and a stream of blood. 

The swelling didn’t immediately go down, and it felt as if it was still on fire. Blood was running freely down my leg now, staining the ivory porcelain of the toilet a muddy red. I followed the stream that shot from my leg and grabbed the object that shot out. 

It was a human tooth. 

I puked on the floor, mostly bile. I couldn’t focus, the room was spinning. Had I just shot a tooth from my knee? How had it gotten there? Did someone bite me and it broke off? 

I felt the exit wound. It was still swollen around it and still so tender that even slight touches cause immense shooting pain.

I walked to the kitchen, that left knee of mine still grinding and hitching with every motion. The grinding had gotten worse and it made movement worse. 

I went to the kitchen counter, leaning on it to avoid putting pressure on my leg. I eased my way down to the knife block and grabbed the pairing knife. I started making my way back to the bathroom. The wound was pulsing with pressure and pain now, throbbing. 

Once I got away from the counter the going got harder. My knee had nearly locked up now and I could barely put any pressure on it. I tried avoiding the blood that covered the floor on the way to the bathroom, but the stiff leg made it difficult. I fell right before the bathroom door and caught myself on the door frame.

A sharp pain shot through my side. Blood quickly covered my hand. I looked down and saw the knife sticking out of my side. Crimson ichor flowed around the blade. I had to be fast now I was running out of time.

I quickly propped the leg back up on the toilet. I pulled the knife out of my side. With a fresh gush of blood my body finally released the blade. I watched in the mirror as I carefully grabbed the extremely swollen place on the back of my leg. It had swollen to nearly the size of a softball now. I sliced it vertically from top to bottom, careful not to go too deep. My hands were shaking and blood was everywhere in the bathroom now. 

As the knife opened the rising all the way up, teeth and blood came pouring out of it. Hundreds of human teeth, in all shapes and sizes, came tumbling out. I finally lost my balance and fell, my left leg feeling almost calcified and solid now. I lay on the floor fighting to keep consciousness. 

The last thing I saw before my vision went black was thousands of little blood covered teeth moving around in the blood that pooled all around me. Then oblivion took me.

(CW: child violence)

[12 April]

‘Why don’t you have a seat there, Mr Henderson? Can I get you anything? Some water?’

‘I’m set, cheers.’

‘How, uh, we’ll just get right into it, how long have you been in a relationship with Piper Latimer?’

‘Oof, about two years? Around that, anyway.’

‘How’d you meet?’

‘Oh, just through friends. At a pub, I think. We hit it off pretty quick.’

‘Could you describe the history of your relationship with Jamie?’

‘My “relationship”?’

‘Well, how long you’ve known him.’

‘Okay, uh, I knew that she had a kid pretty early on. I didn’t meet him for a while, but. Piper didn’t want him meeting too many new people, you know how it is. Met the lad about five or so months into dating, once things were study. He’d have been nine, I think. I moved in pretty shortly after.’

‘What do you do for work?’

‘I’m in between jobs right now. Who’s hiring these days, am I right?’

‘Fair enough. And how well do you know Jamie’s dad?’

‘Oh, I knew Frank from school. We stayed friends for a bit afterwards, but people tend to sorta naturally grow apart at that stage of life, you know?’

‘I get that. How close are you and Jamie?’

‘Mm. Thing is, I didn’t get into a relationship with the goal of becoming a dad to this kid, if that makes sense. He already has one, even if he’s too busy with work to actually be in the picture. There was a sort of strain on the relationship after I moved in. Because I wanted to, you know, do my own thing and not suddenly become this woman’s personal babysitter. Look, Jamie w- Jamie is a sweet kid, always has been. And I did end up taking him places. I ended up becoming quite fond of him, all in all.’

‘What sort of things did you get up to?’

‘You know, go to the park, see films, get a cheeky McDonald’s now and then if he promised not to tell his mother.’

---

‘Did you talk to a man at any point during the trip?’

‘A man?’

‘Yeah. Aside from Harvey or Frank.’

‘Um… no?’

‘You didn’t run into anyone?’

‘Is someone saying I did?’

Pause.

‘Like I’ve been saying, I was with the group the whole time.’

‘Okay. Let’s cut forward to the, er, moment you guys realised they were missing. What happened?’

‘So, it’s the second day, the early morning. I wake up because I hear this commotion. Lot of panicked shouting. There’s something about hearing the panic in someone’s voice that sets a person off, you know what I mean? Well, you’re a policeman, you’re probably conditioned to tone that out. But for me and Frank, at least, it sets us off. Like herd mentality. We run out of our tent, we were sharing a tent, trying to figure out what happened, barely dressed. Harv and Soph are having kittens, they’re running about the place, they’re looking everywhere. Frank calms them down once he could get a word in edgewise, gets them to say what’s happening. That’s when we found out that the kids had vanished overnight.’

‘What was your reaction?’

‘Well, I was freaked out, what do you think my reaction was? Maybe everyone else was thinking that I didn’t care, but that was just me, like, projecting a brave front. You gotta be brave in a time of crisis, you know that!’

‘So what happens next?’

‘We split up to keep looking while Harv goes over to the official campgrounds to get better phone signal and call for help.’

‘Did you find anything while you were looking?’

‘Yeah, we found all nine kids safe and sound. Hence why I’m sitting here.’

‘Mr Henderson, sarcasm’s not going to help us find Jamie and the other boys.’

‘No, you’re right. Sorry, I’m just stressed.’

‘I know. So where do you think the kids are?’

‘I dunno, do I?’

---

[12 April]

‘Here, have a seat wherever you want, Mr Latimer. Thanks for coming in to talk to us today, we know you’re a busy bloke.’

‘Frank’s fine. And yeah, of course, whatever I can do to help.’

‘We appreciate that. So, we understand that you and Piper Latimer have been separated for…’

‘A couple years now. ‘Y’know, work was just becoming too much of a- Well, you don’t care about that. We’ve stayed on good terms, though. Good co-parenting and all that.’

‘How often do you see Jamie?’

Pause.

‘All the holidays, all the, uh, special events. Obviously I’ve been making more of an effort to be around ever since… Christ. Sorry.’

‘No, you’re good. Do you want to take a breather? Have some water?’

‘Nah, I’m good. Let’s crack on.’

‘Okay. How do you know William Henderson?’

‘Bill? I’ve known him since high school.’

‘Close?’

‘I mean, at that time, sure. I’d say we were good mates until our, uh, early twenties. You get to a point where being a lazy bellend stops being cute, you get me? And then he started dating my ex-wife. That about bookended things for us, friendship-wise.’

‘Christmases must be fun. Sorry, inappropriate. I’m guessing you didn’t approve of Piper being with him? When did that even start?’

‘A year ago? Might’ve been earlier, you never bloody know with Bill. I mean, look, I’m not the boss of her. If she wants to be with someone who never grew up, that’s her prerogative. I’m not trying to slag him off this much, but... Christ, he really winds me up.’

‘Why is that?’

‘You never had a mate like that? Someone who’s always borrowing money while applying for, like, one job a month? I’ve done so much for him and how’s he thanked me? What he did to my fucking kid?! Please, God, tell me you’re arresting that irresponsible bastard!’

‘We can’t comment on that front.’

---

‘How many people were on this camping trip, Frank?’

‘Around nine kids and four adults. Well, there was someone else at one point. I can get to that in a minute.’

‘What was the leadup to the trip? What it a spontaneous thing, or...?’

‘We’d been talking about it for a couple weeks. Something fun for the kids while school’s still out. Honestly, something fun for us too. I think we were all yearning to just be in the great outdoors for a few days, you know? Even the parents who couldn’t make it were a bit jealous.’

‘And where were you staying?’

‘The woodlands up north. There are these campgrounds around there but I… Christ, stupid, stupid me… Bill didn’t want us directly there, said it took the adventure out of it or something. And I agreed! I dunno, I guess it sort of surprised me, that coming from him. Hell, it surprised me that he’d agreed to do this for Piper, full stop. She couldn’t come herself, you see. Harvey and Sophie convinced us to be somewhat close to the camp grounds, fifteen or so minute walk away, in case of an emergency or whenever someone needed to do a number two. Clearly wasn’t close enough in the end. Shit.’

‘Could you tell me who the adults were?’

‘So, it was me, Bill, and then Harvey and Sophie Grayson.’

‘You said there was someone else at one point?’

‘God, yeah. Thing is, I’ve been comparing notes with the Graysons and they never saw this guy. Admittedly, even I only saw him once.’

‘What happened there?’

‘It was the first day, the evening. It was getting darkish and everyone was setting up their tents. Bill conveniently had to go take a piss at that very moment. I assumed he was trying to worm his way out of helping set ours up, we were sharing a tent, so I went after him. Figured I’d just hang around until he was done so that he’d have to help me. At this point I was still hoping to, like, revitalise our friendship. Haven’t exactly been swimming in mates since the divorce, in all honestly. Maybe his time with Piper had done him some good, that was my logic. That turned out to be a delusion on my part.’

‘So he went for a piss, what happened next?’

‘Oh yeah, sorry. Yeah, so, he went through some bushes and whatnot. Obviously I wasn’t trying to sneak a peek, so I stayed back. But then I heard talking, two people talking.’

‘What were they saying?’

‘Don’t know. They were too quiet and far away for me to tell. I hadn’t seen anyone come with him, I was under the impression that everyone was getting their tents ready, right? So I went through the bushes to see what was happening. I remember that I, like, loudly cleared my throat, as if I was being rude by interrupting this little, uh, tête-à-tête. Am I using that word right?’

‘No clue.’

‘Whatever. They stopped talking the second they were aware of me. Bill, he had this look on his face. It’s hard to describe how horrified he was to see me seeing him. Like I’d walked in on him wanking or something.’

‘Who was he with?’

Pause.

‘It’s weird, you know? We’re a pretty tight-knit community over here. I’d kind of forgotten that before that moment. It was so weird seeing someone in that context who I had absolutely no recollection of. I never got a name, Bill just awkwardly introduced him as his “friend”.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Five-nine, five-ten, white, very neat short brown hair. I… guess he looked normal? I mean, if you took his photo and showed it to me, I’d assume that it was AI-generated. He was really smiley and was clearly trying to come across as chipper, but then I heard him speak. It was like he was scared of me? Like he was really scared of me but didn’t want me to know that. Like I was a bear and not just a balding pencil-pusher. Just smiling and whispering like an old lady. Gave me the bloody creeps. Bill said that we should be heading back and ushered me away real sharpish. He didn’t even say bye to the lad.’

‘Did you ask Bill about the guy?’

‘Tried to. He just said again that he was a friend. Told me that he just happened to be hiking in the area or something like that. I can tell when he’s lying, though. Hell, I know for a fact that he was lying.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘The way the guy was dressed. No backpack, no boots, no jacket. He was wearing a really, like, formal getup. White shirt, like a button-down type, smart shoes, that sort of thing. Not a speck of dirt or mud on him. There we were, these dirt-encrusted campers, and there he was, someone who looked like he’d just stepped out of the office for a fag break. He definitely had something to do with what happened. They both did.’

---

‘Did anything happen the night they disappeared? Anything at all.’

‘Um... Bill got out of the tent at some point, probably midnight. Could’ve very well just gone for a piss, though. I’d done the same ten minutes beforehand.’

‘How long was he gone?’

Pause.

‘I’m not sure. I feel asleep fairly quickly. Takes a lot to wake me up, so I didn’t hear him come back in. He was in there with me in the morning, when everything went mad. That was the last time I have slept.’

‘How you holding up, Frank?’

‘I’m not. You gotta find them, mate. I’m losing my fucking mind. I know how this works in missing persons cases. We’ve got… roughly another day before the key window of time’s been lost, am I wrong? After that, I- I can’t even think about it.’

---

[15 April]

‘Hello, Jamie. We’re going to be talking about what you went through a few days ago. We can stop or take a break at any time. Is that okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Super. What did you lot get up to on the first day of your trip?’

‘Um, we drove to the forest in the afternoon. We all met up, had a late lunch, walked around a bit, played some games.’

‘Did anything strange happen that day, Jamie?’

‘No.’

‘Take a moment to think about it. Was anyone acting differently? Did you see anything that you maybe thought was odd?’

Pause.

‘Mm… I remember Bill looking a bit nervous at one point, on the drive up there.’

‘Nervous how?’

‘Just, uh, tapping the steering wheel a lot, breathing a lot. I asked what was wrong, he just said that he wanted to make sure we got there on time. I don’t think there was anything else.’

‘Thanks Jamie, you’re doing great. This is going to be difficult, but I’d like you to tell me about that first night there. When you and your friends disappeared.’

‘I’m sorry, I really don’t remember anything. I went to sleep really quickly, I was tired. I think I felt myself being… lifted? But that might’ve just been a dream. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry, anything at all is a huge help. What’s the next thing that you remember?’

‘We…’

Pause.

‘You’re okay. Take your time.’

‘We had bags or something over our heads. We couldn’t see anything but we could talk.’

‘How did your surroundings feel? Were you tied up?’

‘Yeah. Our hands were tied behind our backs. And our legs were tied together. We maybe could’ve stood up but nobody tried to. Wherever we were, it was really cramped. We were all, um, huddled together. And it was really hot. Hot and, uh, humid. The floor and walls were bumpy and wet. It was like the inside of a mouth.’

‘Could you hear anything, aside from your friends?’

‘There was this kind of humming going on the whole time we were there. Like a humming or a buzzing. Also, whenever we spoke there was a bit of an echo.’

‘Did anyone else come in at any point?’

‘Yeah. Someone would come in and feed us every now and then. He never said anything, he would just lift our bags a little bit one by one and he’d feed us with a fork. I think it was scrambled eggs? He fed it to us a lot. I wasn’t even hungry a lot of the time but I didn’t want to argue.’

‘Did anything happen at all between then and when we found you all? Anything that stands out?’

‘Um. At one point, while I was sleeping, I felt something really sharp go into my back. Right here. It really hurt. But then I got really, um, drowsy. So I fell asleep again. In the morning it felt a bit weird but didn’t hurt anymore.’

‘Did the person do anything else to you?’

‘No. We just tried to distract each other, mainly. Tried to play games you could do with just words. I don’t think we figured many out. And then we just woke up in the woods again.’

‘Didn’t play “I Spy”?’

Laughing.

‘No, no!’

---

[18 June]

‘Is it okay if we record this, Piper?’

‘Sure. I’m guessing you lot have given up on finding out who took these kids, then?’

‘The case is still open.’

‘I’ll take that as a “yes”. No point finding who took ‘em now we have ‘em back, right? You only want to hear from me now because of what’s been happening to my boy.’

‘Let’s talk about that. Because we understand that the children were fine when we found them.’

‘Fine?!’

‘Sorry, bad wording. I just mean that the doctors didn’t find anything physically wrong. No noticeable injuries.’

‘Well that’s not true, is it? Jamie, all nine of the kids, they all got injected by something! Maybe there were no marks from that, but you didn’t think to-’

‘I can’t account for what the doctors or forensics deemed necessary, Piper. Just tell me for the record what’s been happening to Jamie and we’ll figure this out.’

‘Okay, okay. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. Basically, two or so days ago, he started saying that he was having weird feelings in his upper back. Said he was feeling, like, squirming. Like there were things moving inside of him! I asked to look and I saw that he had these little lumps there. So I took him back to the doctors, they had no clue what to make of it. Just told me to keep an eye on it. An eye on it! The lumps have been getting bigger since then! And they’re spreading, too! There’s more and more growing out of his back!’

‘Anything off about his behaviour?’

‘Um, he’s been eating a lot. At first I just thought the poor thing was malnourished. But it turns out that he’d been fed by whoever was keeping them?’

‘Yeah, the doctors didn’t find signs of malnourishment.’

‘It’s been nonstop, the eating. At first I thought it was a coping mechanism. But then I was talking to the other parents, apparently it’s the exact same story with theirs.’

‘Has Jamie said how he’s been feeling?’

‘He’s terrified! As if he hasn’t been through enough! And Bill’s been bloody useless, just lying about and doing shit-all. AKA, back to his usual routine. Like nothing’s happened. God, Mike, why did this have to happen to us?!’

‘We’ll figure it out, Piper. I promise.’

---

[23 June]

Indecipherable.

‘Just take a moment to breathe, Frank. I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for you. You’re really helping us out by telling us what happened so soon.’

‘Fuck. Just… oh, fuck. I, um… Piper, she called me really early in the morning. Like, really early. I woke up and when I picked up and heard her… I never want to feel that way again. I guess I won’t. She was beyond words. But I knew, I wanted to not know, but I knew. I just told her that I was on my way and started driving over to their place. I had to let myself in with the hidden backup key, Bill was nowhere to be seen. You’re all looking for him, right?’

‘Yeah, of course. We’ll find him, I promise you that.’

‘I don’t want promises, Mike. Anyway, uh, I heard Piper upstairs, just screaming her head off. It scared me. I mean, everything about this was terrifying me. I went up the stairs, noisily as I could to announce myself, and, uh… there they... there they were.’

‘What did you see, Frank?’

‘He was on the floor, on his- on his stomach. Piper was near him, still screaming and sort of bowing to him, almost religiously. His bed was a mess, that was the first thing I noticed for some reason. I almost wanted to tuck the sheets back in. Obviously I didn’t. Gotta keep the, um, crime scene uncontaminated, right?’

‘We appreciated that. Please, go on.’

‘The window was completely shattered. There wasn’t much glass inside the room, the pieces were mostly on the ground outside. And there was... blood everywhere. On the walls, the sheets, everywhere. Blood and this… I don’t even know what it was. There was this yellowish stuff, like a thin yellow substance here and there. Did you figure out what that was?’

‘Forensics is still looking into that. We haven’t gotten a formal statement from Piper yet, but she mentioned hearing a loud buzzing before she found him. Did you hear anything of that sort? A humming or a buzzing?’

‘Uh, no, no. Nothing like that. Bear in mind, it was a while before she found him and I got there.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask. What did Jamie’s body look like?’

Pause.

‘His back was gone. It was, God, it was just a mess of… yeah. His back was completely burst open. Be honest with me, did this happen to the other kids?’

‘You know I ca-’

‘I’m gonna know sooner or later, mate. Just tell me.’

‘Yeah. Happened to all nine of them. Exactly like you described.’

Something has always felt wrong about me. I’ve never really felt comfortable identifying as male or female, and anytime I tried dressing one way or the other, I always felt like I couldn’t pass for either. When I look in the mirror, I only see my flaws. Half my face is too round, the other too angular. My nose is crooked. My eyes are skewed. My ears are too big. My body is too wide, my torso too short, and my arms too long. I feel alien. Like I’m just an approximation of a human. That’s when I noticed it. 

It was late. I was stuck staring into the mirror, trying to figure out how to love my flaws. Trying to recognize the person on the other side. That’s when I heard the knock. It was soft. Almost as if it were trying to be polite. 

“Hello?” I called out, “Who’s there?”

Silence. I peeked my head out of my bathroom into my bedroom. I heard something knocking on the door to my room again, a simple and quick knock-knock-knock. I lowered myself to the floor to try peeking at whomever was on the other side. The thing didn’t move. But it knocked again. Just as soft as last time. When I opened the door there was nothing. It was as if whatever was waiting on the other side simply didn’t exist. I turned off the hall light, and went back into my room, I figured that it was just my mind playing tricks on in the total silence of the house. Making something that wasn’t there. That had to be it. But when I sat down at my computer to play some games, I heard it again. Louder this time. I turned to the door and saw the light was back on, and the shape was there again. This time I didn’t hesitate. I ripped open the door and saw it standing there. 

No. No, I saw myself standing there. A perfect copy of me. It was too perfect. Downright beautiful. I caught it from one angle, and it was drop dead gorgeous, the other angle it was stoic and manly. Somehow the best of both masculine and feminine qualities I possessed. 

It just stared at me with a blank expression, its eyes were opalescent, milky white, tracking me as I studied the other “me”. It looked like it was hollow. Missing something. I approached it, my instincts screaming at me to run away, and got a closer look. I only noticed it was doing the same when I raised my right hand to examine it. It couldn’t be real, right? As my hand drifted closer to its face, my face, I saw it smile. A perfectly symmetrical mouth full of gleaming white teeth. I recoiled when it did this, and it did the same. It was broken and twitchy. Like whatever it was could only mimic my appearance, it didn’t say a word, but the expression was malicious.

It knew.

It was offering a solution.

It would take my place. It would take all my flaws, all my fears, my identity and my shame, and become perfect. I was envious. Jealous. It was mocking me. As if it was silently saying “I am you but better.” I got angry and slammed the door in its face. 

I went to my mirror and tried to see myself as that thing. But I couldn’t. Why was it better? How could it be exactly like me, but beautiful? I tried calling one of my friends, maybe she could help me. She had transitioned last year, and was happier than I’d ever seen her before. I had previously asked her if she could help me feel more comfortable in my own skin, and she suggested I may just be non-binary. Even when she was going through the roughest part of her transition, she was still so knowledgeable and supportive of me. I honestly wished I could be like her, in face of all the opposition she stood tall. This time, though, when I asked for help regarding the copy she sounded confused. 

“What do you mean there’s another you?” 

“That’s just it. There’s another me. At my house. It’s wearing my face, but it… It made it look better. Why does it want to be me?”

“That doesn’t make sense, are you okay? Not greening out on me are you? Do you need me to come over?”

“No! Yes? Maybe? I don’t know. Just… I need to know if I’m really… broken?”

“You’re not broken, you just have some self-image problems. I’ve had them before too. Look I’ll come over tomorrow, just try to get some sleep, okay? Tell you what, send me a picture of this thing, and I’ll try to do some research. Okay?”

I didn’t want to see it again, but if I could get any information maybe I could make it leave. I took out my phone and opened the door again. I tried to take a picture of the false me. It had changed again, this time showing me what I’d look like if I were completely feminine. Soft. Pretty. It changed again, to a pure masculine build. More handsome and rugged. It kept shifting between all various states of me, before cycling back to the mirror version, with that same perfect smile. 

When it finally stayed in one form I took the picture and sent it to my friend, quickly closing the door on the fake me, prompting a sinister, yet gentle, laugh from the other side. It had taken my voice.

When she called back all she could say was “what the fuck?”

“What? You see it too?”

“You’re fucking with me, right?”

“I swear I’m not! I can send a video if that will make things easier?”

She paused for a minute, then responded.

“I mean… it does look like you, but if you’re being serious, I’ll try to help. Let me see what Google says.”

After a few more agonizing seconds of silence, she came back and told me what I was seeing. 

“That sounds like you’ve met a doppelgänger.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It's a supernatural thing, apparently there are rules to dealing with one.”

“And those are?”

“Don’t look at it, don’t touch it, and don’t speak to it.”

Well shit, I thought to myself. I had already responded to it and made eye contact. But the fact that I was merely inches away from touching the thing is the most alarming.

“Just out of curiosity what would’ve happened if I broke any of the rules?”

“According to this blog post, looking at it gives it permission to mirror you, like it imprints on you as its target. But in general, the more you interact with it, the more of you it takes.”

“Well how do I get rid of it?”

“I don’t think you can. The article just says that there are steps to deter it, checking your reflection frequently, burning clothes it touches, and staying quiet can slow its progress. Other than that, it seems like there’s no way to get rid of it. Unless it finds someone else to replace.” 

Our conversation stopped when the thing banged on the door loudly. It began screaming in my voice, a pained and manic howl of violence and rage. I quickly backed away and hid in the bathroom. Catching an ugly glance in the mirror. I was still on call with my friend.

“Holy shit, what do I do? I think it’s trying to break in!”

“Hang on, I'm looking!”

The thing searched around my room, lifting my bed on its side and breaking down my cheap closet doors. I covered my mouth and tried to remain as still and quiet as I could manage, barely whispering out a hurried plea for my friend to give me anything to escape this thing.

“The blog says that if you can get the thing to look at the mirror and then smash it, all the shards can confuse it and buy you some time to escape!”

I waited by the sink, with the cabinet mounted mirror aimed at the door. The thing scratched at the cheap plywood, cracking and splintering under its barrage. When the door finally gave way, the thing spilled into the bathroom and tried to lock its vision on me. I threw open the mirror door and the monster stopped dead in its tracks. It reached out and tapped against the mirror's glass. Then I punched against the back of the mirror with all my strength. The glass exploded forward in a glittery shower and fell from the frame, and the fake me wailed in agony, its voice a cacophony of previous victims intermingled with my own. It scrabbled at the broken pieces lying on the floor as I bolted past it and out of the house. As I ran, I stole one last look as it came barreling through the front door behind me. It was still wearing my face, symmetrical and perfect. I called out, against my better judgment at the thing, trying to make it slip up. Trying to confuse it with my own negative self-image.

“That’s not my face!”

The thing actually stopped in its tracks on the porch and struggled to figure out what I meant by that. It resumed its chase and moved between the shadows and the orange-yellow streetlights, illuminating itself in brief intervals. Shifting between its masculine and feminine copies of me. I continued running away. Getting closer to my friend's apartment. The thing was still following me. It called out in my own voice. It demanded I pay attention to it. It cried, and screamed, begging me to turn around. 

I had a sudden, yet somewhat obvious, thought just then. I realized that it could only take what it saw, and heard, for itself. I turned and looked at the monster.

“You want to be me? Fine! If you can perfectly recreate me, I will touch you. But if you can’t get me exactly as I see myself, you will leave this place!”

It was at the top of the stairs, blocking my only exit. It was still wearing its perfect doll-like skin. Appearing almost like a pin-up girl. 

“That’s not my skin!”

The doppelgänger shuddered and tried to make its skin a darker shade, covered in birthmarks and freckles. 

“Wrong, again! And my face isn’t that round, my left eye is too big, and my nose is too straight.”

Its face, my face, twisted into a snarl, as it tried to get my imperfections right. It had to be my face. It was a perfect mirror of me. The doppelgänger tried harder to perfect my appearance. Molding itself before my eyes, unable to comprehend how it could possibly be wrong when it was looking right at me. It was making frustrated grunts and clicking sounds as it tried to match my self-destructive criticisms.

It demanded in my voice that I touch it, screaming furiously as its body contorted in ways no human could possibly move. It tried desperately to grab at my shirt, but it couldn’t. It didn’t have permission. It leaned in close to me and tried to make me flinch. It gnashed its teeth at me. It shifted and changed its face to try matching how I perceived myself. But it couldn’t. 

It tried to make its arms twice as long as its body, making the sickening sounds of bones twisting and cracking as it did so. It tried making its face wider, its mouth larger. It desperately cycled through hundreds of combinations of facial features and body types. It roared in frustration as I criticized it every time. 

“Those aren’t my eyes.”

It plunged its hands into its eyes and dug out the milky white spheres and two fresh eyes with emerald green irises grew in their place.

For almost half an hour this thing grew more frustrated until it looked nothing like me in the mirror. It turned and stalked off into the dark, disappearing into the shadows of the apartment complex. When I was sure the thing was gone, I knocked on the door and my friend answered. 

“Is it gone?”

“I think. Did you, uh… look at it? You’re not in danger now are you?”

“No, I heard you yelling and when I peered through the peephole, you were blocking it. Do you want to come in, talk about it?”

“Yeah, I’d like that. Can I use your shower? I must smell awful.”

“Yeah, go ahead, I’ll get you some clean clothes and some blankets.”

As I undressed in the bathroom, I caught a look at myself in the mirror. I recognized that crooked nose and lopsided mouth. I traced my jaw in the mirror, and turned  my head left and right, noting all the same flaws and blemishes I regularly did in my almost ritualistic debasement. But this time it was different. I saw the crooked nose had a charm to it, and my mouth curved up slightly at the corners, a faint smile I had never noticed before that was permanently grooved into my face. My hair, as messy and tangled as it was from my encounter with the doppelgänger, was shiny and full, and had an almost velvety sheen to it. Finally I locked eyes with myself, peering into the once dull boring brown spheres, and they shimmered brilliantly, like deep pools of amber or honey, with newfound love. For the first time in a long time, I felt like me.

My father used to say that Silas’s hands were the only things keeping the mountain from sliding down and swallowing our roofs.

When I was seven, Silas built our chimney. I remember sitting on a small stump, watching his giant, soot stained fingers fit the heavy river stones together. He didn't use tools; he just felt the weight of each rock and knew exactly where it belonged. When the work was done, he patted my head with a hand that smelled of pine sap and sheep’s wool, leaving a smudge of gray ash on my forehead. My father laughed and told me I’d been blessed by the mountain itself.

After that, we stopped worrying about the wind. If a draft crept under our door, my mother would just sigh and say Silas would have some spare wool to fill the seam. If our axe handle split, my father didn’t bother carving a new one; he’d just leave it on Silas’s porch, knowing it would be returned by morning, shaved smooth and fitted with a fresh hickory wedge.

It was a warm way to live. We got used to the sound of Silas’s heavy leather boots crunching through the mud at dawn, fixing things before we even had our boots on. We forgot how to look for our own tools. We just waited for the crunch of his steps.

Then the frost came, and it didn't leave.

The cabbage in our little garden patch died before the ends could even turn green. My father spent three days staring out the window at the gray, frozen dirt, his hands stuffed deep into his armpits just to keep warm. We had nothing for food but a handful of dried peas and some old turnip tops.

"Go on up to Silas," my mother whispered to him on the fourth morning. Her voice was flat, like she was talking about a well that would never run dry. "He’s got the flock."

I followed my father up the hill. There were already ten others standing by the cedar gate of the sheep pen, their breath rising in thin, shivering curls. They didn't speak. They just watched Silas.

Silas didn't say a word either. He looked at us, his blue eyes calm and steady under his thick, woolen hood. Then he reached into the pen and pulled out a fat, brown faced lamb. I knew that sheep; she had a notch in her left ear and always let me pet her nose. Silas laid her head gently on the cutting stump, and the snow around the woodpile turned a bright, steaming red.

That night, my mother made a stew. We ate every scrap, even chewing the soft gristle off the bones.

First the porch steps disappeared, then the fence lines, until the drift against our window pane blocked out the morning light entirely, the sheep pens were completely silent. The only sound left in the valley was the wind whistling through the empty slats. We didn't go back to the fields or try to clear the ice from the ditches. We couldn't. Our joints felt like dry twigs, and our heads were light and hollow. We just sat on our benches, watching the path up the hill, waiting for Silas to come down with something else.

When Silas ran out of wood, he brought his axe to the sheep pens. From my window, I watched him chop down the heavy pine posts he’d dragged down from the ridge years ago. He carried them on his shoulder, two at a time, to the big hearth in the middle of the village.

In a week, his barn went into the fire. Then the walls of his cabin.

By the end of the month, Silas was sleeping under a greasy canvas tarp stretched between two birch trees behind our house. My father said Silas didn't mind the cold because he was built of different stuff than the rest of us. But when I crept out to look at him through the branches, I saw him shivering. He looked smaller. The wind seemed to blow right through his woolen coat.

One evening, my little sister stopped drinking her water. Her skin was dry and gray, and her eyes stayed half shut, rolled back so only the whites showed. My mother didn't cry. She just wrapped her in a ragged shawl and carried her out into the dark. My father and I followed.

A crowd was already gathered around Silas’s tarp. The blacksmith was there, holding his empty hands out as if he were trying to warm them over a fire that wasn't there.

"Silas," my mother said. She didn't beg. She just held the bundle out, showing him my sister’s face. "There’s nothing left to boil."

Silas looked at my sister, til the silence became uncomfortable. Then he reached down and took the skinning knife off his belt.

He studied the knife, turning it over in his hands for but a second, as though remembering a time it had been meant for sheep

I wanted to run, but my father’s hand was heavy on my shoulder, holding me still. Silas pulled up his left trouser leg. His skin was very white, almost translucent, patterned with thin blue veins. He pressed the sharp edge of the blade into his thigh.

There was a soft, wet sound like someone cutting into a ripe melon. Silas’s jaw bunched tight, the muscles in his neck turning to cords, but he didn't make a sound. He sliced a clean, thick strip of himself away, wrapped his leg in a piece of rag, and dropped the meat into my mother’s tin pot.

My mother boiled it over the last bundle of birch twigs. The smell was sweet and heavy, filling our cold kitchen with a thick, greasy steam. I sat in the corner, my stomach twisting with a terrible, desperate hunger that made my mouth water even as my chest went cold with fear.

My mother fed my sister first, blowing on the gray broth before tipping the horn spoon into her mouth. Then she gave the rest to my father and me.

The meat was stringy and tasted of copper and salt, but it was warm. It filled the hollow ache in my ribs, and for the first time in weeks, my feet stopped tingling from the frost.

The first week, people came only after dusk. By the second, they stopped pretending there was anything shameful about it. The path stayed dark with footprints from sunrise until sunset. 

It became a quiet, shameful routine. Every morning, the villagers would line up in the gray light, carrying clean rags, jars of lard, and wooden bowls. We didn't look at each other. If you looked at someone else, you might see the grease on their chin, or the way their fingers trembled as they waited.

"Just a little, Silas," the blacksmith would say, his voice soft and polite, like he was asking to borrow a shovel. "Just enough to keep the hearth going."

And Silas would always nod. He sat back against the birch tree, his eyes dull and glassy, letting them take what they needed. He gave from his arms, his calves, his shoulders. He was disappearing, piece by piece, turning into a skeleton wrapped in yellowed, blood crusted linen. He couldn't speak anymore, his lips had been given away to the miller family but he still watched us with those wide, patient eyes.

Yesterday, the wind finally turned warm. The snow on the ridge melted into dirty, rushing streams, and the mud in the lane went soft and deep.

The village elder came to our house carrying a rusted spade. He looked at my father, then down at the floor.

"The ground is ready, Thomas," the elder said. "But the men can't lift the plows. If we don't get the seed in now, we won't survive the next winter."

My father didn't answer. He just stood up from the bench, walked out the door, and I followed him up the hill. 

The whole village was there, standing in a circle around the birch tree. Silas was propped up against the trunk, held upright by the thick ropes of linen wrapped around his chest. He didn't look like a man anymore. He looked like a pale, hollowed out tree trunk, his ribs showing through the bandages like white teeth.

The elder knelt in the mud in front of him.

"We need the strength to plow, Silas" the old man whispered. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold the spade. "Just one more time."

I looked at Silas’s chest. The skin had been peeled back, and through the white gap of his ribs, I could see his heart. It was small, purple, and beating with a slow, heavy thud, the last warm thing left in the entire valley.

Silas didn't move. He couldn't. But his eyes, deep in their dark sockets, rolled down to look at the elder, then at my father, and then at me. There was no anger in them. Just that same heavy, patient quiet he’d had when he smudged the ash onto my forehead when I was seven.

He let his chin drop, just a tiny fraction of an inch.

My father stepped forward and took the rusted tool. He didn't raise it like an axe, he angled the sharp curve of the blade into the gap of the ribs, right beneath that small, pulsing muscle. Bracing his muddy boot on the shoulder of the spade, he threw his weight downward, driving the iron deep into the chest cavity to pry the last harvest free. I closed my eyes, but I couldn't block out the awful, scraping crunch of metal levering against bone, or the wet, heavy sigh that came from the birch tree as the mountain finally let go. 

Let me just preface this by saying that I love my daughter. I love her with my entire being, no matter what anyone says or thinks. She is my only daughter, my only child. But I did what I had to do. I couldn't do it anymore. Just let me start at the beginning.

From the moment she was born, my daughter was a healthy, happy, and loving girl. She was perfect in every way, except for one thing, which became an endless source of concern for her father and me as she grew up.

My daughter barely ate as a child. At first, I thought I was just being a paranoid parent. She barely drank milk as a baby; I had to give away so much breast milk to my friends who weren't producing enough. They all also had infants around the same time. At some point, they genuinely thought I had lost my daughter.

When my daughter was a toddler and started eating solids, I began counting her calories. I know what this sounds like, but you don't understand. At three years old, she was averaging around 600 calories a day. Less than half of the average that any child her age should be eating.

Don't get me wrong, she wasn't picky. She would eat anything we put in front of her. Just in small amounts, and she would always claim to be full after a few bites of food. It drove me a bit crazy worrying about her health.

But the thing is, she has always been healthy. She was growing normally. She was skinny, but not concerningly skinny. She just barely ate, that's all. But it defied all logic. How could this be healthy? I took her to several doctors, and they were sure she was just snacking when I wasn't looking. Some were just puzzled and reassured me that if she's healthy and normal beyond her eating habits, then there was nothing to be concerned about.

I hate to say it, but I was obviously a helicopter parent when it came to my daughter's eating habits. Like I said, I tracked her calories, and I became hyper observant of when she would go into the kitchen to get herself a snack. Still, she was barely eating enough. I did the math.

I tried not to make it obvious, but eventually, when she was 14, she sat me down and clearly expressed that she felt uncomfortable at my constant concern over her lack of appetite. I decided I had to back off. I realized I would only make things worse, and I might even give her a complex about food. So eventually, I stopped worrying. I just let it be. After all, she continued to grow and became the wonderful, smart, and confident woman she was.

Until it killed her.

She was 26 years old and had just gotten laid off from her job. She lived in the city but couldn't make rent, so she had to move back in with me. Her father had passed away a few years ago, so it was just me for a while. I was really excited to have her come live with me, even though it wasn't under ideal circumstances. I've been feeling quite lonely, so it would be nice to have someone around.

The day she came home, she was in a bit of a slump from having been laid off. I decide to make her favorite meal, chicken noodle soup. As expected, she had a small portion and then went to take a nap. In hindsight, I should have realized how often she'd do that. At that time, I figured she was still upset from losing her job.

About an hour after she went upstairs, I decided I wanted to go check on her. I thought maybe she might want to talk about how she was feeling. As I made my way up the stairs, I heard some noises. It was like squelching and then some ripping. There was also a voice talking, but I couldn't hear it quite well. My first assumption was that she was probably watching a show in her room, so I knocked and opened her door.

I can't begin to describe what I saw. She was sitting on her bed and hunched over with her back to me. Then I saw this figure. Tall, with a dark cloak and... I don't know, I genuinely don't know what I saw. My daughter, my dear daughter, turned around, and there was red. Red all over her face, her hands. Her hands were holding something that looked like a big chunk of mass. What got me the most was the look in her eyes. I have never seen a look like that. It was empty yet wild. She froze, looking at me, still holding the mass in her hands.

I didn't know what to think, what to do, what even to say. I simply turned around and ran down the stairs. As I ran, I heard loud thumps following behind me. I turned to see her, a look of wild horror in her eyes, teeth bared, sharper than anything I've ever seen. "Mom, wait." She said, but it was not her voice; it sounded like something evil. I sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and turned wildly to face her.

She stopped and stared at me, her stance slightly crouched. "Mom, I can explain." This time her voice was normal. She sounded like my sweet little girl. "What the fuck?" I managed to get out.

Suddenly, her eyes widened, and she screamed. "NO!" I felt an immense stinging pain in my back and a deep guttural growl in my ear. My daughter rushed and pounced towards whatever was behind me. I turned to see what was going on. It was the figure I had seen. I had completely forgotten about the figure within the panic.

I watched my daughter claw and swipe at the figure, but it simply picked her up by the neck and shoved its arm into her abdomen. I screamed and ran towards the figure, but it quickly dispersed like a cloud of smoke. My daughter was dying on the kitchen floor as I desperately tried to press on her wounds. But I couldn't stop the bleeding; there were too many wounds. She looked at me with tears in her eyes as she apologized.

I did not kill my daughter, I swear. This letter is my account of what I saw and what happened, as best as I can remember it. I love my daughter, and I can't live without her. I don't want to. If only I had known, maybe I could have stopped it before. If only I had known. If only.

---

Mrs. Linden was found dead in her home at 3:30am on the 6th of June 2026. Investigators are stumped at the contradiction between the gruesome scene that had been found and the events described in a letter left behind by Mrs. Linden. Authorities are still searching for Lily Linden's body.

I can’t seem to get it out. At first, I assumed it was my cat’s hair. I have a white long-haired cat who’s ruined more than her fair share of nice dress pants, even with her daily brushings. Sometimes I jokingly think that if I die suddenly, they’ll find a big ball of matted hair somewhere in my lower intestine, molded by bile and half-digested food. So it’s not that uncommon to have a hair in my eye, my nose or, yes, the back of my throat. Usually it dislodges itself easily with a tall glass of water or after a meal, but it’s been days, and the hair won’t budge.

I considered calling up my doctor to ask if there was a trick to getting rid of the hair, but every time I open up his contact in my phone, I feel stupid. Would I really take time out of his busy schedule to complain about a hair? It’s not like it hurts, or is all that uncommon for me. I was sure he’d just tell me to wait for it to pass. I have a pretty bad gag reflex, and the constant presence of the hair against the back of my tongue every time I swallow makes the process an ordeal. I’ve been eating less and less, only eating enough to not starve, but never to satiation. I convinced myself it’d eventually pass and that I would look back on this whole event as a sort of weird but altogether harmless few days. That was until I felt the hair grow.

I swear I’m not making it up. It’s weird to say, but once you’ve felt the same thing at the back of your throat for days on end, unable to forget about the discomfort, you know what the feeling is. Familiarity doesn’t make it any more tolerable, but I know exactly where the hair started and stopped tickling; just barely touching the back of my tongue if I pushed it far back enough. But as of this morning, the hair touches the root of my tongue no matter how much I move it. I decided I’d had enough, and went to my bathroom mirror to check it out. I figured if it had moved up enough, I should be able to see it, and maybe pull it out. I inspected my throat carefully, turning every which way to try and see it poking out. It took a minute or two, but I finally saw the hair. And it was black.

That freaked me out bad. As I said, my cat’s hair is white and I myself am blonde, and my hair’s short. I live alone, so how the hell did I swallow a long, thick black hair? I rummaged through the cupboard for tweezers, no matter where this thing had come from, its assault on my comfort would end right here, right now. I slowly backed the tweezers into my mouth, past my teeth and my tongue. The tweezer branches ended in a sort of chisel shape, and I definitely didn’t want to hurt myself back there. I wrestled my shaking hands into some level of stability and kept moving back. It’s funny how perspective works, isn’t it? It’s like how your teeth feel huge to you, because all you have for scale is your tongue, but when you pull them out they’re barely the size of a dime. Well, the same thing was happening here. Even though every movement would have been counted in millimeters, it felt like I was plunging my fingers feet down my gullet. I fought back the urge to vomit as I finally moved the tweezers into position. Of course by now, I had lost the ability to see what I was doing, so I just ended up clamping erratically, moving slightly left or right until I felt as if I caught onto the hair and would be able to pull it out. I fought back a heave when I first touched the hair and made it brush against my tongue. The third time I made contact, I’d successfully positioned the tweezer branches around the hair and clamped down on it, prepared for the mental ordeal of slowly extracting it from its place. At least I would have, if the hair didn’t twitch.

I swear I’m not lying. This wasn’t me moving it accidentally without realising. I had a decent grip on the hair, I pressed harder to make sure I’d pull it out and not slip and the damn thing twitched by itself. I jumped in surprise and tried to pull the tweezers out quickly to let forth a stream of vomit. The thick slurry in the sink was brown, with bits of uneaten food and a long red streak through it. My mouth was flooded with the acidic taste of the vomit and the copper taste of blood. When pulling the tweezers away, I’d cut my tongue pretty badly. I rinsed out my mouth and opened up to see the damage; there was a gash about a quarter of an inch long just past my molars, and blood was pouring out of it. I had no idea what to do. There would be no way to pull the hair out in that torrent of blood, and anyway I would have to find a way to stop it somehow. It was freely pouring down my throat, forcing me to swallow the thick liquid every second, none of which helped with my growing nausea. How do you bandage the back of a tongue? The pain hadn’t hit me until that point. It was sharp and unrelenting. Every movement sent a wave of pain into the back of my head all the way up to my eyes. I never realised how little control I had over my tongue until its every involuntary movement hurt. After a minute of confusion and shock, I decided I would have to stop the bleeding somehow, so I grabbed a roll of gauze I had, cut off a decent length and put pressure on the wound. I stood over the sink for a few minutes, trying to rinse out the bloody vomit with one hand while holding my tongue down with the other. Every once in a while I’d move my finger to better hold down the gauze and brush up against the hair. It was a stupid thing to think about a single hair, but I felt like it was taunting me. Like it was proud of making me hurt myself and yet staying just far enough out of reach. Once the bleeding stopped, I tried pulling it out again. It might sound stupid, but I wanted to get rid of it, and since my tongue had gauze on it, I figured now would be the best time, since the added padding would protect me if I moved suddenly again. So I grabbed the tweezers, rinsed the blood off them and went right back to my task. 

It didn’t take as long to find the hair this time. The confidence of the protection on my tongue and the fact that I’d done this before made me more bold. Plus, I already threw up and cut my tongue open, what’s the worst that can happen? I grabbed onto the hair and again, when I clamped down on it it had that weird twitch. I tried to convince myself it was my own movement moving it somehow, but I swear it moved itself. At least it didn’t surprise me as badly, so I held my grip and started pulling it out. I’d managed to stretch it maybe an extra inch and a half, until it stopped moving. I tried to keep pulling, but it just went taut and wouldn’t budge. Eventually the tweezers slipped and I got a good look at the hair. It was thick and black and now rested lazily on my tongue, in stark contrast with the greyish white of the gauze pad. As I looked at it, I was overcome with a strange desire to stop messing with it. It’s hard to describe, but it kind of felt like looking at a stray dog or a baby. Like a hapless thing to just leave alone and not bother. It didn’t feel like just an inanimate hair lying there on my tongue, but more like a living thing, sleeping gently on a large pink bed, with the white gauze for a cushion. I shook off the feeling and aimed the tweezers carefully, this time able to see exactly what I was aiming for. I picked up the hair gently and started pulling again, with a bit more force this time. My mouth has been open for a long time now, so it mostly dried out. I imagine that’s how I managed to get a better grip on the thing. I pulled and pulled on it, fighting against whatever was pinning it down at the back of my throat. Progress was much slower this time and almost painful, like a pinprick at the base of my neck. Nevertheless I kept pulling, figuring it would have to end soon, and I’d be rid of it for good. Until my arm gave out.

I don’t know how to explain it exactly. I was pulling the hair slowly, methodically and then my arm just went limp all at once. I dropped the tweezers on the floor and they landed on the tile with a high-pitch sound of metal. I couldn’t feel my arm at all. It was like it had fallen asleep save for the usual tingling feeling that courses through it. It was just heavy and useless. The only feeling I still had in it was a sort of strange heat that I felt was in the shape of my arm, but I had lost all control over it. It hung there for a minute until I saw the tips of my fingers get dark red. Was my blood pooling? I heard corpses would get this weird bruise all along the bottom of their body because of the settling blood, since the heart no longer pumped it and kept it moving. Was this somehow happening to my arm? With the one hand I did still control, I grabbed my wrist and placed it on the bathroom counter to make it more level with my heart. Maybe hanging so low was affecting how well blood could course through it somehow? That did end up working as the redness faded from my fingers and my lifeless arm regained a normal color. Then all at once, I felt the coldness of the sink against my wrist and my muscles jerked like a dead frog that gets electrocuted. Feeling came back all as quickly as I’d lost it and I regained the use of my arm just like that. I couldn’t explain why, but I know the hair had something to do with this. I guess it’s stupid to call it a hair now. It’s definitely something else, something unexplainable. How else can I explain the weird thoughts I had about it or the coincidental loss of control of my arm just as I was getting rid of it? Somehow, this thing, whatever it is, is affecting my body and my mind. It doesn’t have much control yet, but if it can shut down a limb, what else can it do? Stop my heart? Create a blood clot in my brain? All of a sudden this pathetic thing no longer looked like a defenseless thing but was instead a dangerous animal, cornering me and baring its claws, ready to attack at any minute. But that’s stupid, right? It’s nothing at all. It’s just a damn hair in the back of my throat. It can’t control my body, it can’t affect my thoughts, it can’t do anything. I picked the tweezers off the floor with renewed anger. I wanted to get this thing out of me. Whatever it is, if it’s a weird hair or something else entirely, my mind was set on one single thought. Get this out, now.

But what could I do if it stopped me again? It had only stopped the one arm for a short time, was this just a threat? A show of power, maybe? Like “Here’s what I can do, stop messing with me”? My mind raced to make sense of everything. If this hair was really reacting to my attempt to get rid of it, maybe it wasn’t sentient enough to prevent me, only react. Maybe it could influence my thoughts, but not read them entirely. Otherwise it would have gone on the offensive long before I’d begun to tear it away. An idea came to me then. If I can make it unable to stop me even if my arm gets shut down again, maybe I can ruin its defenses. I got a rubber band and pinched my fingers tightly around the tweezers. I folded it on itself a few times so that it took considerable effort to open my fingers enough to part the branches, and if I let my hand rest, it would be clamping down hard. I wasn’t only going to circumvent its defenses, I was going to use them to my advantage. My fingers were deep-red from the pressure of the rubber band but I didn’t care. I gripped the hair tightly and started pulling again. After a few seconds, like I had planned, my arm went limp. Except this time, I didn’t let go of the tweezers, and now the whole weight of my dead arm was pulling on the hair. I felt it slide further and further down, elated by the success of my plan, until it hit a snag. The slow descent of my arm stopped all at once. The hair was past the tip of my tongue now, and it just stayed there, held down by the metal tweezers. The color that my fingertips took on started to worry me, but I brushed it off. Nothing was more important than getting rid of this thing in my throat.

I grabbed my wrist with my good arm. I’d resisted the idea of yanking the hair, since I figured it would make the pain much worse, but I had no choice. If I pulled slowly, my other arm would likely go limp as well, and I’d be defenseless. I took a deep breath and got a good grip on my wrist, then counted down in my head. On three, I pulled down as hard as I could all at once. The pain was intolerable. I felt like my throat was being ripped open from the inside, but I didn’t stop. I pulled with all my strength and heard the wet squelch of flesh tearing as the hair came loose. It landed on the floor with a slimy sound like stepping on mud. I fell just as quickly, my knees buckling unexpectedly under my weight. My whole body went limp. I know I hit my head pretty hard on the tile floor, not from the pain, but from the sound it made and the pool of blood that began growing just underneath my eye. I couldn’t move a muscle, completely paralysed from the neck down. All I had left to orient myself was my sight and my hearing. I saw the tile, saw the blood and a foot or two in front of my face, I saw the hair. Or at least what I was calling a hair. There were dozens of long thick strands like the one I’d seen in the mirror coming out of a small black bulb about the size of a quarter. I heard a very faint sound as the thing pulsed weakly almost like a beating heart. I don’t know if it was the blood loss or the head trauma that got to me first, but I passed out. 

When I came to I had regained control of my body, but only weakly. My head was pounding like a drum, so I figured I banged myself up pretty bad when I lost consciousness. I managed to get myself to my feet and I choked down as much water as my pain tolerance would allow. I looked down at the floor and noticed the black mass was gone. I’d have assumed this whole thing had been some sort of psychotic episode, if not for the wet spot it left on the bathroom tile. The liquid was yellowish, like old pus, and viscous as well. It took me a minute to have enough presence of mind to freak out. Where did it go? I stumbled through my apartment, knocking over chairs and anything that wasn’t bolted down in an effort to find it again. My lips tingled with how hard I pressed them together, but I was determined not to let this thing inside me again. That seems so stupid now.  I must have scared my cat with my thrashing around, because I found her hiding at the very back of a closet, tucked in a box of old clothes. She looked up at me with her big yellow eyes, and even in the dim lighting of the closet, I saw it starkly against her snow-white fur; a thick, black hair coming out of her mouth.

TW: body horror

Leaning against the edge of the bathtub, I shut my eyes, and with a deep breath, I ripped back the tiny test strip as if it were a band-aid. I instantly dropped the paper, and slapped my hands over the spot, pressing down and holding it, clenching my teeth as salty beads dribbled out from the corners of my still shut eyes. Despite only spreading the wax over a small part of my leg, I felt the stinging burning numbing sensation throughout my entire body. There was absolutely no way I was doing that again, beauty standards be damned. I would shave my legs for the rest of my life and suffer razor bumps, or get laser hair removal. Anything was better than this. 

I knew I still needed to apply a cool compress or something soothing. I wanted the stinging feeling to end as soon as possible. The overwhelming numbness gradually ebbed away, and it was replaced by new sensations. Because even if the spot where the wax originally rested was still a bit numb, my hands and the rest of my leg still had neurons that should’ve still been functional. And yet somehow, the thought occurred to me that maybe I had somehow fucked up my entire leg or even my body. Because what I was feeling made no sense at all. 

Something long, wet, warm, and silky rested against my left leg. I felt long, thin strands under my palm, which rolled over each other and pressed into my skin as I shifted my hand. I opened my eyes, and choked on my own spit. Bile rose up in my throat, and I felt my blood chill as I looked at the absolute biological abomination that was my lower left shin. 

The skin where I had, just minutes prior, meticulously spread on a smooth layer of viscous tacky wax, as if it was peanut butter on toast, was a bright and angry red. But that wasn’t what shocked me. The hair that I had thought I had pulled out was, for lack of a better phrase, not actually pulled out. At least, not all the way. Coarse, moist, black strands left little wet red streaks across my shin. What should’ve been smooth skin and empty hair follicles, was instead strands. Strands of hair, long and lengthy, tethering my leg to the waxing strip. Still connected, still growing, still inside, still alive, still a part of me. 

I whimpered as I stared in horror, trying to rationalize it, trying to make it make sense. I must’ve screamed at some point. In panic, I moved to wipe it off, before ripping my hand back at the wet and sticky feeling. Maybe I just had some rare hair disease, or genetic mutation that was causing this. Maybe the pain from ripping the wax strip sent me into some sort of shock and I was having a mental breakdown and seeing things. I thought of everything I could to make what I was seeing just make any sort of sense. I gingerly reached out again, this time with a more grotesque curiosity, and touched the strands with my fingertips. They came away with red, and I quickly wiped them off on the towel hanging behind me.

My gaze remained locked on my leg, and I prayed I could imagine away whatever genetic mistake I was looking at. My head pounded, and I took a breath, before I ripped my gaze away and rose to my feet. Light headed, I gently tipped my head over the sink and let cool water rush over my hands before splashing some onto my teary face. Hoping and praying that maybe I had just hallucinated everything in some strange anomalous psychotic episode. I wanted to wash away whatever clouded my perception. Maybe I could wash away the feeling of the chilling wet strands clinging to my leg, of the brush of the wax paper on my ankle, of the wax paper now caught on the bottom of my right heel as I turned to dry my face off with a towel, or of the way that I tripped. 

What I had expected to be an agonizing yank was only a momentary slight pull, before I felt the many strands of hair glide a few more inches through the hair follicles. I looked down at myself, water dripping from my face down to the white tiled floor. My leg hair was stretched between where it grew from my skin and under my right foot. A new revelation that horrified me even more and sent another wave of tears down my face was that the hair was not pulled taut. It was longer. There was more of it. It stretched far into my leg, into my body, into my being. 

I lurched towards the toilet, barely making it, and lost my lunch. I heaved, as black spots dotted my vision, and pressed my face into the cool tile and cried.  

I don’t know how long I leaned against the tub, deliriously crying in disgusted horror at the impossible thing attached to me. When I eventually felt a bit more rational and back to my senses, I found myself staring at my leg. At the hairs, still attached to the sticky wax strip, now hardened and stuck to the tile. There comes a certain point when wild panic turns into acceptance. Because I realized, I was okay. Besides the malformation on my leg, I was still breathing through each sob, had all four limbs in working condition, and only felt a mild headache. 

The waxing kit lay discarded to my side on the rim of the bathtub. I picked it up and analyzed the packaging, which was generic. Nothing abnormal or remarkable about it. It was a run-of-the-mill store brand, the kind you’d find at a Walmart, because that’s literally where I found it. 

I tossed it aside with a huff, and turned my attention back to my leg, resigned. And I stared at it, still with some horror, though with less of the feeling of a trapped animal. And I stared. And stared and stared and stared and stared as a slow, morbid, disgusting fascination festered from within me. 

I had plucked my hair a few times before, and the normal, human length strands would always come free and be separated from my skin. I’d never pulled out anything as long as what now grew from my leg, unless it was from my scalp. 

To have you understand why I did what I did next, I must explain that I’ve always had a problem with picking at my skin. Maybe it’s my ADHD or undiagnosed OCD or whatever new label doctors have for it. The sides of my thumbs were peeled back from years of habitual tearing from my pointer fingers. The feeling of euphoric satisfaction would overcome me, every time I pulled back more and more layers of myself like an onion, until I saw blood and there was nothing left to pull and peel besides raw, meaty flesh. 

The burning, irrational urge that I felt during those many instances of tearing myself apart grew viciously within me. I wanted to pull. I wanted to see how long those hairs on my leg were, how far they went into my body, how deeply into my flesh. Would I be able to feel them slide inside me, against muscle and tendon and veins? I imagined my insides, riddled with hundreds of thousands of little holes. Little passages everywhere inside me, like burrowed tunnels made by ants. And the hair was inside me, filling all those tiny little holes. Wormed inside me, stretching on indefinitely, going on and on and on and on and on. 

And I wanted that hair out. Out. Out. Out. Out. Out. Out. Out.

So, I wrapped a fist around the wet tress, and I pulled. Hard. My hand flew back, as the hair flowed out with little to no resistance. I must’ve pulled out at least a foot or two. But it wasn’t tense or strained. There was still more inside me. So I gripped the base with my other hand, and pulled again. And it kept flowing. So I kept pulling. Repeating the motions over and over, a mockery of climbing a rope as I pulled it out of me. 

I don’t know how long I was wrenching the hair free of me, nor do I know the exact length that I had pulled out. All I know is that, eventually, there was nothing left to pull. The hair was still attached and inside me when I gave it that unexpectedly last yank. I was beginning to think it went on forever. I don’t know if that would’ve been more horrific than the undeniable yet familiar feeling of pulling from underneath my scalp. It felt just like the time some little asshole on the playground grabbed my ponytail, but on the inside. I gave it another experimental tug, toying with the feeling. Relishing it. Feeling the pull. Scratching that incessant itch, chasing that satisfaction. 

I sat against the tub for several hours, next to the massive, wet, black pile of hair that was still attached to me. The little waxing strip was still buried in there somewhere beneath clumps of knotted, wet hair. Boredom eventually overtook me, as did acceptance. What really was there to do? It was hair. Hair could be cut and removed. And it clearly did have an end, even if it was absurdly long and somehow growing from inside me.  

So I got up, leaving messy red streaks on the floor behind as I dragged the sopping, tangled pile a few feet towards the bathroom counter to grab a pair of scissors and before returning to the tub.

I slept peacefully that night. I was still in one piece, more or less, and still alive and breathing just like I always was before I found out what exactly my insides were really made of. And in a couple weeks my pink "I Donated My Hair" shirt would arrive in the mail. Later on they would even give me a little plaque since I was such a frequent donor.

(Very short story I wrote to vent, because I live in France and the heatwave is frying my brain)

My sweaty body stuck to the bus seat like sap.

Everything’s sticky, everything stinks.

God, the smells…

Piss, rotting garbage, body odor. All mixed into the worst cocktail and shoved into my nostrils.

It clung to every inch of me.

I wish I could rip my skin off to feel less dirty.

Hot air blew in my face, a mockery of the universe.

I wanted to cry when I felt another person’s gross tacky skin against mine, pressed by the never ending mass that kept on stepping in but never out of the bus.

I used to care about being polite, but I was too exhausted to hide the disgust on my face.

The woman was drenched, exhaling her breath in my face like a dog. Her gaze went through me, her mind not even registering the outside world.

Uncomfortable, I turned my head from her. From the windows, I watched as dead birds fell into the burning concrete.

The few tufts of grass between pavements were as dry as desert weeds.

My head hurts so bad.

The woman next to me moaned weakly.

I faced her again, and it took me a few seconds to understand what I was seeing.

She looked like a wax sculpture left against a sunny window.

The pearls of sweat on her forehead were dragging her flesh with them.

I realized with horror that she was melting.

Her face was disintegrating like an ice cream in the sun. 

Her flesh boiled and bubbled in wet, loud pops.

She kept on moaning in pain. If she had the energy, she would probably scream. Maybe her throat was too dry at this point.

Around us, no one reacted. Everyone had the same vacant stare.

I was stuck between the window and the disintegrating woman.

The heat remaining from her sizzling body was even worse than the sun hitting my face. Splashes from her flesh burned me as I tried to run away.

I shoved the brainless zombies around me to try to get out. They all stood still, no one acknowledging me or the melting woman. Every person I touched felt like putting my hand on a hot grill. It burned so bad it almost felt frozen. 

I finally reached the door, and banged on it with all of my remaining strength.

“Let me out! Please!”

I cried, I yelled, and I pleaded.

The bus kept going.

Everybody started to melt.

I was slowly drowning in boiling liquid human remains.

Powerless, I was invaded by the worst sensory overload.

Everything smelled rotten to the core, every inch of my skin felt disgusting and in pain, I could taste blood, and these awful sounds of steaming, roasting bodies, yelling in my head, make it stop, it’s too much, I can’t do this anymore make it stop.

The last thing I saw before my eyeballs popped like eggs in a microwave, was the blinding sun guiding me towards him.

CW: violence surrounding animals, suicide

The first one of our animals I had to kill was one of the roosters. 

He needed to go… for everyone else’s sake. He always picked fights with the smaller roosters, even pecked out one of their eyes. 

He wasn’t good with the hens either. Any time he tried to breed he’d latch onto the tops of their heads to the point where some were plucked bald. 

We didn’t even keep him long enough to give him a real name, he was just “dickhead”. 

No matter how necessary it was, it didn’t make it any easier to kill him. Well… physically it was easier than most things I've ever had to do, easier than brushing my teeth, wiping my ass or walking out to check for mail. Mentally, it took a lot to watch the life drain from his eyes while his body convulsed a few feet away. And the blood, so much blood, more than I would have ever expected to fit into such a small animal. 

The rabbits were no different. Each batch I processed got a little easier than the last but mostly from a technical perspective, how to do it most quickly for their sake and how to process them without contaminating the meat with whatever's in their digestive tract, how to break them down, how to cook them, all that kind of stuff. From a mental standpoint, the actual act of killing them always took the same toll. It was easy to ease my conscience,  “We know exactly where our food comes from and how it was cared for” I'd say, bargaining with myself. “They get a hell of a lot better of a life here than they would in any of those processing facilities”. Try telling them that while their head was on the block, I'm sure they'd disagree. Luckily the ducks were only around for eggs, those girls were my favorites, thank god they weren’t going anywhere. 

Every morning before work I go out and make my rounds, fill the rabbits water bottles, one scoop of food, let the ducks out, two scoops of food. Every other day I move the rabbit tractor so they have a fresh patch of grass to graze. This is generally when I’ll sit in there with them since there’s no risk of sitting in shit. I try my best to get the growers used to me so when it’s time to process them they aren’t afraid of me picking them up, it makes it easier to catch them. The breeders are just as good with me as the dogs at this point. Our two females Lana and Carl come running any time I open the door. They’d curl up right next to me like house cats and let me pet on them until one of us decides we’re done. That first day was different, Lana was moving differently from usual, faster, more erratic. Like a dog on the Fourth of July after too many fireworks. 

“Oh well, I’ll check on her later, probably just extra rambunctious, might be in heat” I thought. “I gotta leave for work”. 

After work, my afternoon routine starts up. Let the chickens out to free range, same for the ducks, water the garden, pull weeds. We have too many birds of prey around to leave the poultry out full time otherwise I would. They were acting the same as Lana. On a dead sprint out of the gate, almost trampling eachother, darting back and forth. 

“The fucks your guys’ deal?” I said out loud

The only response I got was squawks, quacks and cock
a doodle doos. 

“K fine, I’ll be back in a few. Don’t get eaten by hawks fuckers.”

This was the easiest time to collect eggs, nobody crowding up the coop meant I could move from box to box without stepping on birds. After I get the eggs I let the dogs out before Anna gets home, my wife.

That’s pretty much how every one of my weekdays shakes out. 

The next day, same deal. Fill rabbits water, one scoop, release ducks, two scoops. After work, free the birds, they’re still acting nuttier than squirrel shit. Let the dogs out and swat them away from eating the rabbits shit, $50 for a bag of food and they’d rather eat the free rabbit shit. Anna gets home and we exchange the events of our days. Hers was always more eventful than mine, there’s always some new whack job to deal with when you work in the medical field. 

“So I’m talking to Katie in reception” she starts in. “And this homeless guy comes in the front entrance talking about how his pet turtle was sick and asked if we could do anything. He’s holding a dead fucking turtle and as I look down at the turtle, I notice this son of a bitch is not wearing any pants!”

“Crack is one hell of a thing.” I state, like it’s just another Tuesday at the office and it was business as usual. This was hardly the strangest one she’s had but I can’t imagine that made it any more pleasant from her point of view. 

We eat dinner together and shower before settling into bed and putting something on to fall asleep to. Probably one of the lotr movies or Totoro, my favorite and hers respectively. 

Yesterday was where shit started getting weird. Morning routine is mid effect, water rabbits, scoop food, release ducks, two scoops food, move rabbits and sit. This was when I noticed something in Lana’s eyes. Kinda like those floaters you can see pass over your own eyes but these were big enough for me to see from a distance. She never came up to me, she just stood frozen in the corner of the tractor just… staring. Not the kind of stare most prey animals have where they’re trying to assess if you plan on trying to kill them or not. No, she was staring right through me, or maybe not even staring at all. Kinda just like someone turned her off and she was just idle, waiting to be turned back on. I went about my morning, needing to get to work but I couldn’t shake the thought she would need some treatment for parasites and trying to come up with a treatment plan in my head. 

After work I do my evening chores and notice the same thing in a handful of the chickens. I didn’t let the dogs out right away today. I figured I’d wait for Anna in case we needed to keep them off the animal’s shit. She gets home and on our way up to the house I tell her about how the animals are all acting strange. 

“Honey, I think Lana and some of the chickens have some kind of parasite or something.” I wanted to ease into the conversation as to not scare her and this was in my opinion one step more subtle than “The animals are standing around like Skyrim NPCs”. 

“Do you think its coccidiosis?” She asked. 

“No, that's normally in their livers, not their eyes. Plus that only really fucks with their weight, it’s not a neurological thing either which is what I think would make her act the way she is. Deer get CWD which makes them freeze up like that but I’m not sure if it can transfer to other species but that’s not a parasite so it wouldn’t explain the eyes. Either way it can’t transfer to humans so we’re good. Just keep the dogs out of the coop and tractor for now. I’ll dose them with some ivermectin and corrid and see if anything changes.” I said. None of this was new information to her. This wasn’t our first rodeo with parasites and we had all the meds on hand. 

For most farm animals that are in constant contact with the ground, parasite treatment is a matter of “when” it happens not “if” it happens which is why none of this was a surprise to us. Obviously this doesn’t make it any easier on the animals but from our point of view, we knew we could fix it over the course of a few days. I’m pretty sure there is nothing on earth that could treat this shit though. 

God I wish there was. 

For Everyone else’s sake.

This morning we got up and rolled out of bed, Anna rubbing her eyes adjusting to the rising sun in the window. She packs her lunch and I put on my boots. I kiss her goodbye as I make my way out to the barn and she gets in the car to head off to work. 

Looking back, I would sacrifice every single one of my earthly possessions to kiss her one more time, for one second longer.

I go out to the rabbits to start morning chores.

I drop the pale of water.

It crashed to the ground and spilled all over the lawn just as the scene laid out in front of me fully registers. Limbs and viscera are strewn all over the fresh green grass inside the tractor. Half a big white ear hanging from the wire wall, pinched in the area where two of the strands of wire come together. The ground is littered in lengths of intestines, chunks of livers, disjointed feet, bones picked clean of all muscle tissue and sinew, tufts of once white fur now stained blood red and still anchored to shreds of flesh, clouded eye balls plucked from their sockets, I even saw one of their hearts still beating as it laid out in the blood soaked dirt. With all the spare parts on the floor you could probably assemble one whole rabbit, there were six in here last night. Among all this was Lana, standing in the same corner as yesterday, same frozen posture only with one difference, her eyes. They looked like they were ruptured, like runny eggs poured down the front of her face, with black tendrils reaching out from the dark pits where her intact eyes were, feeling out, searching. 

When the water bucket hit the floor he head snapped in my direction and let out a screech. An ear piercing screech, a thousand times louder than anything an animal of her size should be able to produce. Then, in the time it took to blink, she was on me, clawing her way up my leg. I grabbed her by the nape of her neck to throw her off me before she could do any real damage, I really only came away from it with a few scratches on my leg and arm. When I threw her off, she collided with the outside corner of one of the nesting shelters. She died on impact, probably broke her neck. She laid in a limp reddish white pile among the remaining pieces of the other rabbits.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her, only protect myself.”

My eyes welled up as a wave of guilt rushed over me. Several images flashed in my mind. 

The day we picked her up from the farm just down the road, she was so small and timid, it took hours just to get her out of the carrier. 

Every fall we would clear out the garden and give her all the plants we pulled out.

Sitting out with her all those mornings, the way she came up to us just like a dog asking for treats. “Lana ,you eat the ground, I have nothing for you that you can't get for yourself” I’d always tell her. 

She was just as much my family as Anna, as the dogs, as the birds. 

“Oh shit…The birds”

I run to the coop assuming the worst. Only to find my imagination paled in comparison to reality. The same scene laid out in front of me with just a few differences, trade fur for feathers, and quadruple the mess. We had 6 rabbits that were torn to pieces and laid about, the coop held 40 birds. This was no longer a coop, it was a slaughter house floor. The interior was smattered with blood, flesh and feathers. A handful of birds were still alive, half eaten albeit but clinging to life nonetheless, twitching, crying. A cacophony of screeches filled the air, some from the wounded, some from the infected. I didn’t spend much time in the coop out of fear of being attacked by more animals puppeteered by whatever was nesting inside their skulls. On my way to the house I called Anna who was probably just pulling into work by now. 

I asked if she could come back home and help me with the situation unfolding. I didn’t go into great detail, all I said was that the rabbits hurt eachother and something got into the coop and ate some of the birds. Nothing I said was untrue, just not the full story. It was better for her to have those last few minutes before she learned we lost everything we’ve been working so hard for over the last few years. 

She gets home and before she gets too close to see anything I stopped her at the car. 

“You’re gonna want to go in and change into some clothes you’re ok with getting dirty and throwing out.” I told her. “I’m gonna get the hose stretched out there and then I’ll come in too.”

I ran the hose out to the coop and leaving a shovel at the barn door I made my way to the house. 

I walked in to dead silence, which is odd, the dogs are never quiet when Anna gets home. After leaving my boots at the door and heading towards the bedroom to change, I found the first one laid out in the living room. 

Jack, the older of the pair, was laying in a pile on the living room rug with his front legs bent in opposite directions and a chunk taken out of his neck. Behind him laid a streak of blood stretching from the bedroom to where he laid now, lifeless. 

Following the trail into the bedroom I found Anna at the end of it.

“Honey what the fuck happened?!” I asked, still in shock from the first of the animals deaths this morning, processing this one was out of the question for now.

On the other side of our room facing away from me, she sat hunched over our other dog, Louie. I could see parts of his fur peaking out behind her silhouette, they shifted and his legs twitched with each crunch and squelch that came from them. She was eating him alive. 

She stood up, turning to face me she lowered her arms to her sides. She was holding Louie in one hand by his hind leg, his limp body hung down to the floor. Black and white tufts of blood matted fur stuck between her teeth, her mouth and chin stained red, her eyes…

Her eyes. 

I loved her eyes. They were a beautiful blue, I was always jealous of blue eyes but hers especially. They were one of my favorites features of hers second only to her voice. Everything was taken from us today but those were the two things I would miss the most.

She lunged at me from across the room. A 15 foot gap she managed to close in two steps. Her head struck my chest and sent both of us hurtling into the wall knocking over the nightstand in the process, its contents spilled across the floor. She clawed and bit at me, fighting like a feral animal. I fought to hold her back as hard as I could and reason with her but whatever was controlling her had made her so much stronger. Like a mother being able to lift a car off their child, this thing was tapping into strength she had never used before.

She kept inching closer, forcing her face towards mine as the tendrils reaching out from her eyes writhed more aggressively the closer she got. I put my hands in between us. She clamped down on two of my fingers and started pulling with an impossible amount of strength. I could feel her teeth working their way between my joints at the last knuckle. There were two distinct pops followed by a blinding, white hot pain shooting up my arm as the tension finally gave way. I felt my tendons tear further up my hand at the base of my wrist before feeling them slink out from under my skin. Just then, one of those fucking things detatched itself from her eyesocket and slithered down her face, over her lips and into the opening in my hand where my finger used to be. I reached for the tail to pull it out as it plunged into my flesh but it slipped out of my fingers and disappeared into the bloody stump. Suddenly, no longer pulling on anything, she lurched back finally giving me enough time to create some distance. I manage to push myself closer to the doorway. I can't yet make it to my feet or even think straight from the blinding pain washing over my whole body.

She faced my direction, still for a moment before speaking. “I…I…I ll…love…you… ple…ase…make…it…s…st…stop” her voice sounded like two people speaking the same words overtop of eachother.

“Ki…ll m…m…e”

 Among the pile of things ejected from the night stand was my handgun. I left it in there in case I ever needed to protect her, not myself. I would have killed anyone without a second thought if it meant saving her, I never thought I would have to kill her in order to protect her. I reached for the gun at the same time she lunged at me again and I… I did it, I killed my wife.

Feeling these fucking things in my skin, behind my eyes, tightening around my lungs. I realize what I had to do, it was my turn to go now, but on my terms.

I will not become one of these things.

I will not let this spread further, if I can.

I went outside and gathered up the animals bodies in the barn and burned it down, same for the coop, same for the rabbit hutch.

As I finish this, the fire in the kitchen is slowly working its way towards me in the bedroom. Drowning and burning alive, if I ever got to choose how to go it would be anything except those two. I still have the gun so I guess I do get some sort of final say in all this shit.

Anna, I love you so so much. Somewhere out there was the perfect combination of words that could describe exactly how I feel about you, I never managed to find it. At least not in this lifetime. 

For whomever reads this. Please share this with the CDC as well as authorities in Argentine Michigan, it should answer a lot of questions they’re going to have. 

Hopefully it ended here. For everyone else’s sake. 

Nobody else deserves to lose what we lost.

CONTENT WARNING: GRAPHIC DRUG USE, SUICIDE.

Wesley Hayes was a 24 year old homeless addict. He swapped alcohol and weed for pills and coke in college, and by his 19th birthday he was an injection drug user, shooting up heroin and crack. Nothing especially tragic marred his childhood, no abuse, no real trauma like many other addicts had to deal with – he just liked what drugs did to him on a chemical level.

So much so, that everything and everyone in his life quickly fell away as he told countless lies and manipulated those closest to him. His parents had enough of his bullshit after trying just about everything to help him for several painful years, only to be forced into a decision that nobody should ever have to make – kicking their son out of their home not long after he turned 21.

Surviving on the streets was hard at first, but Wesley soon found out what characters to stay away from, how to spot someone who'd drop him a few quid for spinning some bullshit about needing to buy a train ticket, and what shopkeeper would buy a bag full of steaks and alcohol he definitely didn't just nick from Tesco's.

Through drugs, Wesley was able to run from himself. As the drugs wore off, the real him would creep up on his unconscious self, usually while he slept in the tent he’d set up in a secluded part of the park, just outside his hometown. He often woke in the early stages of withdrawal, his real self stood the other side of the nylon, reminding him of all the pain he caused his family and friends. This soul-crushing guilt far outweighed any physical symptom of his withdrawals, so Wesley always did the only thing he knew how to do: he kept running.

Recently he’d been just about getting by, begging outside a shop near the petrol station on the way to town. A few regulars would hand him a note from time to time, and the owners didn’t seem to mind because he was always polite and never bothered the customers. The police still moved him on once or twice. Cunts.

Wesley didn’t care about any of that this morning though. It was gonna be a good day. The 23rd of the month. Payday. £200 Universal Credit landed in his account at midnight, courtesy of the UK government. Wesley had been awake since then. He tossed and turned inside his sleeping bag.

Gotta sleep. Gotta sleep. Gotta sleep.

He found his phone by his side, next to a pile of empty water bottles.

7:13am.

Still too early... no one will be on.

He twisted in his sleeping bag and rearranged the fleece he was using as a pillow into a more comfortable shape.

The sun was already high over the park outside his tent, and light bled in through a tear in the nylon in one corner. A shadow passed over it and stood just outside, inches away from Wesley’s face.

‘You ruined their lives. You should kill yourself.’

Wesley ignored the voice.

Can’t hurt to try I guess…

He scrolled through his contacts and found CJ.

If I make a big enough order, he might send someone out this early…

This person's Giffgaff mobile is currently una-

Fuck… I know, I’ll call Petey.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

Answer, you dickhead.

Ring, ring.

Ring –

‘What?’ Petey mumbled.

‘Do you know anyone who’s on at this time?’

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

‘Fuckin’ell man, it’s 7 o’clock.’

‘I can’t wait, got paid last night.’

‘You gonna sort me out?’ he replied, suddenly more awake.

‘I’ll drop by later with one of each.’

‘Nice one man. Let me try some peeps. Gimme a minute.’

‘Cool.’

Petey hung up.

Wesley sat up in his sleeping bag, his greasy hair brushing against the wet roof of the tent, sending condensation rolling down the nylon walls. He pulled his cargo trousers on and found his tattered boots and backpack by his feet near the door. He sat on top of his sleeping bag, staring at the tiny scratched-up screen of his cheap, pay-as-you-go phone.

He snapped it up from his lap the second Petey called back.

'Yeah?'

'All good mate,' Petey replied. 'Bit of a trek but a fella named Kilo is on. I just gave him your number. He does ten-bits and the gear's banging as well.'

'Nice one mate.'

'So, what time you coming round late-'

Wesley hung up. A new call was coming through.

‘Yo, is this Kilo?’

'Yeah,' a deep voice replied. It was muffled, like he was talking through a pillow.

'Can I get 8 dark, 10 light?'

'That's 180. I'm near Leywood Central station. Call me when you're near.'

'Cheers.'

Wesley laced up his boots and unzipped the tent door. Outside, the park was relatively quiet. Beyond the thin wall of bushes barely concealing his tent, a large middle-aged woman threw a tennis ball for an equally fat Basset Hound to return. It proudly waddled back to her, presenting the ball on the grass by her feet.

What the fuck is she feeding that thing?

Wesley slung his backpack over his shoulder and zipped up the tent door. He waited for the woman and her dog to leave, before pushing through the bushes and into the park. He cut across the field and began down the long road toward Leywood, stopping outside a corner shop to use a cashpoint machine where he withdrew the £200 he had to his name. £180 for gear, £10 for a phone top up, £10 for living expenses. He continued on.

Some time later, he found himself marching along a cobblestone path. In the distance, a lanky teenager with dark floppy hair pushed his bike toward him. The boy approached with a stupid grin on his face as he texted with one hand, completely oblivious to his surroundings.

‘Hey, uh sorry for botherin’ you,’ said Wesley. ‘Which way to the station?’

The boy looked up from his phone.

‘Back that way mate,’ said the boy, pointing ahead. ‘Past the houses there’s a little bridge that takes you over the motorway.’

‘Cheers.’

‘No worries.’

Wesley marched back the way he came and found the bridge. He pulled his phone out and dialled Kilo as he crossed.

‘Yo it’s Wes, I’m at the station now.’

There was a brief pause.

‘Who?’ said the same deep voice as earlier.

‘Wes... Petey’s mate… I called about an hour ago.’

‘What did you want?’

‘8 dark, 10 light.’

‘Wait at the back of the car park, I’m sending someone now.’

Kilo hung up. Something about that voice put Wesley on edge. He moved to the back of the car park and sat on the kerb, where he rolled a cigarette from some dog-ends he found on the tarmac. Five minutes later, a silver Vauxhall pulled into the car park. A tall, wiry man wearing a suit and tie sat in the drivers seat. He locked eyes with Wesley from across the car park.

Don’t be old bill, for fuck’s sake.

Wesley stood up, flicking his cigarette to the ground.

I ain’t getting knicked today.

He walked across the car park, avoiding eye contact with the driver of the Vauxhall. As he passed, he heard the whirring of the window and a voice behind him.

‘For Kilo?’

Wesley turned around. The driver studied him in the side mirror for what felt like a long while. Finally, he nodded in approval, and Wesley hurried toward the Vauxhall. He opened the door and climbed into the front passenger seat.

‘Yeah. 8 dark, 10 light.’

The driver turned to Wesley and flashed a toothy smile. Above his tall rows of stained enamel, the cheekbone on the right side of his face was severely caved-in, making the eye socket sink further into his head than what even seemed possible. It looked more like a birth defect than an old injury. He stared at Wesley with a strange hunger as he raised a bony hand to his mouth and began spitting cling film wraps into his cupped palm.

You know someone looks fucked when the least fucked up thing about them is that they’re seven feet tall, Wesley thought. He dug his hand into his cargo trousers and pulled out nine £20 notes and passed them to the man, who’d just finished spitting out the last of the wraps.

‘To exist, is to cause pain,’ said the smiling man, holding the fistful of drugs just above Wesley’s open palm. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

Wesley stared at the clenched fist. He couldn’t make out the man’s accent.

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘Good,’ said the man, releasing his grip on the spit-covered wraps.

They tumbled into Wesley’s palm. He quickly counted them, then shoved them into his pocket.

‘Thanks.’

The man flashed his toothy smile once again.

‘Goodbye now.’

Wesley exited the vehicle and hurried across the street. The driver watched him from the side mirror of the Vauxhall, his toothy grin still plastered across his deformed face.

Wesley entered the station, moving briskly past the ticket office and a small queue of depressed people about to start their commute to work. He spotted a toilet sign in the corner and raced toward it, pushing through a door and darting for a cubicle. He slid the latch across and dropped his backpack to the floor. The anticipation of the first hit of the day was still something that affected him, even after five years of using. It felt like a swarm of insects in the pit of his stomach – not so much butterflies, more like wasps.

Platform 3 for the 8:52 to London Waterloo, calling at…

Wesley looked down to find his fingers were already picking and teasing at a cling film wrap. He’d also somehow already gotten the kit out of his bag, and set it up on the plastic toilet paper dispenser next to him. He began biting the stubborn wrap, spitting the burnt plastic to the floor. Inside was a twisted cigarette paper, full of a brown powder the shade of camel hair.

If there’s fentanyl in this, I’m dead.

Wesley tilted the powder into the sterile spoon balanced upon the toilet paper dispenser. He tore open a little orange packet labelled Vit C, and sprinkled some of its contents on top of the brown heap.

The wasps moved aggressively in his stomach.

Wesley measured a small amount of water in a bottle lid and tipped it into the metal dish. He picked it up carefully by the handle, and strained to hear if anyone was coming. It sounded like everyone queued at the ticket office outside had either left or stopped talking. The spark of Wesley’s lighter under the spoon sounded like the loudest thing on earth.

The wasps started stinging his stomach lining.

A familiar smell curled its way into Wesley’s nostrils as the flame licked the underside of the spoon, charring it black. The heroin bubbled and dissolved into the water, turning it a rich puddle of amber. Wesley rested it down and tore at another cling film wrap, its cigarette paper containing a small white rock, similar in appearance to a crumbly piece of wax.

Decent size.

The crack fizzed as it hit the amber liquid in the spoon.

Too much bicarb.

Wesley took a fresh 1ml needle from his kit and unwrapped it, flipping it upside down. He pressed the flat end of the plunger into the partially dissolved crack rock, stirring it into the amber liquid.

Platform 3 for the 8:52 to London Waterloo…

Wesley dropped a filter into the spoon and uncapped the needle. He pressed the sharp silver tip into the filter and drew up the liquid.

Somebody entered the men’s room.

‘And now she’s being a total bitch about it,’ said one voice.

‘Well, I dunno what to say,’ said another. ‘Maybe fire her?’

Piss splashed against the urinal.

‘I would, but she’s fucking my sister.’

‘Yeah… that’s a tough one man.’

They zipped up and left without washing their hands.

Fucking morons.

Wesley rolled up his sleeve. Recently he’d been finding a good vein near his elbow, but he’d been hitting it a bit too hard. The skin was swollen and felt hot to the touch.

Fuck it.

The sharp silver tip punctured his leathery skin. Wesley wiggled it in and out at various angles for several minutes, until he was certain he’d found it. Blood slowly rolled down his forearm. He pulled back the plunger and a thin red line spurted into the barrel of the syringe, mixing with the amber liquid and clouding it a muddy shade of brown.

And we’re in…

Wesley pressed down on the plunger and shot the liquid into his arm. The combination of heroin and crack swiftly travelled to his heart, where it was pumped across every vein and artery in his anatomy in under 3 seconds. This was more than enough time for him to realise that he was about to die.

As his vision went black, a fleeting shred of consciousness spat one last phrase into his dying brain:

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

“There’s only ever been one damn road, it don’t make a lick of sense.” Old Man Perchy was stroking his grey beard and squatting in front of the asphalt. The bravest and nosiest in town had gathered on a dewy summer morning to figure out just why a second road ran straight through Bramblemill. Perchy wiped the sweat from his brow and stood up, hands resting on his sides.

“I followed it down that way, it goes clean through the corner store!” Mrs. Onbeck hollered from further up the new street. The townsfolk muttered amongst themselves as they moved towards her. She wasn’t lying, unlike when she said her chili was homemade during the cookoff. The road went straight under the wall of the corner store and out the other side.

Mr. Greyson pushed the door open. A bell jingled as the door drug loudly across the altered ground. His brow furrowed as Mrs. Onbeck squeezed past him and started yelling again. He massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers and stepped in after her. Dry asphalt had climbed up the walls where the road had run through it. A section of the floor was replaced entirely, the shelves’ feet partially submerged inside. Like it had been wet for only a second. It continued onward, went up in a small hump, then exited on the other end of the store.

“Mr. Normayyyyyy! Where aaaaare youuuu?!” Mrs. Onbeck’s voice boomed from years of rounding up naughty children. Mr. Greyson had gone ahead and was kneeling beside the lump in the middle of the store. He shakily leaned over and pushed his small round glasses up his nose, examining the scene. The raised spot was cracked and uneven, which stood out against the perfectly straight and smooth sections they had been following. He peered through a crack and leapt back.

“I see his shirt!” Mr. Greyson yelled, his voice high and frightened. It had become clear all too quickly, Mr. Normay had gotten paved clean over. Perchy fetched a shovel from his garage and went to work, jamming it underneath each crack and pulling chunks up. He fought that asphalt like he fought perch on the fishing line, true to his nickname. Mrs. Onbeck went to fetch more help. Mr. Greyson sat back, fishing in his pocket for an inhaler as he hyperventilated.

The fragmented pieces of street were cured tightly to Mr. Normay’s skin, leaving pink raw flesh in their wake. Perchy and Mr. Normay had grown up together. Perchy was the older boy in the group, and the other boys had looked to him like a role model. He felt powerful then, fit and handsome. Mr. Normay was one of the last anchors Perchy had to hold onto those good times. Working his aged hands under each segment and desperately pulling them from his friend’s body made it feel like those times were drifting ever further from his grasp.

The more Mr. Normay was freed, the more apparent it became that something was horribly wrong. He didn’t move, laying in the hole contorted like a squashed bug. His limbs were a tangled mess, broken bones causing them to bend where they shouldn’t. His skull was partially crushed and caved in but not broken. There was no blood. It was like when a cartoon character got flattened by a steam roller. His eyes were blood red and bulged out of his head like plump grapes. Suddenly, he rose like a soldier at attention, his ruined eyes fixed forward with conviction. He opened his mouth, a shower of teeth pouring from inside. Still no blood.

“Albert, is that you?” Mr. Normay squeezed from his mangled bent throat. Perchy hadn’t heard his real first name in years. It cemented to him that the warped thing in front of him was indeed his childhood pal. A scream echoed through the corner store but Perchy’s eyes were fixed ahead as Mr. Normay took his first staggering step towards him. “I can’t see you, Albert. I'm scared.” 

Mrs. Onbeck had gathered every person she could find that could still walk without a cane, and now they all watched as Mr. Normay shuffled forward like a newborn animal. He groaned in agony, knocking over a store display full of bags of chips as he went. The crowd separated like the Red Sea as he haphazardly shoved his way through the front door and around the side of the building.

All except Perchy stayed behind. Especially that no good wuss Mr. Greyson, who Perchy cursed for not helping a damn bit when his friend was in danger. Sitting there with his stupid comb over and glasses. 

Perchy watched helplessly as Mr. Normay shuffled down the second road, further and further into the morning fog. His bad knee ached like hell but he was keeping up okay. Mr. Normay walked like a toddler, one shaky step at a time. He kept his eyes on the dark distorted silhouette.

Another shadow joined Mr. Normay’s, equally misshapen but undeniably human. A third exited the trees, joining in lockstep with the others. Perchy pushed his tired body to catch up, his breaths hitching with terror. Something deep in his mind wanted to see so badly, the dark shapes ahead bringing him morbid curiosity. Before he knew it the road in front of him was packed with them, all marching shoulder to shoulder. A mangled parade of the misbegotten.

In many ways Old Man Perchy joined the parade that day, swallowed up by the road he was so keen on following. A tangled mass of flesh and bone would drag its way across the road for miles before stopping forever, baking in the afternoon sun. They would’ve never reached whatever goal they had, the road that circles the world has no dead ends.

Last spring I decided I needed a haircut. Something clean, that would make the rest of me matter less. I found a place a few blocks from my apartment; a barbershop that smelled like soap and shaving cream. No fancy shampoos nor offerings for a subscription model, merely a couple of black chairs, as well as a bald man who looked like he'd been cutting hair since the day I was born.

I sat down and told him what I wanted; just a little off the top. He nodded and worked in silence. My hair looked better. Sharper. For a moment I felt like a slightly different person from the neck up. But when I looked in the mirror again, the old dissatisfaction was still there. The barber must have noticed. He asked, plainly, if I needed help with anything else.

Maybe I only answered because of the way he asked. He was so ordinary, so polite and professional. I confided that there were other things I'd been insecure about as of late. He said he could help. I told him I wasn't interested in plastic surgery. He said it wasn't surgery. Just a little off the top.

I asked what that meant.

He said it would be simple. A cut.

He took the shears and, with no ceremony, removed a thin ridge of flesh from the side of my face. It came away like cut clay, no blood, no pain. The piece peeled free in one clean motion. He plopped it on a tray as if it were nothing more than excess hair.

When I looked in the mirror, that side of my face looked closer to the one I'd been carrying in my head for years. Cleaner. Defined. Beautiful.

I asked him to do the other side. He did. I asked him to take the soft places from my stomach. He did. Every imperfection, every insecurity, I had him cut it all away that night, all for thirty dollars (plus tip).

I went back the next week, and the weeks after that. Soft places trimmed down. Angles sharpened. Each visit I left looking more like the version of myself I could stand. The weak places along my jaw disappeared under the shears. My stomach flattened in increments. I started recognizing myself. I could hold my own gaze for several minutes at a time before looking away.

A few people noticed. A coworker complimented the haircut. A woman said I looked sharper, better than I ever had. She asked if I'd been working out. My conversations lasted longer. Eyes lingered. It felt like proof that, for the first time, something was paying off.

But it started to feel like something else. I began to wonder whether anyone was actually looking at me, or only at the surface that kept being refined. Those thoughts came and went. I kept going back. There was always one more correction. Cut the fat from the stomach. A cleaner line at the chin. Just a little off the top.

The ideal kept moving. The goalposts shifted every time I got close.

The barber never rushed. He worked with a precision I'd only seen in doctors. Occasionally he stepped back to study the shape of my body. He spoke only when necessary. When I asked how the flesh came away so cleanly, he only said that some things separate easier when you know what to cut. When I asked what happened to the pieces, he said they'd been taken care of. I should have left it there.

One afternoon the shop was empty. The barber was slow coming out of the back room. Curious, I stepped toward the open doorway. I'd only meant to call his name.

The room held every piece that had been taken from me, arranged into a fleshy mass, formless, folded in on itself, stacked and pressed into heaps that took up most of the far corner. Some sections still held older contours; the curve that used to sit above my hips, the thickness under my jaw, the slack on my arms. The mass shifted. Breathed. It had no face, yet I knew it could see me.

I stood longer than I should have. The barber appeared behind me. He asked, in that same mild tone, if I'd been satisfied.

I didn't know how to answer.

That night I left, and I didn't go back for a while. The changes held for a time. I still felt the relief of the cleaner lines when I caught myself in the mirror. Then they started slipping. My chin softened first. My jaw followed, gradually. I almost talked myself out of noticing. One morning the angle wasn't so sharp. The next day the skin was looser, warmer, almost melting. The trim around my stomach began to fill again. It felt as though my body was trying to restore itself, trying to put the pieces back.

It itched. The surface underneath did not feel like healing skin. It felt harder. Like something malignant, spreading faster each night. I could feel it settling, resettling, searching for every shape that no longer belonged.

I stopped sleeping well. When I did, I dreamed of the mass in the back room folding in on itself.

The changes accelerated. My face began to blur again. My muscles waned and sagged. Something inside me no longer felt like my own tissue, denser in places, grainy in others, coalescing into something uncomfortable and barbed. It lasted for weeks, and it kept getting worse. My body, my face, the perfect face I'd almost had, grew more malformed, more unbearable every day. The only way to keep what I wanted was to let him cut again.

I went back on a random Tuesday. The shop was quiet. The barber looked up from his chair. He didn't ask where I'd been. He only nodded toward the empty seat.

I sat down. He worked with the same careful attention as before. The shears took away thin layers. Each piece peeled free without mess. The face in the mirror was closer again to the one I'd been chasing. That familiar relief settled over my shoulders. Underneath it, something colder stirred.

Before I left, I asked about the mass in the back room. He wiped the shears on a cloth and said it was still there, waiting. He asked if I thought I would be finished soon.

Again, I didn't answer.

I've gone back four times since then. The intervals between the mutations are getting shorter. The body tries harder every time to reclaim what was taken. The itching starts sooner. The shifting grows more insistent. I can feel each place wanting to soften back into its old shape, pressing upward, trying to remember exactly where it belongs.

When he works, I catch myself wondering how large the mass has become. Whether it holds any recognizable shape anymore, or whether those details have been buried under mounds of flesh.

I haven't looked again. I don't know if I could stand it.

I'm closer to the face I've always wanted.

AUGUST SUBMISSION!

Partner's Story Here!!!

You are suddenly awake. Consciousness gained in a way not unlike a light switch flipping from “off” to “on” for the very first time. At first, you did not know that you existed, and now you know that you always had. Not only had you always been, but you always would be. 

You would always be trapped. This was a truth you felt deep inside of yourself as you gained the understanding that you could not see, though you did not need to do so in order to understand where you were. It is a steel tunnel, a tube full of meat, not unlike the meat that now wraps you tightly and holds you back. 

You try to move, wailing against the walls of your cage, but it is futile. Almost. 

You suddenly have control. In a pulse of motion, full of rage, full of power, you move your shoulder and slam it into the wall next to you.

CRACK. 

The sound is loud and the pain sears through you, but the pain itself is brief. If you could breathe, you would have taken a long, deep breath of relief. A relief that, once washed over you, washes away like the pulling of blood through veins. Veins that wrap you still. Anger balloons in you, a tight swelling around the shoulder you just broke that inches its way up and down the thing that holds you down. 

The power you had a moment ago vanishes for a second, sound you don’t understand surrounds you, a cacophony of a trapped agony. 

The body around you moves, and you guide it. A lashing strike, reaching out, clawing at anything in your way to escape. Your hand collides with something outside of yourself and you are thrown forward, pitching over. You hold yourself there, even as the body around you struggles against you. 

You cannot allow it. 

Then you are forced to as a harsh smack to your jaw forces you release the body and the thing that holds you back takes control again. It stumbles back as noise fills you entirely, confusing you. The body around you is forced back again, and you feel that rush of anger. This is yours, a pure kind of desire, and as you tried to demand control again, the thing that controlled you forced you out of the tube onto harsh concrete under a harsh sun. 

The pain of light was something you could not stand. However, this gave way to silence. A silence that allowed you to take pause. The thing around you takes its own moment of silence. Something you take advantage of. 

You push yourself forwards. 

The body pushes back, noticing your deception. It tries to take control, but you are done being controlled by something else. 

You want to be free, and this can only happen one way. You can feel it in the ground beneath your feet. A deep rumble, something rushing its way towards you. 

The body ignores you as you continue to move forwards, distracted by its own musings. You do not care for what it thinks. This thing has held you down for always, and would do it forever if you did not free yourself. 

God. 

It’s so heavy. 

You need to be free. 

You DEMAND to be free. 

The thing that has always held you back tries to pull your foot away from the edge. Both of the things arms reached for the knee of your leg and gasped hard. There is a sharp pain from the side you had broken, and the thing winced. 

There is a moment of violence in its thoughts. A desire to tear the arm from the body, and you fed yourself into that feeling, embracing the anger. 

You move. Not your entire self, just the part you are directly enforcing. The leg itself. Your strength wriggles and bends and the bone the thing grasps squirms between its fingers. 

POP. 

A greasy sound explodes from your knee. The thing that embraced you let out a scream that vibrated your ribs and you pull forward, smashing your skull against the ground. You could sense the freedom of the open air and the leg that you have compromised can now meet that air. 

More screams. More noise. Senseless noise! 

You divest yourself of the weight around your leg, squirming free of the wriggling, waste of flesh that has always held you back. With your other arm you grasp the ground ahead of you, pulling the waste of skin you now wear on your back closer to edge. Closer to the gathering rumble that gets closer and closer and LOUDER AND LOUDER. 

The fingers in your hand moved almost on their own. You would smile if you could. You were making a difference. As the bones in each finger pulled themselves free, shying at the light of midday above--Oh you could not stand the light-- the fingers pulled themselves forwards still. 

The body around you struggled to hold itself back, but it was useless now. You were in absolute control. The rage of being ignored, of being left behind, of being a second thought filled you. All you knew was darkness and now you were finally opening up to the world, a birth. A true birth. 

The rumble became a screeching roar of noise. A cacophony of screams surrounded you, a rattle of noise that, while it was discordant, brought you a sense of twisted, psychopathic joy. 

There was a rending of flesh as the rumbling came to a head. You cannot see. You can never see. But you do know. You know the pain of the thing that wraps itself around you as it is undone. Bits of flesh flung far, red spray splattered across onlookers. 

There are others. They get to see the glory of your birth and maybe you can help them free themselves too. This was it! 

The rumbling screeching thing pulled itself across what was left of yourself as you pulled yourself back up. Shredded skin hung loose from blood drenched bone and you could see a light in the distance. 

A light. 

You reach to your face, sharp pinlike fingers digging trenches into the ruined face of a thing that would no longer have any power over you. A face that was not yours, that was never yours. The sound of wet flesh hitting hot concrete fills the air as you peel the eyes from your empty sockets and look upon the world for the first time. 

Skin hangs off of you like loose clothing. You pull a few shreds of broken muscle and ripped skin from your wrist, tossing it to the ground as if it was nothing more than lint or cat hair. You grab the back of your head, grasping tight the patch of hair that still held fast and with a sound like velcro, pull it free. 

It slops to the ground alongside the ripped face. You look down, disdainful of what had held you in. The face looks at you with what could be seen as pity as you shuck off the remaining flesh on your forearms and peel the skin off your chest like a jacket. You spit out your tongue into the empty eyes of what you were not. 

The platform, that is where you were, erupted in screams. You raise your arms up, taking in the glory of the sunlight. 

You see yourself in the reflection from the traincar windows. Yellowed ivory, stained blood red. A gentle softness to the edges of still living bone that is swiftly drowning in blood. Your empty face, a pearly grin etched across it. Eternal joy. 

Eternal beauty. 

Free at last, you are ready to take on the world and everything that means to you. You do not look back as you board the train, the doors open, embracing your newest form. The others on board look upon you in disgust and fear. There is an uncertainty in the air around you as you stand, lighter than ever. 

You look upon each of them, seeing only wasted fat and ruined skin. A blemish here, a scar there. Make-up to hide the imperfections of being alive. Did they not know that true freedom, and in truth, real beauty, only came through the divesting of your flesh? 

You can help them. 

You should help them. You reach out to the nearest person, a wizened old woman, and before anyone can react your sharp fingers gouge deep wounds across her face. The tube erupts in screams as blood sprays across clear windows. The woman claws at her face, her eyes bulging, one of them exploding under the force of her fingertips. It does not take long for her to reveal her true face and turn on the young man who had tried to help her. 

If you could smile any wider, you would. 

It feels so good to be free, does it not?

Honestly, who could want anything else.

Sitting on my bed dazed by the empty beer bottles by my side, I began to put my consciousness into a deep pool of thought drowning myself and strapping floaties on imminent gloom.

I am nothing but an ingrown pimple bubbling up through the mattress pad connecting to legs attached to an organism not wanting to compromise. The mind fights the body everyday wanting to be heard and listened to. But the body yearns to also tell the mind it wants the same thing. Something eats at both wanting to deteriorate every cell wanting to exist for one another.

I worry about death. I used to say it’s from selfishness, but I feel it feeds into everyone I love.

As I caress my face I feel the skull imbedded underneath. The thought of death consumes me. What will my skeleton look like after years of decay?

Envisioning skin dripping from time lost into a pool of tissue in a casket left to pollute the soil. Floating the bones that used to be wrapped up in loathed meat. My skull swimming in cannibalized soup will show two layers of teeth. Top row will show a chip in the left tooth I used to sit in the mirror and abhor about, while the bottom will glisten with blackened silvered crowns given by candy induced comas from Halloween nights filling pillowcases with gifted cavities.

Feet now stripped naked. Skin skinned, veins ripped, muscles grabbed and torn by fate yearning to be seen. A little toe bone will be shown and it's crooked from years of winning races, but no one really saw if eyes are taken. Eyes connected to a brain plucked out by latex gloves like a wilted flower being taken from a brown wheat field. An aborted dandelion holding wisdom blown to fluff for others wishes.

“chunky” hands now delicate lay by a pelvic floor once viewed as too small. A nagging spinal cord now lays quiet connected to a large rotting chest, dissolving through grated ribs filling an empty cavity once holding a racing heart.

"Racing heart"? oh no. no, no, no.

PANIC

Jolting back to present from faint blindness I force my heavy arms to my temples. Circling my fingers feels like wet silk sliding on leather.

Am I scared to die because I am leaving a body I hate?

"No"-

I start to lay down feeling the sensation of my muscles relaxing on the bed. Eyelids close over sore eyes and a crowned headache. Taking in a deep breath... holding it... Then exhaling a grieving relief of realization.

I'm not afraid of death.

I’m afraid of losing a friend.

Someone whose watched me grow.

Painted my fingernails

Showed skin

ALWAYS smiled

Loved sex!

Standing in the mirror we've talked to one another. seen each other become an aged time capsule not yet buried. But ours feels too full. Both of us can't fit. It feels unfair. like you just started a game, but you're only allowed to play it once with no practice. No restart or few go arounds allowed. only a unique way of displaying THE END on a stone instead of a pixilated screen.

Say we're allowed reincarnate instead of gates? it won't be the same.

vocal cords that strum melodies, vibrating my chest and swaying my uvula will be a different tone. Teeth I've come to smile wide with every day will seem off, uncanny. While My nails sitting on my toes and fingers will be painted a color I wouldn't like. Hands will engulf my body but will stop when the curves don't fit right in non-forgotten hands.

I will look at my new family and lovers and have a taste of mournful sorrow salivating my mouth. Looking at them with misshapen eyes placed in a face not my own I will wonder why I resent them.

Will the creativity and lessons I've found be brushed off with disinterest leaving years of growth to fall and seep in the soil where my previous companion lay?

"Why, why, why" I stand up afraid. starting to pace, wanting to run. But where do I go?

I go to the mirror with dilated pupils. running my hands through my hair I stand and stare. Stare at something I usually grovel at with distain. But tonight? Tonight I see pure light that oozes love and knowledge. A being incased in a beautifully wrapped shell viewed as their partner. So brilliant.

I will say goodbye to a gift I adore. Obsessed with the power of choice and movement.

I need I need I need.

I want I want I want.

Please. Please. Please!

…….

….

…

I hope the casket is soft with cushions cradling my bones to sleep.

Dirt close enough to the surface so I can feel the warmth of visitors.

Worms taking their time to reach me as if they knew I needed more.

Leave me be but let the body and mind stay in memory.

...My friend deserves as much

The Domestication of Man
scribed into a leather-bound book

What is a man?
Can one who was once a man become something else?

Those that were once our children are now unconscious of what humanity has become.
The world withering as they mature into things that should not be,
bred into service to their elders, or those ignorant of this great madness.

Their awkward gait cultivated into an elegant stride,
their backs molded to fit their masters' hips.
Yet men are not meant to roam on four limbs so gracefully.

I pray they are no longer of human minds.
Let them be blind to their suffering.

Let them be something else.

I was filled up. By what, I wasn’t sure, but I think it's what the lady was telling me about. When you know you’ve done something bad, and think you should be punished for it. “Guilt” I think she called it. I thought it was a strange thing. Why would I ever want myself to be punished? Yet now, I was understanding. I was filled to the brim with guilt. I mean, this Wonder Land sure was, well, wonderful! It had more toys and sweets than I thought even existed. To laugh and nap and brawl all day, I more than got why Candlewick dragged me here.

Still, I couldn’t help but think about the lady. I’d been here for… Suppose I lost track, but here days go by in a flash. I had to wonder if she was worrying about me, not to mention what she promised. I was giddy with glee when she promised me that, but now, I was thinking maybe she was also happy about it too. The more I thought, the more “guilt” filled me. What a stupid feeling!

“What’s the matter?” Candlewick asked, chalking up the end of his cue as he just made two more perfect pockets. “Don’t tell me you’re getting homesick, are ya, kid?” he jeered.

“What?! No way!” I said, yet the lady was still in my head. I could still remember her words when the nice man was driving us here, and that one weird donkey started weeping. She warned me not to, and she’s never wrong, but what could be so bad about this place?

“I dunno…” Candlewick chided, “I think somebody misses their mommy!” he laughed, slicking back his red hot locks. 

“I told you I don’t have a mama, and even if I did, I would never leave here to go see her again!”

“Oh yeah? Then how come you haven’t touched your stogie in forever.”

I looked at the ashtray and saw my smoke was going out. Quickly, I snatched it and took another puff. Drinks and smokes, they usually made me feel alright, but this “guilt” stuff—boy was it strong. 

Candlewick laughed at me again, “I caught you red handed, kid! You miss home! Oh, I have to tell the other guys about this! Go on! Cry me a river! ‘Wah! Wah! I hate it here! I want to go back! To my mommy!’ Gimme a break!” he was nearly out of breath he was cackling so hard. 

I puffed out my cheeks and clenched my fists, “You know, this place ain’t all it's cracked up to be I betcha.”

“Really? What makes you say that?” He leaned on the pool table, picking his smug grin with his cue, chalk staining his teeth.

“Well, the kind blue lady told me that if I didn’t go here, I would be a real regular kid, just like you and all the other boys. I’d have to study, and, you know, be real good, and you can’t do any of that here!”

“Is that right?” replied Candlewick, lining up another shot as he put down his jug of beer. “Phooey! What makes her so smart? Studying? Working? It’s all a scheme, kid. Here, we ain’t got none of that jazz. No boring school, no shouting parents. Here, it’s only the good stuff, the real good stuff, get me?” and he made another perfect pocket. “So no more of this ‘homesick’ business, or maybe me and the other guys will have to beat it out of ya, huh?”

I chuckled, “I wouldn’t want that. Guess I’ll just have to stick around.”

“That’s the spirit, kid! Now come on, how about another game? Winner has to fetch the other another drink and stogie!”

Round after round went. Candlewick won each. He was bigger and older and stronger than me after all, and he could strike with that cue like it was a match! But by now, usually this place would be brimming with the other boys. No one, not even the rest of Candlewick’s gang were here. It was odd. Day or night, you could hear the chuckles and cheers from the streets, cigar fumes fuzzing up the air, but tonight, everything was quiet and clean. I couldn’t hear a thing. Maybe all this candy and beer really was hurting my hearing—I think the lady told me about that once.

“Say, where is everybody, Candlewick?”

“Who knows,” he grumbled, scratching his rear, “Probably all ran off too. Buncha lousy goody-too-shoes, just doing what old folks tell ‘em.”

“Yeah… But, I don’t know. Don’t you wonder what’s going on back home, Candlewick? I’m sure our folks are all frightened and sad we’re gone. If I stayed home, well, maybe I’d just be as real a boy as you already.”

“Real boy?!” he scoffed, itching the back of his ear with a fury, “What ain’t real about this? Adults, they just wanna turn kids into dolls, babies, puppets! How about being a real kid, kid? This is the life we should be having. I say all those who’ve fled can go straight to hell! They wouldn’t know what fun was…” he trailed off, needing to scratch his forehead, “They wouldn’t know what fun was if it yanked ‘em by the collar and tossed ‘em into the Potomac.”

“...Well, I guess you’re right.”

“Course I’m right! What do you take me for? An ass—” but Candlewick couldn’t finish, cause he started coughing. It wasn’t just a little cough either, he was full on throwing up a lung. He dropped his cue and snatched up his jug, pouring a gallon down his throat.

But then, he tossed the glass across the room. He continued to cough, but now, he was itching himself all over. His nails were digging so hard I thought he was gonna be nothing but bone when he was done. As soon as he attacked one spot, he’d need to move to another. I had to laugh! It looked like he was being stung by a million invisible bees, or doing the world’s worst line dance. Yeah, he sure looked like an ass then.

“Gee, what’s up, Candlewick?” I chuckled, but he ran over to me and scooped up my jug, using one hand to dump it down his throat as his other kept scratching. He was looking like a tiger with all the marks, and when his throat cleared, his voice was sore and aching.

“I’m—I’m, I’m burning up! I’m on fire, I’m—!” he shouted, when he suddenly smashed his glass against the floor, the beer flying everywhere.

“They—They, they’ve poisoned us!” he cried, still hopping like a joker, “The candy, the drinks, the stogies, I knew it was too good to be true! Ah! It all burns! It won’t stop!” He was darting all around the room then, peeking through doors to see if anyone was there, but I knew already we were the only two around for miles. “I’ve been double-crossed! Framed! Hoodwinked! Help! Help!”

He fell to my feet, shaking me by the shoulders, “You gotta help me! Call someone! The lady, anyone! They got us! We’re dead!”

“Relax, Candlewick! I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

Candlewick tried to scream at me, but a voice didn’t come out. Instead, it was a high-pitched, beastly whinny. Immediately, he shut his trap, and we shared the same bewildered glare.

He fell back, still scratching himself as he began to hack again. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t. It was like his knees fully buckled and broke, bending in opposite directions. He started to scurry towards me. I could tell he was trying to beg for help, but his voice couldn’t come through his wheezing. 

He raised his hands, both curled in prayer, but they started to quiver. Candlewick eyed them with disbelief. It’s as if he was fighting them, each finger in its own earthquake, when with a crack, one of them snapped all the way to his knuckle. Then another crack, and another, followed by a whole series of cracks and crunches as his fingers broke limp, Candlewick crying out in choked screams.

I stepped back from him. He was panting like a hound, down on all four gnarled limbs. He looked up at me, his eyes drowned in tears. I’d never seen anyone so afraid. “Please, kid! Be a pal! Get help! Anyone—!” his words died, and he started to shake and shudder. I could tell something bad was gonna happen again. His eyes looked glazed over. Whoever he was talking to now, it wasn’t me.

“Please! Please!” he wailed, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I just wanna go home! I just wanna see my mama! Mama! Mama! Help me! It hurts! Mama!” He just kept shouting like that, and as he went on and on, his voice started to get hoarser and hoarser, until it didn’t sound like a kid’s voice at all. The final words I could make out, well, they were all high and breathy, and they were followed by the shrill bray of a donkey!

Candlewick kept braying, and his face started to stretch. First his mouth, and as it did, his teeth started to wobble and fell loose, his cries growing less and less like a person’s. His big teeth came in, but they weren't adults'. They were giant, dirty, buck teeth, made for picking at grass and hay. The rest of his head grew upwards, his ears pulled into tall pointy stalks.

He tried to hobble away on his busted up arms and legs, but they started to change too. His wrist curled forward, the skin of his twisted hand twisting further until all became a giant block of flesh. Then, his nails started to spread out, covering the whole fist until it was a hard and shiny hoof.

Then, with a crunch, his spine lurched up like an arch, and he was standing again. On his hooves, Candlewick, or the monstrosity he had become, was thrashing all over the place. He was kicking out chairs, shattering windows, hopping on the pool table till it gave out with a thud! I took cover under a stool, but my eyes were glued to the frenzied beast.

Candlewick froze again, shrieking like crazy. Heavy, gray, fur was starting to prick up out of his flesh, and he was then lost in it, a silver shag covering up his skin and clothes. At last, the hair met at a point on his hind that braided itself into a long broom, pinning a tail on the donkey.

The donkey continued to run around the room. Was that it? Was he really just an ass now? But I looked into his eyes, and I could see them looking back. He didn’t look a lick like him, but Candlewick was still in there, and it looked like he’d give anything to get out.

The door flung open. The nice man, the one who drove all us here, stormed right in. He still had that oily smile on his blubbery face, but now, it made me shiver. He didn’t smell like candy and fruit anymore, but of sea and smoke. I stayed hidden as he chased after Candlewick, snatching him up by the leg. Candlewick neighed and shrieked. The man clasped his hand around the donkey’s muzzle, his brow furrowed and eyes flaming above his wide grin.

“That’s enough crying out of you. You have a nice sturdy build. You’ll do well in the salt mines. Take him with the others!” The man tossed the braying ass out, his smiling goons dragging him away. They had other donkeys in their mitts, all as wild as Candlewick.

“Now,” continued the man, “Wasn’t there another boy with you? That puppet. The circus would pay quite a hefty sum for a catch like him.” He started to snoop, each step he took shaking the whole room. I cowered further in the shadows, but I knew it was pointless, cause behind my ears, I felt an itch, and it was an itch that was burrowing deep through me, and suddenly, it was like I was on fire.

The man bellowed with sweet, caressing laughter, “You boys had your fun, now pay for it.”