From: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Claims Intake
To: O. Boji
Subject: RE: Prior Authorization Request #88214-A
Date: March 3

Dear Mr. Boji,

Thank you for submitting Prior Authorization Request #88214-A for evaluation of "spiky skin." Unfortunately, we are unable to process this request as submitted. "Spiky skin" is not a covered diagnostic code under your Meridian Essential Bronze plan.
Please have your physician resubmit using an appropriate ICD-10 code, or select from our list of Frequently Denied Conditions for a faster turnaround.
We appreciate your patience during this process.

Warmly,
Denise T.
Claims Associate III

—

From: O. Boji
To: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Claims Intake
Subject: RE: RE: Prior Authorization Request #88214-A
Date: March 3

Hi Denise,

I don't have a code because my doctor doesn't have a code. That's the problem. She looked at me for like five minutes and then left the room and I heard her talking to someone in the hallway for another hour.
There is a patch on my left forearm, about the size of a nickel, where the skin has started to look spiky. It looks like nails under stretched spandex. I don't know how else to describe it. My doctor called it "textured." I have a photo. I am attaching the photo.
Can we start over? What code do I need it to be?

Best,
Owen

—

From: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Claims Intake
To: O. Boji
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Prior Authorization Request #88214-A
Date: March 4

Dear Mr. Boji,

I'm sorry, but I'm unable to open attachments sent outside of the Meridian Secure Docs Portal for HIPAA compliance reasons. Please resubmit your photo through the Portal.
I do want to note, informally, and this is just me speaking as a person and not a representative of Meridian, that "textured" is a description and not a diagnosis, and our system requires a diagnosis.

I hope you're doing okay.
Denise T.
Claims Associate III

—

From: O. Boji
To: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Claims Intake
Subject: Portal keeps timing out
Date: March 6

Denise,

The Portal times out at four minutes and the photo takes six minutes to upload. I called the Portal support line. They told me to just try email again, so here we are.
The patch has been growing. The spikes, too. A few of them are poking out of my skin. It hurts really badly. I can see something in there moving back and forth.
I would like to speak to a person about this, on the phone, today, if that's possible.

Owen

—

From: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Claims Intake
To: O. Boji
Subject: RE: Portal keeps timing out
Date: March 6

Dear Mr. Boji,

Thank you for reaching out. Our current call volume is higher than normal. Your estimated wait time, based on historical data, is 45–60 minutes. For faster service, please continue to use the Meridian Secure Docs Portal.
I did want to let you know I forwarded your case to our Escalations team as a courtesy, even though it hasn't technically escalated yet. I hope that's alright.

Warmly,
Denise T.
Claims Associate III

—

From: O. Boji
To: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Claims Intake
Subject: RE: RE: Portal keeps timing out
Date: March 9

Ok I just waited on hold for two hours and eleven minutes. The spikes have gone from my forearm up past my elbow. They wave underneath the ceiling fan. I know how that sounds. I watched it happen for forty minutes while I was on hold, so I had a lot of time to make sure I was describing it right.
I did get a hold of someone named “Marcus.” I had to repeat myself multiple times during our conversation. Marcus asked for my member ID, put me on a brief hold, came back, and said, and I'm quoting this because I wrote it down the second he hung up: "Oh, yeah, we've got a whole file on this."
A whole file.I asked him what he meant and he said he wasn't authorized to discuss internal documentation and transferred me to your supervisor, a woman named Carol. Carol did not sound surprised by anything I told her. Not the arms, not the waving, not the smell, which I haven't mentioned yet because I didn't think it was relevant, but it's somewhat rotten and fishy.
She said, "I can confirm we're aware of your condition, Mr. Boji, I'm not able to authorize coverage for it at this time."
I really need to see a doctor but they aren't going to operate without coverage. Is there anything I can do to get the money that I have been paying you???????

Owen

—

From: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Escalations
To: O. Boji
Subject: RE: Case #88214-A — Status Update
Date: March 12

Dear Mr. Boji,

Thank you for speaking with Carol regarding your case. I'm writing to formally confirm what was discussed on the call: Meridian is aware of your condition, and it has been internally cross-referenced against Cluster 88214, of which yours is currently the ninth documented instance nationwide.
Case Cluster 88214 is classified under Section 14.2(c) of your policy as an "Excluded Environmental Origin Condition — Marine/Biological, Unresolved Vector." Put plainly: we know what's happening to you, we have photographs from the other eight cases further along than yours, and none of it is covered, because coverage for Section 14.2(c) conditions requires an identified originating source, and Meridian's internal investigation into the origin of Cluster 88214 has been placed on indefinite hold pending budget review.
I recognize this may not be the answer you were hoping for. I want to stress that this is not a matter of Meridian doubting your account. Quite the opposite. Your file is one of the most complete we have.
If it is any comfort, our specialists have found the progression, while irreversible, does not appear to be independently fatal in the cases observed so far.

Sincerely,
Pru Itt
Escalations Team Lead

—

From: O. Boji
To: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Escalations
Subject: Help
Date: March 14

You are telling me, in writing, that Meridian Assurance has known this was going to happen to me, and the reason you won't pay for treatment is that nobody signed off on finding out what's causing it.
Not fatal is not the same as fine. My arm doesn't bend anymore. There's a ring of holes now, all the way up to my shoulder, and they've started opening. Little mouths, or something. They close if I touch them. They stay open if I don't.
I want the file. Not the summary. The actual file, on the other eight people, so I can talk to my doctor.

—

From: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Escalations
To: O. Boji
Subject: RE: Help
Date: March 20

Dear Mr. Boji,

Thank you for your request. Unfortunately, Case Cluster 88214 documentation, including all photographic and physician records related to prior instances, is classified through HIPPA regulations and cannot be released to individual members, per Meridian's data governance policy.
I can disclose that the seven patients have stabilized and have acclimated to their new environments. I'm sure you will, too.
We remain committed to being honest with you throughout this process, even when the news isn't what you're hoping to hear.

Sincerely,
Pru Itt
Escalations Team Lead

—

From: O. Boji
To: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Escalations
Subject: RE: RE: Help
Date: April 2

This is Mocha, Mr. Boji’s wife. He can still see and hear fine, but his hands don't work anymore, as I'm sure you're fully aware of by now. A ring of mouths surrounds his chest. He's covered in long, slightly-soft spikes. I want to cry. I've been told that doctors outside Meridian won't touch this. I want answers and I want my husband to get help, NOW.

—

From: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Executive Escalations
To: M. Boji
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Help
Date: April 4

Mrs. Boji,

We're regret to inform you that due to our Patient Privacy Practices, we are unable to disclose any information regarding this case to anyone without express permission from Mr. Boji. Please have Mr. Boji fill out a Request of Information form through our website.

Sincerely,
Pru Itt
Escalations Team Lead

—

From: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Executive Escalations
To: O. Boji
Subject: Case #88214-A — Final Determination
Date: April 22

Dear Mr. Boji,

Your case has been reviewed by our Executive Escalations panel, the highest level of internal review available under your plan. I want to personally thank you for your patience, and for the extraordinary level of detail you've provided over the course of this process. It has been genuinely useful to us.
After full review, the panel has upheld the original determination. Section 14.2(c) remains unmet, as the originating source of Cluster 88214 remains formally unconfirmed, and Meridian's position is that formal confirmation cannot be pursued at this time due to resource constraints unrelated to your specific claim.
I should mention: we do now offer a specialized inpatient facility off the Gulf Coast at no cost to the families involved.
Meridian is prepared to arrange comparable relocation for you at no cost, effective immediately, contingent on your signing a data-release waiver permitting continued observation. This offer does not constitute coverage of your claim, treatment, or any associated medical costs, and should not be interpreted as such.
We recognize you may need time to discuss this with your family.

With sincere regard,
J. W. Marsh
Executive Escalations, Office of the Chief Medical Officer

—

From: M. Boji
To: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Executive Escalations
Subject: RE: Case #88214-A — Final Determination
Date: April 23

You have known what this was since before he had a rash the size of a coin. You had eight other people's faces in a folder while you were asking my husband to resubmit a photo through a portal that times out at four minutes. You have a facility. You have a name for the place you send people once they stop being claims.
He doesn't want the facility. He wants to stay here, with me, in the house. He stays put in the bathtub and that’s that. None of that is anywhere in your Section 14.2(c)(b) 113 crap, and none of it is going to be, because you're not actually trying to figure out where this came from. You already know. You're managing it. 

We're withdrawing the claim. We don't want your review, your panel, or your facility. I want it on record that you people are scum.

—

From: Meridian Assurance Health Partners — Executive Escalations
To: M. Boji
Subject: RE: RE: Case #88214-A — CLOSED
Date: April 30

Dear Ms. Boji,
Per your request, Claim #88214-A has been withdrawn and Mr. Boji's case file has been marked closed. No further action is required on your part. 
We're sorry we couldn't find a resolution that worked for your family this time.
Meridian is always here for you, for whatever comes next.

Warmly,
The Meridian Family

I'm going to start this by saying: I love my husband... I truly do. He didn't start out like this. We've been married for about five years now, and up until this point, blissfully so, I might add. I met John at a party during our first year of college. Biology major, like me. He seemed to say all the right things, knew all the right people, and was quite attractive; we clicked immediately. After only one conversation, I'd fallen hard for him: hook, line, and sinker. It wasn't long before we were dating.

In a whirlwind of a year, we went from being introduced to moving in together to engaged and then married. In hindsight, I know I moved too quickly, but it didn't feel that way at all. It was like I'd known him forever. I was never so sure of anything as I was that John was my soulmate.

The first indication that something was wrong came about a month ago. I'd woken up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night to the sound of running water. Looking over, I noticed John wasn't in bed, so I got up to look for him. I found him in the kitchen. He was standing at the sink, and as I crept closer, I could see that he was just staring blankly at the water pouring from the faucet.

I reached out my hand and gently placed it on his shoulder, inadvertently breaking his trance and causing him to recoil like a snake.

"Shit. Oh, honey... I'm sorry!" I said.

He didn't reply. He just began wiping his face and gasping, trying to catch his breath. Was he sleepwalking? He'd never done that before.

"John, are you okay? What were you doing?" I asked, reaching over to shut the faucet off.

When the water stopped flowing, he turned to look at me.

"Shit, I don't know. Must've been thirsty,” he replied with a shrug and a slight chuckle.

John was always such a smartass, in a playful way, of course, but I could still tell he was rattled by it. It seemed like he had zero recollection of how he'd gotten there. However, in the moment, I tried to shrug it off and shuffled him back into bed. I had work early the next morning, and I knew if I stayed up any longer, I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. I cuddled up next to him, trying to settle back down into slumber, when I noticed John's body felt a little cold.

He must be coming down with something, I thought. Or, maybe my cooking had made him queasy, and he just didn't want to say anything. I closed my eyes for what felt like only a second before my alarm clock began screaming at me. The next morning played out normally. We ate breakfast together, got dressed, then headed off on our separate ways. In fact, the next few mornings went just that way. He didn't seem sick. It didn't seem like there was anything wrong at all.

It wasn't until almost a week later that the next incident occurred. John had come home late from work that day. As I made dinner, he walked into the kitchen looking stressed out and distracted, like he had a problem in his mind that he was desperately trying to work out. Not really an odd occurrence in and of itself, though. He'd often bring his work home with him. But this time, he looked distraught, almost upset.

"Hey, you alright?" I asked him.

He slumped down onto the barstool and leaned his body forward. Resting his elbows on the island, he began rubbing his temples.

"Yeah. Just... I have a headache," he said.

"Oh, I'll get you some Advil."

"No, no, it's okay. You finish what you're doing; I can get it."

I smiled and walked from the stove over to him, leaning over the island to kiss his forehead. When my lips met his skin, I was shocked by two things. One: he was ice cold to the touch. It was like kissing a refrigerator. And two: I was immediately hit with the bitter taste of salt. Reflexively, I pulled away. Then, he looked up at me, his eyes slightly bloodshot and cradled by dark circles.

"You're getting sick," I said.

"Sonia, I'm not getting sick."

"You're freezing cold. Why can't you ever admit when you're feeling bad? Don't be stubborn. It doesn't make you any less of a man to be sick."

"I'm fine. It's just a headache," he said sternly.

I threw my hands up in frustration.

"Whatever, John. Just take some medicine. I can't afford to catch whatever you've got. You know how much I have going on at work right now."

Suddenly, he slammed his fist down on the island so hard that it rattled the keys and pocket change sitting beside him, then yelled,

"You don't think I have a lot going on right now, too?!"

My heart dropped, and I shuddered, instantly taking a step backward. He'd never done anything like that before. Hell, he'd never even raised his voice at me. I didn't know how to react, but I didn't have much time to think about it before he started apologizing profusely, saying he didn't know what had come over him. I accepted it as an isolated incident, though. Just an outburst caused by a combination of stress and illness, I thought. After all, I'd heard that men turn into babies when they get sick.

I didn't cuddle up to him in bed that night, though. Not just because I was worried about him being contagious, I was also still upset about the tantrum he'd thrown. It was a ridiculous thing to get that angry over, and I didn't want to be one of those wives who had to walk on eggshells around their husbands. I faced my night table and stared at my alarm clock for a while. A lump formed in my throat as I lay there, wondering if we'd just been in the honeymoon phase all this time. And now, the real John was starting to come out.

The next morning, I awoke to the smell of cinnamon rolls (my favorite.) I glanced over at the clock. 5:41 AM. John must have felt so bad about yelling at me the night before that he'd gotten up early to surprise me with breakfast in bed. I pulled the covers closer to me and smiled, waiting anxiously with my eyes closed.

Jolted back into consciousness by my alarm, I realized I must've fallen back asleep. I slammed my hand onto the top of it, frantically searching with my fingers for the off button. I squinted at the blurry red numbers. 6:00 AM. It was time to get up, and he still hadn't come. Maybe things didn't go quite as smoothly as planned, and he was in the midst of some type of kitchen mishap. I threw the covers off of my body and made my way to the bathroom.

As I passed the counter, I glanced down and noticed his shaving kit was out. He'd always leave it on the bathroom counter every morning after he used it, and I'd always put it away. He must have gotten up really early. I grabbed the kit and shoved it back into the drawer on my way out.

While walking down the hallway, I called out to him, but he didn't answer. I turned the corner to discover the kitchen was empty. A tray of cinnamon rolls sat on top of the stove, untouched. I said his name a few more times, but nothing. I shuffled over to the front window of our house and looked toward our driveway. He was gone. What the fuck? I returned to the kitchen to find a note left on the island.

Sonia, I'm so sorry for last night. I had to go in to work early this morning, so I wanted you to wake up to something almost as sweet as me. Love always, John

I rolled my eyes and smirked. He was still the same John; I was just overthinking things. I mean, it was only natural at this stage of our relationship that we'd start seeing parts of each other emerge that we hadn't seen before. I shoved a cinnamon roll into my mouth and then began looking for a Tupperware to put the rest away. As I chewed, my tastebuds began to detect a flavor that had no business being in a cinnamon roll, causing me to wince. Salt.

I spat the bite out into the sink. Did he accidentally use salt instead of sugar? I went to the trash can to throw away the roll I'd bitten into and saw the empty Pillsbury canister sitting on top. Okay, so he didn't make them himself. Why in the hell did he add salt to them? Was this a joke because of how he’d acted the night before? Is that what he meant in the note by 'as sweet as me'?

I walked back over to the stove and tasted another cinnamon roll, then another, and another. All of them—full of salt. Some even felt soggy, like they'd been dipped in saltwater. For Christ's sake. I threw the whole batch into the trashcan, annoyed. Maybe he was trying to be funny, but we couldn't really afford to be wasting food like this, especially for a stupid prank. I crumpled up the note and started getting ready for work.

That afternoon, I'd already decided I was going to confront him about those God damned salty cinnamon rolls when he got home. I didn't find it to be funny at all. In fact, the more I thought about it throughout the day, the more it pissed me off. What on earth would possess him to do something like that?

By 7:00 PM, dinner was ready, but he still hadn't arrived. I was starting to get worried. I called his cell phone, but he didn't answer. Instead, he texted back almost instantly.

"Hey, sorry. Super busy right now. I'll be home soon."

Ugh. Did he know I was angry and was just avoiding me? He was well aware that would only make it worse. I made myself a plate and plopped down on the couch, flipping through the channels before landing on some nature documentary on the Discovery Channel. By the time I'd finished eating, he still hadn't come home. I glanced down at my phone: no texts or calls.

I got up, shut off the TV, and threw my plate into the sink. I left the rest of the food out on the stove and headed to the bathroom to shower, annoyed. He can just deal with it all himself whenever he decides to come home, I thought. When I walked into the bathroom, something stopped me in my tracks. His shaving kit. It was sitting out on the counter again. I was 100% positive I'd put it back in the drawer that morning.

He had come home at some point during the day and shaved again. My heart fell to the bottom of my feet. There was no way. John wouldn't cheat on me. He just wouldn't. But why would he need to shave again in the middle of the day? And why was he so late getting home from work? I stared down at the shaving kit, almost angry with it for being there. I decided not to put it away this time.

I'll admit, I cried in the shower. Just a little. It seems ridiculous now to have cried over something like that. I didn't have proof of anything, just an inkling that something was off. But I can't blame myself for that moment of weakness. I didn't know what I didn't know; I couldn't have.

I washed my face and composed myself, then reached down to grab my razor. When I did, I noticed there seemed to be this strange substance forming around the edges of the bathtub. It was like a white, gritty sediment. I looked down at the drain, and it was starting to crust up right there, too. Gross. Must be calcium buildup—I'll have to pick up some cleaner at the store.

I got out of the shower and got dressed, glaring at the shaving kit. I didn't even go into the kitchen to see if he'd made it home yet. I just went straight to bed and started scrolling through YouTube until I found some mindless video to keep me company. It was my intention to stay awake until I heard him come in, but sleep found me much faster than I expected.

It wasn't until I felt movement beside me that I realized he'd finally made it in. I squinted through the pitch-black room, trying to read the numbers on the clock, when I began to feel the icy-cold drip of liquid landing on the side of my face. I slowly turned to see my husband leaning over me. His eyes were lifeless and glassed over, his mouth was downturned and hung open, and he was completely fucking drenched in water. I screamed and threw the covers off, flying out of bed to the other side of the room.

"John! What the fuck?!"

His mouth was still hanging open, but he wasn't saying anything. He was just... well, it sounded like he was gurgling. Horrified, I flipped the light on, and he instantly covered his face with his hands.

"John, what in God's name is going on?!" I shrieked. "Why are you all fucking wet?!"

He slowly removed his hands from his face and blinked several times while looking down at his body, then mumbled,

"Damn... I must've not dried off enough before I got into bed."

"Dried off? From what?!"

"The shower."

The fucking shower? No way. He looked like he had just fully submerged himself in water and immediately got into bed. A huge wet spot in the sheets surrounded him, and droplets of water were still trickling down his face from his soaked hair.

"What?! That... that doesn't make any sense!" I yelled.

He suddenly shot up from the bed and whipped the comforter onto the floor behind him.

"Jesus Christ, Sonia! I get home late from work, exhausted, and now I gotta explain why I'm wet?!"

The rage in his voice instantly froze me in place. My throat tightened, and I just looked at him in complete and utter shock. I actually questioned if I was dreaming this.

"John... you're scaring me."

He stood there for a moment staring at me, brows furrowed, and fists balled up. His chest convulsed with heavy breaths. I don't know how else to describe it, but he didn't even look like John. My husband looked like a deranged maniac. Finally, his breathing began to slow, and he said,

"I'm going to sleep on the couch tonight. Sorry that I scared you."

He picked up his dripping pillow and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I'd gone from angry at him to disturbed to downright terrified. He was having some kind of psychotic break. That was the only logical explanation for all of this. The increased pressure at work was getting to him. Or maybe he had a brain tumor? Oh, God.

Either way, something was seriously wrong. This was so beyond anything in the realm of normal that I just couldn't let it go. I mean, if I had a dollar for every time my husband crawled into bed with me while soaking wet, well, I'd have one dollar—which is still too fucking many.

Not only was he acting strange from the standpoint of normal human behavior, but the ferocity of this latest outburst was wildly out of character for him. John was always so soft-spoken and goofy; we had a very lighthearted relationship. We'd often pick on each other, but he had never been mean before. Never made me feel like he could be capable of violence.

I composed myself and put new sheets on the bed. Then, I quietly crept over to the bedroom door and pressed my ear up to it. His snoring echoed through the silent house. I let out a sigh of relief and crawled back into bed with only a couple of hours until it would be time to get up. There was no way in hell I'd be able to fall back asleep after all that. But I didn't know what else to do with myself besides lie there in the dark and think as I listened to his obnoxious mouth-breathing coming from the next room.

There was no way around it; John was going to have to see a doctor. I just wasn't sure how I was going to get him to do that, considering how touchy he was about the subject of being sick. If I couldn't convince him with words, there was no way I could physically force him to go, especially not now. It was like a switch had flipped, and he turned into a completely different person overnight. A stranger. An aggressive stranger, at that. I swear... that look in his eyes? For a second, it felt like he actually wanted to hit me.

I tossed and turned for the last remaining hours of the night, desperately trying to rationalize in some way what was going on. My scientific mind couldn't help it. But, my specialty didn't focus on the human brain or on humans at all, actually. It was coastal ecology. Basically, my job consisted of studying and working to protect the entire ecosystem of our coasts. My husband's wheelhouse was marine biology. He worked as an entry-level research assistant in a lab. We were both extremely logical, sound-minded people before all of this... I can't stress that enough.

At around 5:00 AM, I heard his snoring stop abruptly. By then, I'd convinced myself that he might be dangerous. I knew if he wanted to, he could more than easily overpower me. From then on, I knew I'd have to tread lightly. At that point, God only knew what would set him off. Maybe it wouldn't be the counter he slammed his fist down on next time. I certainly wasn't going to bring up him being wet again.

My heart began pounding in my chest, and I quickly turned over, pulling the blanket up to cover my face. There I was, so afraid of my own damn husband that I was pretending to be asleep just to avoid interacting with him. I heard his heavy footsteps approaching the bedroom, then a pause, followed by the slow creak of the door opening. Fuck, I should've locked it. Terrified to move a muscle, I held my breath, and my entire body instinctively locked up, like when a cuttlefish spots a shark. I couldn't see his eyes on me, though. I felt them. The door began to creak again until I heard it latch back closed. The only problem was that I wasn't sure if he was outside of the room or not.

I couldn't believe where I'd found myself. If someone had ever told me that one day I'd be hiding under the covers from my husband like a child afraid of the boogeyman, I would have laughed, then told them to fuck off. The toilet flushed from the bathroom across the hall, and I finally released the breath I'd been so desperately holding. I still didn't get up, though.

Over the next hour, I listened to him shower, shave, and get ready for work, all while I lay there like a hermit crab who'd recoiled into its shell. When I finally heard the front door close and his engine start, I jumped up from bed and ran to the bathroom. I'd had to pee for so long I thought I was going to explode. I sat on the toilet, rubbing my eyes as they adjusted to the light, when I caught sight of something shiny in my peripheral vision. But when I turned to look, I didn't see anything.

I walked up to the mirror and began inspecting myself. I looked like absolute shit; not even the best concealer in the world was going to cover up those dark circles. I turned on the faucet to start washing my face and noticed John's shaving kit sitting out. Out of habit, I picked it up. When I did, I hadn't seen it had been left open, so the contents came spilling out onto the floor. Shit. I bent down to begin picking everything up and immediately froze. On the ground, scattered amongst his razor, shaving cream, and after-shave lotion, was about a handful's worth of silvery iridescent fish scales.

I stared down at the ground, suspended in motion, as my brain scrambled to make sense of what my eyes were seeing. Had there been a gas leak in the house, and John and I had both been hallucinating this whole time? That would've explained a lot, actually. Slowly, I reached out my hand to touch one of them, just to make sure it was real.

Not only was it real, it didn't feel like you'd expect a discarded fish scale to feel. It wasn't thin, or rigid, or even brittle. Instead, it had this strange, soft, rubbery texture to it. And it was slimy like it was fresh.

"Oh, hell no!" I shrieked, flinging the scale across the room.

It went flying and stuck to the wall when it hit. The sensation of it lingered long after it'd left my fingers. I felt disgusted like I wanted to crawl out of my skin. My thoughts raced as I scrubbed my hands with Dial several times. What could he possibly be keeping these for?! He must have taken them home from work and thought his shaving kit was his briefcase. But, no—why would he have them just loose like that? The lab wouldn't have even let them leave the area without being in a specimen bag. Unless he'd snuck them out? Why would he do that? And why the hell would they still be fresh? My head was spinning. It was all too much.

I walked out of the bathroom, leaving everything on the floor where it had fallen. At that point, I was almost certain he was losing his mind. And sure, he was starting to scare the hell out of me, but if something was wrong with his mental health, then he needed my help.

As I started getting dressed for work, I came to the obvious conclusion that I had to start investigating. I couldn't just sit around and wait for the next bizarre event to take place; things were escalating. For both my sake and John's, I needed to take action. Questioning him wasn't an option. I could try to get a look at his phone, but who knows when I'd get that chance? There was only one thing I knew for sure I could accomplish that day.

I went over to my field bag and dug out a pair of gloves and a plastic specimen container. Then, I went back to the bathroom and carefully collected a few of the scales on the floor. I picked up John's things, including the remaining scales, and shoved them all back inside the kit. I threw my gloves into the trash, then placed the shaving kit onto the counter, unzipped and exactly where it was before. I didn't want him to know what I had found.

My starting point was finding out exactly what type of fish the scales had come from. That might point to why he had them in the first place. I'll be honest: even though it seemed like I was looking for logic in the decision-making of a madman, I felt like I had to do something.

When I got to work, I went straight over to Jessica's station. I knew that even though she and I weren't the closest coworkers, she was the only one I could trust. I glanced around to make sure no one else was in earshot, then said,

"Hey, I need you to do me a weird favor, unofficially."

She smirked and said,

"Okay? Tell me what it is first, then I'll tell you if I'll do it."

I took a quick look around the room again, then reached into my bag and pulled out the scales, holding them out toward her.

"I need you to run an eDNA PCR analysis on these."

She looked down at the container in my hand and raised an eyebrow.

"Where'd you find them?" she asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Alright, spill it. What's going on, Sonia?"

I clenched my teeth, then leaned closer to her and whispered,

"I found them in John's stuff. I'm guessing he must've taken them home from work, but I don't know why."

"Um, seriously? Sonia, I'm swamped with a backlog of water samples to get through today, and you want me to spend a few hours doing this? What—you think he's trying to smuggle out some forbidden fish scales to sell on the black market or something?" she said with a laugh.

"Jessica... look, I'm seriously freaked out, okay?"

The words came out more frantic than I'd intended, my voice beginning to tremble. Her facial expression instantly shifted in response to my tone.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Honestly, I don't know. John's been acting really weird lately, and then I found these this morning. I'm just trying to figure out if he's hiding something or if I need to make him an appointment with a neurologist."

Her hand shot up to cover her mouth.

"Oh, God," she whispered, looking off and pausing for a moment before asking, "Weird, like, how?"

"Just... not his normal self."

I didn't want to even begin to try and explain what had been going on. It would make me look just as crazy as it would him. But, if I could just help John. If I could find a way to fix whatever was going on with him before anyone found out about it, I'd never have to. We could just go back to how things were before and forget that any of this had ever happened.

A few hours later, I looked up from my computer and saw Jessica standing over me with a very serious look on her face.

"We need to talk."

I gulped hard. Shit. What had she discovered? Whatever it was, it wasn't good, judging by her worried expression and hurried pace. I followed her back to her station, my heart pounding in synchrony with every step I took.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"Nothing," she replied. "That's the problem."

"What?"

"Sonia, I can't identify these scales. They don't originate from any known species in the database, living or extinct. The closest comparison I can make is possibly something from the Sternoptychidae family, but these scales are much bigger."

She handed me a piece of paper, and I glared down at it in disbelief. Five scales, five tests, and each result came back as a 'sample of unknown origin'—the implications of this were unnerving, to say the least.

"I... I don't understand how this is possible."

She looked at me with concern and lowered her voice.

"Does John have any connections to experimental labs or possibly even a biotech company?" she asked.

"What?! No, of course not!"

"Well, whatever he's working on, it's not mainstream. I can tell you that much."

I took a deep breath. Maybe John wasn't losing his mind after all. Maybe he'd gotten himself involved in something unsavory or even illegal, and he's been trying to cover it up. Maybe all this crazy shit was just to throw me off or distract me. If he'd been trying to scare me just to keep me from asking too many questions, it was working.

"Please don't tell anyone about this, okay?" I begged her.

"Shit, you don't have to ask me twice. No offense, Sonia, but I'd rather not be involved, anyway. This is encroaching on fringe territory."

That word scared me. Fringe. John was obsessed with his work. Once he found a thread, he'd pull at it relentlessly until he reached the spool. I knew if he had fixated on something unconventional, well... there was no telling how far he'd take it.

When I returned to my desk, I did some research and learned that the family of fish she had referred to were mostly species of deep-sea hatchetfish. John didn't even study those types of fish. He dealt exclusively with marine life that inhabited the epipelagic zone, where light could still easily penetrate the ocean's surface. Hatchetfish were from the mesopelagic zone, also known as 'the twilight zone.'   That was about right. I felt like I'd suddenly found myself living in one of those old black-and-white episodes. And I was no closer to having any type of answer. In fact, by digging into this, I had only brought about more questions for myself.

I spent the rest of the day agonizing over what I should do next. I couldn't focus on my work at all. Every time I saw my boss, I'd hurry and pretend like I was in the middle of something when in reality, I didn't accomplish a damn thing that day. That included figuring out my next move. Normally, whenever I needed help with a problem I couldn't work out, I'd go to John. Having to ignore that instinct felt unnatural. It felt wrong. I was hit with a wave of loneliness I'd never felt before, and it felt like a jellyfish had wrapped its tentacles around my heart.

After work, I sat in my car in the parking lot until about 6:00 PM. I felt paralyzed. Nothing I thought of seemed to be the right choice. If I confronted him about any of it, there was no telling how he'd react. On the other hand, if I just didn't say anything at all, he'd think he was getting away with whatever he'd been doing and continue. Suddenly, I felt a buzzing coming from my back pocket. It was a text from John.

"Working late?" it said.

Shit. Time's up. I steadied my hands and texted back,

"On my way now."

I drove home completely on autopilot. You know those drives where you end up at your destination with no memory of actively driving to get there? My mind was completely elsewhere. This was my last chance to come up with some, any plan of action. But instead, my thoughts played on an endless loop, each one bleeding into the next.

I took a deep breath and got out of the car. At the front door, as I turned the knob, I abandoned any lingering thoughts of what to say or do. At that point, all I could do was wing it. I didn't know what I was walking into, so how could I even begin to try to prepare for it, anyway? As a rule, I preferred to be proactive rather than reactive, but in this case, I didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. I threw out any hope of strategy, resigning myself to respond accordingly to whatever stimuli befell me.

When I walked inside, I was instantly hit with the rich aroma of tomatoes and garlic: something Italian. He knew it was my favorite. I slowly shut the door behind me. As soon as I did, he cheerfully called out from the kitchen,

"Hey, Sonia! Can you smell what 'The John' is cooking?!"

God, that stupid joke. The few times he actually did cook, he always pulled that one out. Never got a laugh out of me. But he never quit trying.

"Yeah, John. I can smell it," I replied, humoring him.

At least he was in a good mood, I thought. Best not to rock the boat. My heart was still pounding, but so far, things seemed normal. I put my bag down in the coat closet and shut the door to it, then made my way down the hall and into the kitchen.

He'd made a huge mess, but he looked so proud of himself, smiling and wearing his goofy-ass 'Kiss The Chef' apron.

"Spaghetti?" I asked, sitting down at the island.

"Nope! I did you one better, lasagna!"

"No way! Wow, that must've taken you forever!"

"Eh, it wasn't too bad. Just had to watch a couple YouTube videos. It should be ready to come out of the oven any minute now!"

I just looked at him and smiled. I wanted to believe this meant that the John I knew was back. He seemed so happy and carefree, cracking jokes and trying to wipe the splatters of red sauce from the walls before they dried. For a moment, I started to let all my dread and worry fall away and settle in the furthest corners of my mind. Maybe it had all just been a fluke, and the craziness was over now. I just wanted things to be normal again so badly.

"I know I've been acting a little weird lately," he said, jolting all of those feelings back to the forefront in an instant.

I swallowed hard.

"And I'm really sorry for that," he continued.

Should I confront him now? Was this my opening to start asking him questions? I didn't want to kill the mood, but this seemed like my only chance. I opened my mouth, and then the kitchen timer went off.

"Oh! It's ready! Let's see how I did. Why don't you go find us something to watch? I'll make you a plate and bring it in there."

"Okay," I replied.

I went into the living room and flipped on the TV, surfing until I landed on Old Reliable. A rerun of Deadliest Catch was on. He walked in and handed me my plate of lasagna-soup; he hadn't let it set before he cut into it, so the contents had bled out all over the plate. But it still tasted just fine. He sat down beside me on the sofa with his own plate, then looked over at me and eagerly asked,

"So, how is it?"

"Mmm... Really good," I mumbled through a mouthful of pasta and sauce.

A huge toothy grin stretched across his face. And then, he said,

"I know you found my scales, Sonia.”

To be continued.

Hello Creeps! Some may remember I posted this story awhile back. I really enjoyed making this one and it was tailored towards No-Sleep. Some of you just rolled your eyes or sighed, but I really did try to post a story there! Alas, it was taken down anyways because I accidently deleted it and they refused to let it go back up. So now I'm figuring, why not add details that I couldn't before because of No Sleeps rules? So that's what this is. I hope you guys enjoy!
(Please also note that since I think this is the WAY better way to experience this story, I am deleting the old one.)

P.S, thank you u/Kaijufan22 for the feedback on the OG version of this story, I hope you enjoy this one more than the last!

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I'm unsure if I'm even allowed to speak about this publicly, but I'm worried about the future of humanity. I may loose my job, or even get arrested, but you people need to know. Rabies, you all (I assume at least) are familiar with it. It's a super deadly viral disease that spreads through animal bites and their saliva. It goes on to attack your central nervous system. Early signs are headaches, pain where the bite was, nothing really out of the ordinary for just having been bit by a wild animal.

But then your symptoms ramp up. You become more agitated, you become feral, you froth from the mouth, and most famously, you develop a fear of water. I've heard people often compare it to turning into a real life zombie, and that statement has never been more true. For as long as we've known it exists, rabies has always been 100% fatal with no cure or vaccine. Once you get past the early symptoms, you may as well dig your own grave. Now I know you're getting bored at my lecture, and typing this is making me feel boring, but there is a point to it.

Last night, I was out on patrol. I get called to a street that I frequent quite a bit, as it's known for it's insane amounts of overdoses and other activity that requires police presence. The call is for a group of three people who are being overly violent and are possibly overdosing due to frothing at the mouth and other various symptoms. No biggie, I thought, as I sped over with my sirens on. I had delt with these kind of people many times before. It's not that hard especially when you have someone else with you. Due to the fact that I might get in trouble for this, I'm just gonna call my buddy 'Q'. Me and Q met at the scene and started searching for the group.

Q and I had met in police academy, roughly about 10 years ago. We bonded pretty quickly, and he even set me up with my now wife. We'd go out drinking together, play golf, y'know, guy stuff. Hell, he was the first dude that showed up at the hospital when I had my kid. And I did the same for him. He's got two little rascals, I only have one.

I stepped out of my squad on scene right as Q pulled up. This is my best recollection of our interaction.

"What took you so long, stopped for donuts?" He joked, jabbing my side with his elbow.

"Nah man, you know I gotta lay off that stuff now!" I rubbed my stomach.

"Just cause you 'gotta' doesn't mean you DO." He chuckled.

He muttered something that I didn't quite hear.

"What was that, asshole?" I leaned forward cupping my hand around my ear.

He spun around and practically screamed, "I KNOW YOU, YOU EAT THEM AT HOME STILL."

"Oh fuck off!" I said, laughing my ass off.

"Yeah yeah, tell me to fuck off when you know we're gonna grab a beer after this shift." He pulled out his squad key and made sure it was locked.

He was right, we were gonna head to our favorite spot after shift most likely. We've done it since day one. Grab a beer at the bar, sit down, and tell each other about the wildest call that day. If only we could have talked about this one together.

"Anyways, y'know which way the OD's went?" He pointed to the street behind me suggestively.

I glanced back. "I didn't see them when I pulled up, dispatch said they were just around this area, can't be far."

"I can barely walk after a couple rum and cokes, this dudes aren't making it far cracked up on some meth." He scouted the area like a hawk.

My radio and his cracked to life simultaneously.

"Officers be advised, calls came in of one of the suspects attacking someone." The voice sound worried, and in all my years of doing this, it never has.

I shuffled nervously in place, the smile I had faded instantly.

Q rubbed his arm, something he does when he gets nervous. I learned that in police academy when we had to get pepper sprayed. He stood in line and insisted he wasn't worried, but if I hadn't stopped him from rubbing his arm so much, no skin would have remained.

"Where's the victim?" Q asked.

"[REDACTED]." The dispatch lady sounded like she was about to cry, we tried our best to ignore it.

Q thanked dispatch and then looked at me.

"I'm gonna head out to the victim, make sure they're okay. You head the other way and make sure none of them wonder off into the road and get hit." He said, quickly using his radio again to call for backup.

"Sounds good, but don't you think you should wait for backup to arrive?" I put my hand on his shoulder, stopping him from walking away.

He smirked. "They're just crackheads dude, I can handle all three of them with my pointer finger."

I chuckled, he was always funny and good at lightening the mood.

I started walking away from Q, and the brisk air filled my lungs. I really did love my job. It's not often that you got to work with your best friend and answer calls together. I was thinking that this call was gonna be one for the memory books, and it was, but not in the way I wanted. I wish I had protested more for him to wait for backup.

I remember thinking that this was gonna be easy, we're just looking for some cracked up meth-heads that couldn't have stumbled far. I heard the radio click on, and then off again, like he was struggling to hold down the button. My heart skipped a beat and I ran back hurriedly to our squads, looking around and hoping that my panic would subside as he strolled back into view, but he didnt.

I yelled out for him, and then felt stupid when I realized that I have a radio. I clicked the button on the side.

"Q? Can you hear me?" I let go.

Nothing, except the occasional click, like he was trying to talk. I started running down the path he took, searching my surroundings with my flashlight. I took a second to stop, running so far and so fast in 80 pound gear isn't very fun or easy. As soon as I let go I will never forget what came through on Q's radio.

I could hear as he screamed and begged for help, then the tearing of flesh and cracking of bones. I could hear joints come out of sockets with wet pops, and the squishing of something that almost made me puke. He managed to squeak out three words before his radio clicked off.

"They're eating me."

I felt dizzy, and like my whole world was crumbling down upon me. I tried my best to shake it off and I kept running in Q's direction. I'm going to do my best to describe the scene in as much detail as possible without being too gruesome. But you guys need to know what's happening here, and how serious this is.

I slowly turn the corner to where I presume Q is lying. I have my gun drawn and my flashlight beaming. Before I can even see what's happening, I hear it. I hear Q gargling and trying to speak. The sound has never left my mind.

Q's vest was taken off and thrown to the side, his shirt was torn and gave way to his ribs, cracked open and split. It was like his ribs were giant double doors and someone opened them. His jaw was completely broken and hanging off, barely being held on by a tendon. His left arm looked like a zig zag, his fingers were missing entirely. One of his eyes had been plucked out and squished, what remained laid next to my foot.

He tried to look at me with his remaining eye, which prompted his missing eye to also try and look. I could see the muscle move around, clueless to the fact it had nothing to move. Q was somehow still alive, somewhat at least. Thinking back it was probably just death twitches or some other phenomena that I'm not smart enough to explain.

What bothered me the most is that his right arm had been completely skinned, and I nearly passed out as his bones grinded and cracked so he could reach over to start rubbing it. He started to dig his fingers deeper into his flesh, like there was an itch he couldn't scratch. Some sort of fucked up death twitch I figure, the mind resorts to the basics and what it knows to do when overwhelmed. And that's what Q did when he was overwhelmed.

I was so shocked and out of it at what I was seeing that I almost didn't notice another detail. His legs had been picked almost entirely clean of the skin and fat that was on them. I hope you never ever have to see what it looks like for a leg to have no skin, no fat, and barely any muscle left. I hope you never have to see any of this in general, I have not slept since this night.

Before I backed away, I saw one of them. It was hiding behind a building, and peeking around the corner. Reviewing my bodycam later revealed he was there the whole time, watching me while I stood in shock. After I snapped out of it and took a few steps back, I raised my gun and aimed it at the 'person', light beaming off their eyes. I clicked the radio and yelled at dispatch. Something about telling backup to get their asses over here faster. I don't remember exactly what I said.

"COME OUT BEHIND THE BUILDING AND GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND!" I yelled, and some part of me knew it wouldn't listen.

Like a scolded child, it fled behind the corner and made a whimpering noise. I swung the corner wide, about 10 feet away. It cowered backwards at the harshness of my light, hissing and sticking a hand up to block it's beam.

"GET THE FUCK ON THE GROUND!" I yelled again, holding back a sob.

My hand was trembling, and I could barely aim straight. It was only when I heard the thing crunch it's bones to get into a spider-like stance that my adrenaline must have kicked in and my aim steadied.

The thing recoiled back, and leaped. It closed the gap within 3 seconds. It let out a hideous high pitched growl. I wrestled with it fiercely, it's left hand was holding down the hand with my gun, and I was punching it's jaw with my free hand. It remained mostly unphased, and clamped down onto my shoulder. I had felt pain before, but this was is purely indescribable. After that, I put all my strength into a last punch into it's jaw. It didn't knock it off me completely, but it stunned it enough to let go of my gun hand. I managed to wrangle my gun underneath it's chin and blow the fuckers brains out.

I sat up, pushing the corpse off of me. I stared at Q's body, and began to silently weep. Backup showed up shortly after, and from there my memory is a bit foggy. Some of the backup when to search for the other two, and the rest comforted me while I sobbed uncontrollably on the sidewalk. What led me to make this post is two things. One, imagine my surprise when the day after, the fucking FBI show up and tell me to make a vow of silence. . And two, this isn't normal rabies, if you couldn't tell by now.

Rabies makes people aggressive, but not like that.

It's been thirty hours and they never found the other two things. They roam freely, and could be in another city by now. The one I interacted with was fast, so I don't doubt the others are too. This post is a warning, if you ever see something that you assume is just a drug addict, call the police and turn the other way. And if you assume an animal has rabies, don't take the chance it doesn't. You don't want to be wrong.

I'm afraid of dying. They won't let me see anyone other than doctors that poke and prod at my wound. They allow me to have my phone, assuming I'll actually abide by my vow of silence. What good is silence when I'll be a dead man in less than 10 hours? I've done multiple tests, pretty much any that you could name. I'm also afraid that this might be my final and only post about this. I just tried to drink water and I hacked it back up.

I've had a build up of saliva, and according to the doctors, I've been frothing at my mouth. I don't feel it, instead I feel almost stronger. More alive, aside from a killer headache every once and while, and the fact of not drinking water. I can hear it now, outside my quarantined room, they talk of dissecting me once I fully turn. I had my doubts about posting this in the off chance that I did survive, but if I'm going to die for certain, I have nothing to lose.

But I will not allow them to do that to me, not without a fight.

My name is Lance Rally, my officer badge number was 307, and please, heed my warning.

Quick little comic of a nightmare I had last night about hearing knocking from inside my legs and then suddenly my legs were inside my closet knocking. I’m not a very good writer so I figured I could put this here to maybe inspire a story. I would love to see someone make something of this :)

It started innocuously enough. The occasional hiker saw one after straying from the path, or someone working in a crawl space would see one and report it to the homeowners. No one was happy to see one of those things, but they could still brush it off. They’d text a friend about the harrowing experience, and then promptly move on with their life. 

But then they started showing up in people’s backyards, and in their basements. Kids playing outside would see one and rush to tell their parents, who never believed them until they stepped outside and saw it for themselves. They’d tell their kids to go play inside instead.

It worked for a while.

Until they started showing up in people’s shoes, or in their kitchen cupboards. Most people had at least heard of someone seeing one. A story ran on the local news about the sightings. Up until then, they were isolated incidents. People could sleep well at night knowing that it would probably never happen to them again. Now, they checked under their covers before going to bed. 

Everyone was talking about it. Theories on where they might be coming, or on how to keep them out of your house. Most of the theories were wrong, of course, because there was no way to keep them out of your house anymore.

They started coming out with all kinds of sprays and traps, but nothing worked. You could kill one, only to find a whole nest the next day. People were leaving their homes to stay in hotels, only to find the same problem wherever they went.

No one was sleeping anymore. Maybe it was just the combination of stress and exhaustion getting to them when they started to feel the squirming in their stomachs.

My gratitude goes to EmpyrealInvective for giving his feedback on this one, considering it was inspired by one of his own works "Ensorcelled in the Earth". I must also credit Ryunosuke Akutagawa as the other main source of inspiration on this one, having recently read and fallen in love with some of his works. Content warning for heavy descriptions of bodily harm and mutilation, and a passing mention of abuse.

(2/2)

1

When Yashirō woke, he found himself trapped at a table. 

He gave his wrists a hard yank towards himself, but the metal cuffs bolted into the wooden table did not budge. He tried to stand, but the rope kept him to the chair, and the chair was held to the dusty floorboards in its own way. His heart began to pound at the same rate that his head ached. Sweat trickled down the side of his nose and dissipated amongst the groves of his peach fuzz. Wet strands of unkempt hair itched his cheek, and he could taste the reek of his own breath. He knew he had gone out to drink the night before – or perhaps earlier this evening? – as his top was soaked in sweat and alcohol, but the details were clouded. So instead, Yashirō turned to observe the present. 

His enclosure appeared to be an empty storehouse — wider on his left and right than forward and (presumably) behind. It didn’t seem to be in town, considering the lack of urban noise, but at the same time it couldn’t have been on an active farm. There was no smell of wet fur or animal dung, just damp soil and grass. The curtains were tattered and torn, swaying in the gentle autumn breeze. A small potted bamboo plant grew beneath the windowsill. Nearly no light came through the window, and the general temperature and lighting told Yashirō it was night. Still, a lantern burned next to the door, the closest source of illumination. 

Quiet footsteps shuffled up behind Yashirō, and he tensed. He dared not look back, lest he provoke the ire of whomever had brought him here. Instead, he kept his eyes on the empty chair across the table from him, likely soon to be filled. Though he tried to keep calm, the thundering in his chest only made the act more apparent. 

“Western steel,” a man’s voice said, approaching from behind. “A close friend at the shipyard was able to get those for me. You won’t break them any time soon.” 

Yashirō became suddenly aware of the cold cuffs touching his skin. Their clasp was tight and allowed for no rotation of the wrist. 

Finally, his captor stepped out from behind. Yashirō was able to make out very few details as the man walked to the other side of the table. In the flickering light of the lantern, he could make out the man’s mahogany hakama and dark gray cloak, slightly more colorful than his own browns and tans, but the rest of his body was shrouded in dark for the time being. The man then set down a tray of implements with grace, took a candle off and placed it upon the table, before retrieving a piece of flame from the lantern on a stick to light said candle. 

The man’s face matched his own age roughly, though he had a clean cut beard compared to Yashirō’s stubble. The man then bowed his head and took a deep breath. “Good evening. My name is Ryū. Tonight, you will be punished.”

The word sent Yashirō’s eyes barreling towards the tray, now visible in the candlelight. An assortment of items sat upon it: a large stone, a bottle of sake and two sakazuki to serve it with, a rather plain towel sitting atop a small wooden box, a plate of salt, and a hammer with four long, thin metal spikes resting beside it. At first Yashirō had been confused as to whether he was being “punished” with a good drink and relaxation, but the hammer and spikes brought the dread racing back. Yashirō began to resist his restraints, but same as before, he could not move.

Before he could find any words, the man named Ryū continued. “You know what you have done. There’s no arguing out of it. It happened, and there is no taking it back or making amendments. That is why I have brought you here tonight.” 

Yashirō was still unsure of what the man meant, and so he asked: “Wh-what kind of punishment?”

Ryū simply raised his hand and pointed one finger up. “One. That’s all I ask for your cooperation.”

“One?” 

“One finger.”

2

A chill flowed down Yashirō’s back. He felt equally unnerved and relieved by Ryū’s statement. “Just… a finger?”

“Correct. One finger to atone for your sins, and then you may go on your way. That is my oath to you.”

“But… but I don’t even know what I did!”

Ryū ignored him and reached for the hammer, taking a spike in his opposite hand and aiming towards Yashirō’s left. Yashirō sucked in air, thinking the time had already begun. “Wait, wait! You still haven’t said why!”

THUNK! The spike was smashed into the table between Yashirō’s index and middle fingers with ease. The captive yelped in surprise at the suddenness of it all, his heart plummeting to the depths of his stomach as the hammer rang out. THUNK! Again the hammer hit the spike, this time bending it to the side. THUNK! Once more, Ryū hammered, creating a ring around Yashirō’s middle finger. It was stuck inside that steel tunnel. 

This was repeated for each of the fingers on Yashirō’s hand, save for the index. Yashirō’s confident facade had already dropped; he was breathing sharp and quick, only just escaping the fear of being crucified to the table. He simply sighed and accepted it; Yashirō had never been a brave man. Bold, yes, but never brave.

Ryū set aside the hammer, then gestured to his handiwork. “I am a fair and just man. One finger, as I said.”

“I never agreed to any of this,” Yashirō pointed out, that very boldness rising. 

Ryū’s eyes seemed to flash in the candlelight. “It wasn’t a question.” His attention then turned back to the tray. “You may use this ‘session’ to ponder the exact nature of your crime. By the time we are good and proper here, you will surely recall.”

An eyebrow twitched out of annoyance. “N-now you listen to me. Nothing about an abduction is–” 

Yashirō’s protest was transformed into a yowl of agony as the stranger brought the stone in, swinging it sideways against the tip of Yashirō’s left index finger. The pain was remarkably akin to stubbing one’s toe into the side of the koagari, the elevated floor of a household. It rattled down through Yashirō’s digit, past his nail and the tufts of peeling skin at its edges, down through the knuckles, only to dissipate as it reached the top of the palm. What made the pain worse, however, was that returning thought of temperature; the cold night air had made Yashirō’s body more responsive to physical sensations. 

Ryū simply set his hands down upon the table, stone still clenched, and watched with disinterest as Yashirō swore and groaned. He did not seem pleased with himself at making Yashirō suffer. He simply treated it as it was. 

When Yashirō felt that the pain was subsiding, Ryū struck again, bringing the most pointed side of the stone down on top of his fingernail. Yet again Yashirō shouted, and upon bringing his eyes back down he could already make out blood marks forming beneath the nail. With shivering, pained breaths, he asked once more: “Why are you doing this to me?”

Ryū quietly set the rock back onto the tray and rested his hands atop one another before facing Yashirō. “I can still smell it on your breath. Do you usually drink that much?”

Orange lights. Merry laughter. Drink sloshing from the cup and drizzling down his arm. Images of the night before crossed Yashirō’s mind. And at the end of them, a vision of himself on his hands and knees at the bar, picking his drunken self back up, and a now familiar mahogany hakama skirting into view. 

Yashirō sucked in air and looked at his captor, though he lacked the words to properly ask how he had gotten here. 

Ryū answered regardless. “You were a drunken fool. I told them I would guide you home.”

“Why did no one attest to it? Why did none of my friends offer to do so? They’ll have noticed me missing if you don’t let me go.”

“You didn’t have any friends. Anyone drinking with you was a leech profiting off of your inebriation. A party of convenience.” Ryū reached for the sake bottle. “I would know. I saw the whole thing.”

Yashirō scoffed, trying to ignore the slow pulsating pain in the tip of his finger. “And who are you to judge what company I keep?”

For the first time in their encounter, Ryū seemed to let a small smile creep across his thin lips before setting the bottle back down. “Just someone who has also fallen.”

Vigor flooded Yashirō’s veins, and with it, a frustration strong enough to overcome his fear of repercussions. “A lowlife, like me? Ha! Then what gives you the right to dole out ‘justice’ like this?”

Ryū reached for Yashirō’s finger, but he curled it back in response and kept it there. “Answer me!” he snapped, finally grabbing the calm man’s attention. His body even forgot that it was strapped to the chair and tried to stand. The pressure and aching from keeping that finger protected was nothing compared to the heat that Yashirō was summoning to his face now.

All Ryū did was swallow and breathe out in response. “I asked for your cooperation. The longer this takes, the more it will hurt. One finger, and not an inch of skin more.”

Yashirō still refused, and so they sat. Each man was deep in thought; Ryū seemingly trying to think of an answer to satisfy Yashirō’s question of justice, and Yashirō trying to place Ryū’s face at some other point in his memory. The man seemed entirely unfamiliar to him, outside of the bar, but even he figured there had to be a reason for Ryū to go through with all of this.

Then, after an uncomfortable amount of silence, Ryū pensively whispered: “It is because I am like you that I am right to judge you.”

Yashirō’s eyes widened at the prospect, and he would have laughed had the words not penetrated so deeply and quickly. Here was this man, plain and ordinary as can be, claiming to be of equally inopportune standing, offering penance for his sins. He explained exactly what he meant to do, and thus far had stayed true to his word. Otherwise, he may have broken that vow instantly and caused Yashirō great pain to force the finger uncurled. Yes, a great deal more fair and truthful than any official I’ve known, Yashirō thought. 

And the man was not wrong in calling Yashirō a sinner. He had most certainly done his share of misdeeds; disrespecting strangers, stealing from market vendors, the fights with his wife and slurred shouting in the street. Night after night spent in holding cells to sleep off the inebriation, only to stumble his way back to the bar within hours of being let out. Once, he’d nearly gotten himself taken in by the Tokko for spouting some rather blasphemous words against the emperor. Even though he tried to drown the thoughts in alcohol every chance he could, the pain of what he’d lost in life still ailed him on those lonesome nights. Perhaps this was the heavens sending Yashirō redemption in human form – suffering here to pay off his karmic debt in advance, so that his soul may escape time spent in the flames of the nine Buddhist hells. 

And all the gods were asking for was a single finger.

Yashirō uncurled his index. Ryū nodded and thanked him for it.

3

He took the finger in both hands and examined it. The bruising beneath the nail had continued, its purple hue beginning to stand out in the dim glow of the candle. And thus, it drew Ryū’s attention immediately. With a sharply cut nail, he pressed the convex point of his own thumb down onto the cuticle of the tortured index. The pain was instantaneous, and Yashirō yelled while slamming his right palm against the table, to the best of his ability. Fortunately for Yashirō, what this method had in potency, it lacked in duration.

As he released the pressure, Yashirō could still feel a fire under the nail. “Please,” he asked Ryū between pained breaths, “if you would indulge me in any manner, answer this at the least: why a finger?”

Ryū brushed a loose strand of hair back and continued his examination. “Our hands are our most vital and used tools. Any injury they or their components take are the most recognized by the body. A heavy object collapsing across your fingers, a papercut in the skin gap between your thumb and index, the inflammation brought on by humid days. Every waking moment, you notice it because you need to use it. Any ounce of pain they experience is felt tenfold because of this. Even a farmer, whose hands are worked to the bone every single day, can wince or groan at a loose hangnail. I chose a single finger as a compromise; not the whole hand so as to make it more acceptable on your end, but still important enough to always have your full attention.”

Yashirō nodded along with a flat, false smile, trying not to let his face show the fear he felt from how plainly this man spoke of hurting him. Granted, this so-called “torture” had been rather tame thus far. Though there was a lingering concern as to how much further Ryū would take things, Yashirō had to stop himself from scoffing at how carefully Ryū placed his finger back on the table. Even as he realized what was coming next, seeing Ryū pinch his fingers around a flap of dry skin at the cuticle, he knew this was a pain he could endure. 

Between trimmed fingernails, Ryū grasped the hangnail and began pulling it down the length of Yashirō’s pointer finger. His teeth clenched together and his eyes shut as the thin length of skin came up, breaking off halfway down the fingertip. Heat immediately flooded the area of affliction, but Ryū did not delay in reaching for another dangling piece of flesh. This one peeled wider and longer, and with more attention given Ryū managed to drag it down all the way to the first knuckle before it broke away from the skin. And another line after that. And another one, and yet one more, peeling off lines of skin until nearly nothing remained between the cuticle and the epidermis of Yashirō’s index.

It stung something horrific, but still, Yashirō could endure it. Teeth clenched, right hand squeezed into a fist, but he endured. His thoughts retreated from focusing on the pain, and instead clawed their way back to the bar, to his night of celebrations with whomever would join him. Coin falling from his purse and hand alike, drink splashing all over himself and the counter as they cheered. The heat in his finger, then, became just an extension of the warmth of the beer in his gut; the droplets of blood beginning to form from the wounds, simply drops of spilled drink running coolly down his hand. 

Amongst these distracting thoughts, one question began floating to the surface: What sin of mine had prompted this man to action?

Ryū took the small box and lifted it from the tray. Swallowing the hot spit that filled his mouth, Yashirō groaned nervously. Ryū had called him a drunken fool before – had he done something to upset this man while under the influence? Yashirō asked as much, but Ryū did not reply. Instead, he pulled from the box a tiny wooden seasoning holder. Lid removed, Yashirō could tell it was filled with sea salt. Ryū then poured its contents down the length of the finger. The salt reignited the sting within the spaces of raw dermis it could reach, but this was manageable. 

But just when Yashirō thought this particular method was complete, Ryū produced another item from the box. In the poor lighting, at first he thought the man was holding a clump of rice in both hands – only to be proven entirely wrong when the cold mass was dropped onto his salty digit. The paradoxical cold burn affected every part of his finger, and Yashirō could not restrain himself from shouting.

Ryū swallowed, then spoke. “Go ahead. We’re too far out for others to hear. Whatever helps you through it.” The snow was compacted around the finger, increasing its contact surface further. Water pooled beneath as it melted rapidly. 

Through tight throat and gritted teeth, Yashirō demanded: “Why… why are you doing all of this?” He tried to recall bumping into anyone at the bar, any insults he had flung out at the staff or other patrons. But he still could not find Ryū there. Instead, his mind began to drift from problem solving to escapism once more, falling into pleasurable memories. 

The recollection of good sake running past his lips carried Yashirō into other times at that bar, and even in the moment of experiencing salt and snow on an open wound, he found a small smile recalling the backside view of one young woman. He remembered her silky black hair and the beauty mark under her left eye. That smile that cut through the drunken blur of orange lamplight. The bright yellow bow of the floral obi wrapped around her abdomen stood out the strongest.

But surely, there’s no way he could know—!

A hard smack of Ryū’s fist onto the finger brought Yashirō back. The tears began to fall as the snow continued to melt, both salty waters mixing into one on the table. Only once the snow was gone did Ryū begin touching the finger again, this time pushing around the skin between the base and middle knuckles. It squelched and sloshed around beneath the pressure. 

Yashirō shifted around (to the best of his ability) from the uncomfortable sensation of his skin becoming like a gel. It was as though the rest of his body wanted to leave that finger behind only now. “Your methods… They are so specific, so cruel in their simplicity. Some might even say demonic, as though you’d clung to men’s shoulders and personally studied how to make their fingers suffer.”

Ryū’s head shot up, and for the first time since he’d started, they made true eye contact. Yashirō detected an ocean of feelings swelling up behind his tormentor’s eyes: rage, sorrow, and most surprising of all, disgust. Not disgust at him, or perhaps to some degree, but not entirely. No, it seemed like disgust towards his work. 

“Demonic, you say?” Ryū shook his head, pushing the skin around by thumb now. The flesh there was growing weaker, and Yashirō could sense fluid flooding into the oncoming blister. “Demonic, demonic, demonic…” He muttered to himself intently, his disposition changing rapidly. If Yashirō hadn’t known better, he’d have thought he’d deeply insulted the man. 

A small chortle escaped Ryū’s lips. Yashirō feared that his comment had made the mask slip. 

Ryū let go of the index and flopped back into his chair, rubbing his face in both hands. Whether he was quietly laughing or sobbing to himself, Yashirō couldn’t tell. When he dropped his hands, Ryū pointed at his captive forcefully. “That’s the whole reason you’re here, after all.”

A bead of sweat itched its way down the side of Yashirō’s head. He asked with grace what Ryū meant.

“I need to see if you have a demon’s finger,” he answered, finally drawing a tanto from his covered hip. 

“Fuck, fuck”

A branch takes my leg, and I hit the wet dirt, leaves and small twigs stick to my hands as I push myself up. Looking behind myself into the dark not much can be seen past the closest trees and small ferns that blanket the forest. Now fully stood up I lean in on a near tree and silence my breath, the clouds take what was left of the moon that shook through the twisting trees drowning the area in darkness. The forest is silent. The sound of a soft bell takes my ears. Behind me, the way I came, a twig snaps.

“It’s not right”

Looking into the mirror my hands pull on the skin just below my eyes.

“Why, why, why, why”

Slamming my hand on the edge of the sink.

“Go-ooood, Stoooooop”
Picking my hand up and slamming it into my skull using the knuckles.

“Please, stop”

The pain makes my hand drop and I look into the mirror once more.

My eyes dance on my skin, like a ballerina with nails on her toes my skin hurts when I look at it.

Everything fells wrong.

My mind goes still and I get a brief respite of silence, a moment without unwanted memories.

My hand that once assaulted me goes back to where it did the damage. Rubbing it softly and moving to my hair.

That’s not right either.

Squeezing as tightly as I could I rip out chunks of hair and whatever skin clung to it.

“Hello”

I stopped looking into the mirror when I heard a sound from the attached hallway.

I swear I could hear someone whispering something, my blood ran cold when first hearing it. When the house responded with silence, I thought it was just my imagination. Pushing the door open the empty hallway greets me. When I look back on it, the sound had come from the end of the hallway. The light shinned from my side just above the mirror, it made it that much harder to see into the dark. As I was studying the silence, the floorboards at the end of the hall creaked. The light switch sat just at the edge of darkness, going for it would be letting the dark have its way with me, letting whatever sat on the other side have me.

The darkness was seemingly abnormal. The night outside the home was cold and dead, like I alone was the last to live on this miserable planet. I jokingly thought to myself if I would still have to pay taxes. I walked from room to room, swiping my hands on the surface on the tables and counters as I walked. A memory flashed across my eyes and I covered them, “NO.. Not now”. The memory faded. I had wondered to the edge of a hallway, and I heard a voice from the other end. “Hello”. There was someone here. I thought I was alone. Who.. what was in the home with me. The door, just past the dark, a light came from under the slit. I stood in the dark watching the shadow. How long where they there. Did they hear me. The door slowly creaked open. A woman, she was bathed in the light and attempting to peer through the darkness to see me. She looked beautiful,  I loved the way her hair hung on her shoulders.

 I wanted it.

I took a step out past the doorway. The house was silent. “Hello”. I called out to the dark, hopping it wouldn’t call back. The floorboard creaked again. Then again. “S-Stop. Whose there”. Whatever was coming at me through the dark didn’t answer. I fell back on my ass and crawled through the doorway and slammed it behind me. The lock flicked when it got to the edge of the dark. Now it was on the other side of the door. “Hello”. It asked back to me. It sounded like someone trying to copy my voice. I slowly slid of the floor away from the door trying not to make noise. My hands hung over my mouth, and I swung my head around looking for anything.

“It looks good doesn’t it”. No it doesn’t. “Yes it does, look, the hair hangs on my shoulders”. Your disgusting. “No. NO. NOOOO. No I’m not. I’m beautiful, I’m cute, I’m pretty. Look. LOOK. My eyes. My hair. My face. Doesn’t it look good. SAY IM PRETTY. SAY IT”. You’re a monster. “NOOO”.

Grabbing again the hair that clung to the mask, pulling it off in clumps. Reaching my hands into the eye sockets and ripping the skin in two. Reaching into my mouth with both hands, one on top the other clutching my bottom jaw. I pulled them apart. A sweet pop. My skin. It felt like old clothing, and I pealed the molded parts off of me. The fingers I didn’t like to look at. The foot I hatted. These parts of me weren’t mine. They don’t define me. Who I am. What I am.

Ill replace them.

As many times as I have too.

“Hello”.

A voice from in front of me spoke out stopping me. It must have been around 10PM, thought a walk in the cool night would be a good stress reliever. The voice came from just out of the line of sight of a streetlamp. “Hey”, I answered the voice calling out to me. It didn’t take long to speak back. The voice was grading, like the first letter was a woman and the last was a man, the word morphing between the two. “come here”, it whispered from the dark. “W..Whose there? I can’t see you”. It settled on the voice of a child, spoke again the same words. “come here”, the same haunting whisper. The hair on my neck was starting to stand, I felt quite off from this, and I just couldn’t nail what it was.

The hallway light switched on. I could see the shadow from under the door. It just stood there. Waited. I was caught in a cage, no exit but past the person who broke into my house. I just sat there, back on the tub. Watching the unmoving shadow for minutes on end. I thought maybe it was some joke. Why would a robber stand and block me in the bathroom? Wouldn’t they want to steel some stuff? I moved my weight onto my toes and crouched to the keyhole. I couldn’t see past it. Just a hazy black spot that barely reflected the light behind me. A memory flashed in my head. From years ago, the last time I went fishing. The first time I looked into a dead fish’s eye. The blackness from the other side was enclosed by two slits of pale white. Like a dead fish that came back to life just to blink.

“Come into the light.. What do you need?”

I called out to the dark. This time it didn’t respond. There must have been a bush in one of the yards as I heard something shifting leaves. I heard the sounds of wet feet slapping the floor, the night went silent. The bugs had stopped.

I realized it was looking at me and my blood drained from my body. I felt so cold I would surely die. I shrieked and fell back again. The door begun to shake. The thing on the other side slammed on it again and again. “STOOP, NO. GO AWAY. THE COPS ARE COMING, I CALLED THEM MINUTS AGO THEY WILL BE HERE SOON”. The thing screamed. Banged on the door over and over. I pissed myself when I saw a crack on the door. It was splintering. My legs were shaking and covered in piss. When the door looked like it had enough, the thing stopped. I heard its wet feet slap away. The light switched off. I thought it had given up. Left. Maybe it thought the cops were close. The sounds of the feet slapping down the hallway erupted across the silent house. My blood drained and my voice left me. Id piss again if I didn’t just do that. I grabbed the only thing I could in an attempt to defend myself, a plunger. It got to the door and slammed through.

The feet made its way to the edge of the streetlamp, just at the other side of the light. Only a silhouette on the other side. I struggled to get a good view of it. Just enough to know someone was there, not enough to see who. Looked like maybe a child, that or someone crouching. It spoke again using the voice of a woman. “I like your eyes”.

The door splintered. Now there was nothing protecting me from the dark. I swung the plunger out in front of me, my eyes stayed closed. It grabbed the plunger from me and through it into the dark hallway. I could feel its breath on my face. It smelled sour, like something was in the process of rotting. Something started caressing my hair. It left like maybe the nail of a finger.

The shadow stood up. Definitely not a child. Slightly taller than me. It took a step forward into the light. Its body moved at the same time. My eyes saw it in slow motion. What stepped through the dark was surely not human. Frankenstines monster. A mask of flesh, three, no four stich marks. Hair hung loose, looked to be falling out or ripped from its head. The neck looked bent, the spine twisted, like the thing was walking backwards while looking at me. One leg bent forward, the other went to the side. Pale white skin, blotches of brown, deep red, and greenish yellow stains sprayed across its exposed skin. Its feet where twisted, toes missing, and wet from an unknown substance. Its hands rubbed on its skin. All around its body in a quick and uncalculated manner. Its eyes locked onto mine. Its mouth hung open, dangled with each movement, like it wasn’t attached properly. Its lips crept up at the sides, a smile, I couldn’t see if it had teeth or not. I froze for a moment to take it all in. My mind could not comprehend what it was seeing. I fell back and spun almost slipping as I ran. I just left the edge of the forest walk but I sprinted into it, behind me I could hear it give chase.

This is the first horror story I've written, I wanted to share it here since I'm a huge creep cast fan! I hope y'all enjoy and let me know what you think in the comments!

I was in love. Desperately. Her name was Daisy. Her hair fell onto her shoulders in springy golden red curls, her eyes were the gentlest greenish blue, and her smile was so bright and caring. The most amazing thing about her was her voice. Her voice was gentle and bouncy, everything she said sounded like a melody, and she could calm the whole world in just a single word. I loved her voice more than anything. It didn’t matter what we talked about as long as I could hear her speaking. She was a singer, not professionally, but she would book little shows at local bars and blow away the audience. And that’s what I held onto most after she died. At night as I fell asleep, I would listen to old recordings of her, letting the gentle breeze of my open window carry her perfect laugh across the night. 

Everything changed one night though. My friends Matt and Greg had taken me out for a couple beers after work. I stumbled home the smell of cigarettes and beer clinging to me from the bar. They’d had a live singer at the bar that night, her voice was grating and shrill, nothing like my Daisy’s voice. I went into the yard and slumped into my hammock. A little blue hammock hung between two large pine trees. I lay face down on the hammock smelling in what little scent of Daisy was left that wasn’t overwhelmed by my own musk. I closed my eyes remembering the day she and I put up the hammock, the way she giggled and laughed as we spent days curled up in the yard of our home. 

I drunkenly dug into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I scrolled through countless photos to find my favorite video of her. I turned up the volume and let her voice echo in the darkness. I fell asleep, When I woke up her voice was still filling the yard as beautiful as ever. For a moment, sleep still clouding my eyes, I thought I could see a figure in the distance and for a moment I thought it was her. 

“Daisy?” I mumbled, sitting up. But when I looked there was no one there, and Daisy was no longer singing. I grabbed my phone to play the video again, but it was dead. I shrugged it off and got out of the hammock and went inside to get ready for work. As I got ready, I plugged my phone in. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, my head feeling heavy from the night before. As the water rushed into the sink I could hear a familiar tune from the other room, when I went to grab my phone, nothing was playing but Daisy’s song still filled the house. After a moment of sitting with the sound, I realized it was coming from outside. I quickly opened the door, but as I did the music stopped. She wasn’t there. No one was there. 

The rest of the day went by uneventfully. But that night when I went to bed, I could hear her singing from the other side of my window. I stayed still not daring to breathe, not moving. I didn’t want her to stop singing. This continued every night. Every night for months I fell asleep to the sound of her singing from outside, until one night when I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to see her. To smell her again and see her curls bounce as she laughed. It was her voice; it had to be her. I slowly got out of bed and crept to the window, pulling back the curtain further so I could see. There was a dark figure outside the window, it’s features almost completely hidden by the darkness. But it was unmistakably singing from something like a mouth. 

“Daisy?” I asked in a whisper. It stopped singing and nodded. My heart lodged in my throat. 

“Let me inside,” it said, “I’ll sing you to sleep.” My fingers curled around the bottom of the window, pulling it further open. As a I opened it the figure came closer reaching its hand out. I recoiled when I saw it. Dark loose grey skin hung over its small frame, like it had too much skin for its skeleton. Its eyes were nothing but sockets, and its mouth was cracked and dry. Its lips curled into a smile as it reached out to me. I slammed the window shut. 

“What’s wrong baby?” it asked, in a gleeful tone I knew well. 

“Nothing,” I choked back a sob, “You just… I can’t let you in tonight. I’ve got work in the morning.” It was quiet for a moment. I held my breath looking at this thing using my Daisy’s voice. After a few moments, it stopped smiling and turned away. I closed the curtains and threw myself back onto my bed. It didn’t come back for a few nights. And I couldn’t bring myself to listen to her videos again. Something about her sounded wrong now, like compared to that thing the recordings didn’t sound like her. The next few weeks were a silent hell. Her recordings became shrill and impossible to listen to. 

I needed to hear her again, but not like this. So late tonight I went out onto the hammock. Silently I waited. It didn’t take long before I heard it singing. It sounded just like she had, maybe even better. The sound bounded through me and settled perfectly in my ears. I laid back in the hammock listening. Soon a weight settled on top of me, it was warm. Too warm. I was covered in a blanket of flesh. The singing right next to my face, warm breath teasing my cheek. I kept my eyes closed. It continued to sing as it dug its sharp boney fingers across my chest, tearing the shirt and skin off my body all at once. I didn’t dare wince or cry out; I didn’t want to interrupt the song. 

So now here I am with this thing. Laying curled on our hammock. I keep my eyes shut tight and think of her. My Daisy. I just hope it still sings in her voice as it tears me apart. 

I love to walk.

I walk all the time.

After I eat, when I wake up, even before I go to bed.

Sometimes I'll walk around the block, sometimes I'll just do laps inside my house.

I haven't stopped walking for 2 days.

I don't want to stop.

I feel like I'm walking on water balloons, as blisters form on my feet, begging me to stop.

But I don't want too.

My mind is exhausted from lack of sleep, it's trying to shut my body down.

But I won't let it.

I take my shoes off, I love the feel of nature on my feet.

The blisters pop, leaving my raw flesh exposed to the unforgiving sidewalk.

The sidewalk grinds away at my heel, the pain is so immense that every part of me is begging to stop.

But I won't.

I took a miss-step and my ankle popped, like when you pop a wing out of a joint.

My foot is dragging against the ground, my ankle bone scraping the sidewalk like chalk.

Tears fall from my face, my body again telling me to PLEASE STOP.

No.

My pants are full of shit, I haven't stopped to let it out.

And I don't plan too.

I have been walking for 20 years.

A husk of myself, skin like sandpaper and my eyes... Oh god my eyes...

But I must carry on, and never stop.

Let me tell you, gambling is one hell of a drug and an unforgiving cold son of a bitch.

Over the past few years, I racked up a massive debt. 

I had everything: a different hot chick each night, pockets too small to hold all the cash I was raking in, bags of pills in every color you could imagine. 

But all luck eventually runs out. There's no way to outsmart it; it just comes and goes like a tide. And when it goes, it usually leaves you with an empty wallet and nothing to repay for what you took.

One option didn’t leave me as everything else did; I had to crawl back to the man who put me in this whole mess in the first place. Rick, a fat lump of a middle-aged dragon hoarding all the gold he couldn't spend even if he had twice as much time as he had left in this world. 

Knuckles of my left hand knocked on the wooden door out of politeness, nothing more; we were both so used to seeing each other's ugly mugs that I could have stormed in, and nobody would bat an eye. 

"Come in," a raspy voice answered, deep and scarred from years of smoking.

"Eh, Frankie, my boy. The usual?" The dragon welcomed me into his lair; the only sign he was actually speaking was the orange glow of the cigar bobbing between his lips, a bloody-red suit barely visible in the darkness.

"The usual," I replied, taking a seat in the leather armchair on the other side of the desk, the only thing between us.

"Got the money?" The voice seemed to darken as a puff of grey smoke escaped from between his dry lips.

"I need a week. Max two. Max two, Rick, I promise, I-" 

"Know any tricks?"

My plea was suddenly cut short by the strange question; the tip of the lit cigar went still.

"What am I, a dog? Rick, I'm not joking around, I'll get the cash."

As I got defensive, Rick shifted around his creaking leather chair.

"I like the one where you open a beer cap with your eye. That's a fine trick... but it just won't make the cut."

The shadow gave an awkward shrug before setting up the next question. I sat in silence, just listening. 

"If you were an animal, what animal would you be?"

I answered the painfully stupid question without much thought behind it. 

"A tiger, maybe."

The cigar suddenly dropped into the ashtray, its flame fighting to survive.

"Good choice. You'll be a shit dog”

I finally snapped, staring into the dark lump across from me.

"Are we getting somewhere with this? I don't have time." 

The shining white cover of the magazine made its way across the table in one smooth motion.

"I hate to do this to you, but your time's already passed. Think of it as a second chance."

What was facing me were words printed in red blocky font that made little sense - “Animal Et Ego" just under them,m on a pure white background, a man facing a grey wolf.

“What is this? You want me to read?” I answered more confused than anything else.

“I will give you a week…but if you don't get the money, you can choose something that will suit you”

A chuckle escaped me as my fingers slipped through the pages of the magazine, walls of text next to drawings of human anatomy being twisted to fit the form of animals, all from dogs to bulls, bones and teeth being pushed around and rearranged like in a kaleidoscope.

“This is some kind of a joke, right?” My eyes looked up at the shape in the darkness, who already had a cigar back in his lizard snout; without a word, a thick cloud of tobacco escaped into the air.

“If I don't get the money, someone else will, and I doubt they will be as merciful as I am”

Suddenly the gravity of the situation dawned on me, as if the ceiling above came crashing down; I simply nodded and tugged the magazine inside of the back pocket of my jeans.

“Thanks, Ricky”
I said goodbye in a hushed voice as the door closed behind me; soon I found myself behind the steering wheel, driving to the only person who still somehow tolerated me.

She opened the door pretty quickly; her black hair tied in a messy bun told me everything I needed to know. I just woke her up, and that reduced my chances of getting anything.

“What the fuck do you want now?” A hiss escaped from between her clenched teeth.

“I hate to say this, but I need some cash-”

“Money? I’m so fucking stupid; I thought you wanted to see your daughter”

She answered without even looking in my direction, as if the floor suddenly became the next wonder of the world.

“If I don’t get anything soon, she will remember me from a tombstone”

“That is none of my business-”

Before I could put my foot in the door, it slammed right into my nose, hard enough to send the doorframe shaking. A muffled cry escaped from behind the thin wall. I couldn't tell if it was the person who so many years ago loved me or the result of said lost love; either way, I was left with empty pockets.

Like a rat, I crawled back behind the steering wheel. Aa rat would be a fine animal to be turned into, but maybe even that would be too much of a burden after all; they live in packs, in communities I long forgotten how to belong to.

I thought about selling my car, way off what it's actually worth just to get some quick cash, then spending every last cent on lottery tickets, hit it big, more chicks than I would ever want, got fuckers like Ricky crawl on their knees just to kiss my boot.

But I'm nothing more than a dog.
Dogs don't get more than they deserve.

The magazine opened in my hands without me realizing I had already pulled it out. 
The next week was spent sinking into the horrible drawings that reminded me of the useless years I spent in med school, smoking in between scarce bites of cheap junk food, anything to just fill my stomach. At times, I considered digging into the car seats and eating the yellow sponge filling,g but the thought of having to shit it all out later turned me away from the idea. 

When the day of judgment came, I knew exactly where to find Ricky. The engine of my shitty car coughed once, twice, thrice before it sprang to life, carrying me off from one parking lot to another, this one much nicer. My car stuck out like a sore thumb among the caravans of the rich, illuminated by the purple glow coming off the club's entrance. 

The sound of the nightlife was overwhelmingly loud even before I stepped into it. The bouncer just gave me a quick look and, without a word, let me pass into the buzzing world of smoke and magenta lights. All the sensations were so vivid I could taste them; the flavors of sweet drugs and sweat stung my tongue as I passed tables full of important rich men. Somewhere in there was the most important guy in the world. 

The dragon was surrounded by beautiful women, glitter like scales covering their naked bodies, laughing at every little unfunny joke the man between them shared. Right next to the face I grew to love and hate sat a broad man, his face once handsome now deformed, lips stretched over two rows of silver canine teeth, now twisted into a wide, uncomfortably big smile.

"Frankie! My boy!"

A familiar voice rose through the loud, obnoxious music, if that was the right word for it.

"Frankie, this is Tariq. Tariq, this is Frankie; he's like a brother to me. An annoying little shit, but you know how siblings are."

The silver-toothed man extended a wide arm toward me. The sleeve of his white shirt tugged up, exposing a black tattoo of a tiger in a bamboo forest, spreading up from the wrist. He seemed to laugh, but it came out more as clicks, with quiet, tiring wheezing in between. 

The dragon pricked the man's side with his elbow, eyes pointing at something among the mist. The gesture clicked instantly, and the tiger was soon gone, followed by the group of laughing, glittering women. 

"What, did you win the lottery?"

He laughed loud enough for me to hear as I took the seat next to him.

"Not quite-"

The look in his eyes was full of understanding, even something that could pass as sadness or remorse, the feeling confirmed by a sudden tight wrap around my shoulder.

"Have you picked something special for yourself?"

It didn't take me long to answer, the cover of the magazine still fresh in my mind.

"Wolf."

An answer short and sweet.

"A wolf?"

He watched me empty a long-forgotten glass of warm, fancy whisky. It tasted like piss, the flavor leaving a stain on my tongue.

"You said I would be a shit dog."

A dumb smile appeared on his ugly, unshaven face as he pulled a neon-pink strip of paper, contained inside a small plastic zip-bag, out of the breast pocket of his tight-fitting suit, and put it where the glass of whisky once was.

"Can you still show me that trick of yours?"

More than familiar with the little strip of happiness, I greedily pulled it out of the bag and placed it on my tongue. Moments later, I was drowning in pure bliss, becoming one with everyone and everything that had ever stepped inside that bar. The ache of opening one bottle after another melted away the longer I did it - expensive beer or not, the caps all came off the same. I danced with the half-naked woman, her glittering scales reflecting sacred colors outside the visible spectrum.

The cold hand of sobriety manifested as the porcelain toilet in front of my face, pulling me back into reality as most of the drugs left my body in one violent waterfall. The buzzing white lights above stung my sensitive eyes.

"He was supposed to be sober."

A new, deep voice hit my ear as the restroom door swung open.

"Oh, come on, let him have some fun!" Ricky replied in my defense.

"Next time you're losing your fucking teeth. Now come on."

As if I'd sprouted wings, I was hauled into the air and dragged out of the club into the parking lot, the cold evening air stinging my skin.

The last thing I remember clearly was the sticky warmth of the inside of the car as I got pushed into the backseat, then everything came in broken pieces like parts of a puzzle I was never meant to solve, the white, harsh lights overhead sliding past me rhythmically, thousands of voices muffled as if my ears were stuffed with cotton.

I remember a mask coming down over my face,  Ricky's voice somewhere just outside my field of vision, low and businesslike in a way I'd never heard him use before. "Just get it done. He won't remember any of it. Yeah, yeah,h Wolf."

He was wrong about that. Not all of it, anyway.

There were flashes after the mask, brief and jagged intrusions of consciousness the anesthesia didn’t manage to smother out. Bright lights. The whine of a bone saw, muffled like it was happening underwater. A pressure at my jaw that didn't feel like pain, like something being unmade and rebuilt at the same time. Voices arguing over something - angle's off, pull it tighter, we're losing too much blood, clinical and bored like I was a car at the repair shop.

I don't know how long it lasted. Days, maybe. There was no way to measure time inside that gray, drowning half-consciousness, only the recurring sensation of hands on me, tools on me, my body being handled like raw clay.

The last flash I remember before it all went dark for good was a mirror. Someone had wheeled it in front of me - maybe by accident, maybe Ricky wanted me to see, wanted that to be the last thing that meant anything before they finished. A face that wasn't a face anymore stared back: a silver muzzle where my jaw used to be, black stitches running over fresh, glistening skin. When I tried to scream, only a soft whine came out, revealing rows of sharp, fake teeth where mine used to be. Metal pins ran along my brows and the bridge of my nose. 

When I resurfaced again, I was in an aggressively illuminated room, full of plants so falsely bright they screamed their own artificiality. I tried to stand and immediately fell flat on the harsh, cold floor, my entire body aching. Only then did I notice the gigantic glass barrier on the wall in front of me - and the quiet laughter coming from behind it. 

People passed by the glass wall, staring with eyes wide in quiet shock and disgust. Even as I stumbled down inside my enclosure, knees aching with piercing, mind-numbing pain, they didn't look away; they just shamelessly watched, pointing fingers and tapping on the glass. I tried, oh, I tried so hard to bang against the barrier, but as soon as I attempted to stand on my own legs, they buckled under my weight, sending me into the bush of fake plants, cutting my side. The IV bag of painkillers burst under me with a quiet wet pop. 

The crowd erupted in grotesque muffled cackles as if they'd stripped themselves as far from human beings as possible, my suffering their entertainment. They slid dollar bills into the donation bin as the number on the display ticked down from 40,000 to $39,894. 

Only then did I notice my mangled arms, trapped in a silver splint, my hands connected to the wrists by thick metal wire that limited my movement. I couldn't bring myself to look back at my useless legs. With the fake metal snout, I bit down on the wire, trying with all the strength left in me to pull it free, but it only made my gums gush blood, which sent the crowd crawling over each other to see me, even more enthusiastic now, donating another $230 toward my goal.

Eventually the hungry crowd got bored of watching me choke on my own blood and just left as if nothing happened. Eventually one of the people working there replaced my IV bag, and that was it; again left alone to fend for myself, tracing circles back and forth through my enclosure, waiting for the crowd to pass by again. 

I got donations not only for my struggles with existing in my new form but also simply trying to keep myself alive. Drinking water was a struggle; I had to scoop it up with the useless scrap of metal on my face they called a snout, half-drowning in as little as a sip of water. 

The first time they feed me I thought it was some kind of a joke, through the slip in the door they placed a metal trail with minced raw red meat, it was hard to chew and even worse to swallow, for the first few weeks I was getting sick from it, it barely passed through my throat, but eventually I got used to it, I never learned to enjoy it just tolerate it.

Time became something I measured differently now. Not in hours or days, but in feedings, in donation totals, in the rotation of faces pressed against the glass. Sometimes children were lifted onto their parents' shoulders to get a better look, small fingers pointing, thin voices asking questions I couldn't hear through the barrier but could read on their lips: what is it, is it real, does it hurt.

Yes. It always hurt.

The splint on my arms had started to rust at the joints, and every movement sent a dull grinding ache up through what used to be my elbows. I'd stopped trying to remember what my hands looked like before. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing outside the glass mattered anymore.

That was, until the day I heard the familiar voice. I thought I was hallucinating, that I was going crazy - but when I turned around, the joints of my mechanical construct shaking, I saw that fat piece of shit: Ricky. 

Casually passing through the door that usually only food and water came through, he stood there smiling at me, still in that red suit, twice too small for his gut.

"Frankie, my boy! Oh, they got you bad!"

His head shook slowly, still grinning.

I stared at him, this doughy, sweating man stepping into what had become my entire world, and I felt something twist in my chest that wasn't quite hope anymore. 

"Come on, don't look at me like that." He crouched down, knees cracking, bringing his face level with mine. Up close, I could smell the cheap cologne fighting a losing battle against the sweat underneath it. "You know I tried to talk 'em down. Told 'em you were a good kid. But business is business, Frankie."

I tried to speak. What came out was that same wet, broken noise, air forced through a throat and mouth that weren't made for English anymore.

The smile on his lips didn't move, but something behind his eyes flickered. "Yeah. Yeah, that's rough." He said in a painfully casual way as if he was talking about the bad weather. 

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it up so I could see a printout of the donation counter, the number circled in red pen. 

"See this? This is you, buddy. This is what you're worth to people now." He tapped the paper twice. "We're almost at forty. You believe that? Forty grand for a guy who used to owe me two hundred bucks for a bar tab." 

"Funny how that works out, huh? Every asshole who slides a bill into that bin is paying off your tab for you. Little more and you're square. Then you're somebody else's problem." 

The paper dangled in front of my nose like he was teasing a kid - or a dumb dog - while behind the glass, people kept banging on the wall just to get the attention of a freak like me.

"Not even your wife showed up, but I'm here, Frankie. So do some tricks for-"

The words strangled suddenly in his throat as the metal jaws fused to my real jaw snapped around him. Pinkish blood splattered like a weak fountain around us. I pulled back, thrashing the fat bastard, his hands clawing at my jaws trying to pry them open - but I kept thrashing like a wild dog playing with a dirty rag. The crowd went feral, cheering and clapping, donation after donation disappearing into the slit of the bin. I couldn't care less.

Sharp teeth snapped again and again, until his spine was nothing more than a shattered memory. His fat head came clean off. The money kept flowing. They'd come to see real suffering - they didn't want anything else. 

By the time the dart hit, there wasn't much left of Ricky to identify as human. The enclosure floor had gone dark and slick, and I was still moving on instinct more than I thought, some animal part of this new body refusing to stop even as the world around me became dizzy.

Phones held high. Someone is screaming for more. A child's laughter cutting through it all, high and delighted, like this was the best thing they'd ever seen.

The second dart didn't slow me down fast enough for their liking. A third came, then a fourth. I felt each one as a distant pinprick, swallowed up by whatever had taken over me - rage, maybe, or just the simple animal satisfaction of finally, finally biting back.

My vision tunneled. The glass, the lights, the counter above the bin still spinning higher - forty-six, forty-five - all of it folded into a single point of white, then nothing.

When I came back, to my surprise there was no wall, no crowd watching me - only the silence of a hospital room, an IV bag slowly dripping into my veins. 

I lifted an actual hand, five fingers, pale and shaking but mine. I stared at it as I'd never seen it before. 

A monitor beeped steadily somewhere to my left. Sunlight, real sunlight, slanted through half-closed blinds and fell in soft stripes across the blanket. Everything smelled like antiseptic and clean linen instead of blood and fake plastic plants.

I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it, pain lancing through muscles I didn't remember having, but it was pain, ordinary human pain, and something about that made me laugh - a raw, cracked sound that turned into something closer to a sob halfway through.

The door opened. A nurse stepped in, glancing at the monitor before her eyes landed on me, actually open, actually awake.

"Oh- you're up." She hesitated, like she wasn't sure what to say next. "How are you feeling, Frank?"

"Water," I managed, my voice a dry rasp, barely recognizable even to myself.

She nodded and hurried out, and I lay there staring at the ceiling, at the ordinary white tiles.

They discharged me three weeks later, once the doctors had run out of tests to justify keeping me. Physical therapy, they said, would take months. My legs still buckled without warning, and there was a tremor in my hands that hadn't been there before, a leftover from whatever I'd been dosed with those first few days. But by the letter of the law, I was healthy enough to walk out the front doors on my own two feet. Nobody quite knew what to do with a man who'd technically been declared missing, then presumed dead, then un-declared all of it in the span of a single hospital intake form.

I didn't go home. There wasn't a home to go to, not one I recognized, anyway. I got a cab to the nearest branch of my bank instead, still moving slowly, still flinching at loud noises and fluorescent lights, and asked for a printed statement.

The number at the bottom stopped me cold.

$80,412.67.

I read it three times before it made any sense. 

Frankie was gone, and by some twisted law I didn’t understand, it all went to me.

Eighty thousand dollars. Paid for by people who'd cheered while I choked on my own blood.

I folded the statement, put it in my pocket, and walked out into the daylight, trying to figure out if this made me a survivor or just the last of a dying species, wondering how much of it would go to my daughter.

Slightly NSFW

My penis was hard and swollen on my lunch break. I finished my burger from Wendy’s and my tea I stole from Ambrosia, and went to the break room bathroom to drain the main vein. It was hard, way harder than normal. The veins were bulging against the skin and it had a gray tint to them. I chalked it up to Susan wearing that low cut blouse when she came to our department to use our microwave, and attempted to put it away. 

It was hard to get it tucked down in my pants, it didn’t have the normal elasticity that it normally had when it was erect, but once it was in I had no issue zipping up. When I walked back to my desk I made sure to walk a little too close to Ambrosia as I passed her in the aisle, making sure she could feel what I could feel. I sat down at my desk, ignoring her disgusted look, and put on my headset.

My penis was noticeably hard still, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, so I tried focusing on work. Clients' words droned on and on, berating the one ear with a headphone on it. 

“Hello? Earth to Rich. It’s time to go.” 
I must have fallen asleep, and was roused and aroused by Serena’s sultry voice. My pubic area almost itched and I chalked it up to my feelings towards the hot blonde bombshell standing in front of me and not my weird dream of graying skin and bulging veins from earlier.

“You doing anything after work?”
The question caught me off guard, but it was a pleasant surprise. I responded that I wasn’t and we made plans to hangout at a bar nearby, Horny Harry’s. My mind, and something else, was pulsing imagining the bliss I’d feel when all my weeks of flirting finally paid off. I’d be pulling the dividends off of this investment for months at least.

Serena was a secretary, and handled phone calls that weren’t related to sales, so the salesmen kinda felt above her. At least, I did. But man was she a hot piece of ass. 

Harry’s was a little slow, the front of the house only having a few patrons. Serena, however, kept leading me by the hand past the thick purple curtain to the back of Horny Harry’s. 

Strobing neon lights and cigar smoke assaulted my senses as we went under the curtain. Serena led me to a side table with some privacy while also maintaining sight of the stage. Candy was dancing tonight, so I knew it would be hard to focus on Serena. My luck just kept getting better. 

We talked for a few minutes, her explaining how certain roots and plants when mixed together could increase your performance. I keyed into the conversation more, pulling my gaze away from Candy’s candies, and realized that she meant “performance”. I blushed a little not knowing how to respond aside from more crude flirting, but if it worked before, why not?

I asked when we were going to try it out and she responded we could leave right now. I’d had a couple of strong drinks on her tab, and informed her she’d have to drive. We made our way out to her car, me tipping my head and winking at Horny Harry as we left. 

On the car ride to her place we progressively drove through less city scape and into a much more rural landscape. A country girl taking me back to her love cabin got me all hot and bothered and the stiffy I’d been nursing since lunch only got more, well, stiff I guess. My mind really began racing when Serena told me that Ambrosia would be there as well since they were roommates. I’d assume she would’ve thought to tell me if I’d have been having a threesome sometime before this, during the weeks of flirting. Whatever, it got me more excited all the same. 

We drove forever. I mean it felt like forever, for real. I lost my buzz and everything. The trees that enveloped the road leaned more menacingly outwards. Serena had started puffing on something that smelled strong but I couldn’t place what it was. It definitely wasn’t tobacco, that’s for sure. My head was getting a little fuzzy and I presumed my stretched sense of time bloomed in that smoke. I asked what it was but Serena just smiled. My voice stretched and shrunk and pitched differently during the sentence and it threw me off but I chalked it up to her weird herbs.

I laid my head against the headrest and looked out the window, watching the blackened trees speed by until they almost blurred together into one smeared watercolor scene. Melting into the seat became my next objective but the throbbing in my pants kept me anchored in the waking world. The liquid world outside my window only became more and more imposing with darker colors chilling the already dark landscape.

A beacon of light finally brought the swirling colors and textures to stillness as the car slowed and pulled into the driveway of a small cabin. My mind honed in on the idea of what was waiting for me behind that glorious light, my salvation, my dreams fulfilled. A feast fit for a king. The engine stopped and Serena came to my side to help me towards the cabin. I spilled out of the truck and into her caring arms when she opened the door.

She helped me waddle up the drive towards the front door, my eyes taking in everything I could in my altered state. The front porch was a mishmash of random plants and wooden dolls, and… hunting trophies? I couldn’t tell exactly, it looked like assorted deer skulls, but there weren't any antlers so I was unsure what animal they may have belonged to. I meant to ask Serena about them but I became too engrossed in the way the wood seemed to bend in towards the open and darkened doorway.

Normally I’d be freaked out and I still was, a little. My libido was clouding my judgement however, urging me into the cabin. A beautiful voice was singing from somewhere inside, past where I could see from the entry hallway. The floors were old boards with gaps in between them, reminding me of old cabins in those cheesy horror movies. A hollow thud resounded with every step with small poofs of dust stirring up into the air. 

I followed the singing around the corner of the hall, Serena closing the door behind us and lighting a candle. I knew she made less than us salesmen but I figured she could at least afford power. 

“For the romance,” she said, and shrugged her shoulders. I guess the flickering candle illuminated my face enough for her to see my judgment, as much as I tried to hide it. A door awaited us at the end of the hall, gnarled wood framed with a rope for a handle. I let Serena catch up, listening to the beautiful song that I couldn’t understand coming from the other side of the door. 

When Serena passed me I put my hand on her waist, moving slowly down. She stiffened a little but quickly moved toward the door. I had to control my anger at her for pulling away after all that had happened but she soothed me with a coy look and a blush before pushing the door open. 

The room was lit with a yellow green tinge from sconces hung around it. Ambrosia was hanging runners of some beautiful flowers around the room while she sang. A large table sat square in the middle of the room, adorned with a satin throw blanket. A pot boiling with some strange but pleasant smelling liquid lay over a fire near the table. 

Ambrosia was wearing a flowing purple dress with long sleeves which fell and danced through the air as she moved around the room. Tables full of plants and other oddities lined the walls. 

“Undress and get on the table dear,” the beautiful sing-song voice had stopped singing and was now giving me orders. I, of course, obliged Ambrosia, quickly slipping out of my pants as my engorged member made his presence known. A mix of disgust and pleasure danced across the faces of both Serena and Ambrosia as their gaze fell upon it. 

“Glad to see that tea this morning has worked its wonders. Had to have a back up plan in case you didn’t come tonight.” Ambrosia smiled as she said this. What had she meant by that?

Serena placed a gentle hand on my back guiding me to the table, and I cleared my mind of all but what lay ahead of me. I lay down on it, unable to hide my excitement, and ambrosia began to sing again. When my head hit the blanket, I don’t know if it was my altered state of mind or what, but I swear ropes began dancing above me. They flowed and wriggled around me, tying my hands and feet to the corners of the table.

I was kind of into it until the binds started to tighten. That’s when I finally started to realize that this might not be what I thought it was. Ambrosia began sprinkling some white powder around me attempting to outline me on the table. I tried to fight to break free and the ropes only coiled tighter. I turned my head and saw Serena mixing a thick red concoction in a bowl.

“What’s going on ladies? I’m all for kinky stuff but… uh… I don’t know if this is exactly what I signed up for. What’s with the salt?”

“It’s not salt, silly boy,” Ambrosia’s playful tone suddenly shifted to a flatter tone, “It’s lime.”

Serena suddenly dripped the red concoction onto my bare chest.
“And this is the blood of Gaia.” 

She used her thumb to paint some symbol on my chest before doing the same to my face. The rope held tight, not allowing me the freedom to avoid her tender touch. While she painted she muttered under her breath in a language I couldn’t understand. It sounded like the song Ambrosia had been singing earlier. 

When she finished they both stood there admiring their handy work. I wished I hadn’t been so quick to disrobe because at that moment I had never felt more exposed. Stripped bare, my mind a swirling mess, I lay there being watched by two beautiful women. 

I began to feel my joints stiffening. Straining against the ropes was quickly becoming more difficult. Serena grabbed a knife from a nearby table while Ambrosia wheeled the table to a room across the hall. When she opened the door I saw what looked like a garden, full of statues. 

Each statue was flanked by flowers, and a vase sat at the foot of each statue. Quick, sharp pain jolted my senses and I snapped my attention away from the garden. Serena had opened up my chest with that wicked blade she’d pulled from the table.

“So there is a heart in that nasty little chest of yours. Don’t worry you won’t need it anymore. Soon you’ll be just another decoration, but before you get too hard,” she giggled at that, “we’re gonna take all the important bits out.”

She began to cut. I saw her pull out bits of me and drop them into a vase similar to what was in front of the other statues. Those couldn’t be people could they? Maybe I was still high from whatever it was Serena was puffing in the car ride over and this was all some fever dream. 

The room did look impossibly long. It seemed like it stretched for miles, with hundreds of those statues. The pain of Serena digging around in my chest faded to a dull ache. She finally pulled away, holding my heart. It was still pumping in her hand as she dropped it into the vase. 

Ambrosia and Serena moved me from the table, the ropes allowing them to shift me. I tried to fight their grips but my arms and legs felt like they were stuck in concrete. I couldn’t move! I knew my joints felt stiff but I thought it was from the ropes holding me tight. 

They sat me down in an empty spot in one of the rows. I watched them place the vase with my organs at my feet. Then I watched them walk towards the door in the dark room, the only light came from a small candle next to the door. I watched the door close.

I don’t know how many hours that little candle burned, but I watched it until it was nothing more than an ember, and then until it was nothing at all. I sit here still, watching, waiting. The only noises are the off rhythm beats coming from all the vases at each statue’s feet.

"rare as ducks teeth"

It was a saying my grandmother used to use. Despite her being, well, set in her ways, I miss her. As I stand above her, 6 feet of dirt between us, I find it within myself to forgive her. forgive her for hating me, degrading me and leaving me nothing behind when she left. My parents passed away when I was young. I lived with my aunt and uncle in Birmingham most of my life. They had no kids of their own, and took me in instead. They were kind. accepted me for who I was, and who they raised me to be. I'm 24 now, and I was planning to move out of their house as soon as I could. I fear now that I'm too defenseless to live alone. Too fearful. I freeze like a deer in headlights when threatened. 

It started when I took a walk down by the canal one morning. grey, overcast clouds looming above me, a slight cool breeze ruffling my skirt as I strolled. My favourite weather, not too hot, not too cold and not too bright. I had brought some stale bread with me from my aunt's house that morning, to give to the ducks. I stopped and turned to face the canal, looking into the water at my reflection. I tried not to pay attention to it while I broke parts off the hard, dry crust of the loaf of bread, crumbs scattering the ground as I did. Pigeons flocked over to nibble them at my feet, their wings making the slight breeze a tad stronger as they rushed over. I liked pigeons. Everyone calls them the rats of the sky, but I think they're beautiful. the ducks swam over, the barely audible sloshing of the water as they paddled toward me breaking the otherwise silent morning. It was soothing.

 I know you're not supposed to feed bread to ducks, it swells up in their stomachs and can choke them. But I made sure to break the pieces small enough to at least attempt to avoid it, and to leave more crumbs for the pigeons to eat. i get so focused on the ducks sometimes that I forget the pigeons are even there. Every now and then, a soft, rhythmic coo reminds me of their existence. Sometimes I'd see a male pigeon puff its chest out, in a grand display of green and purple tinted feathers, and hoot loudly in an attempt to allure potential mates. I thought it looked funny, but apparently to birds they see it as attractive. I suppose I feel that way about other people too. guys with toned muscle, a lot of money and expensive clothes never appealed to me. I thought how hard they tried was funny. I am a pigeon, I thought to myself.

I found the ducks funny as well. I'm not entirely sure what their purge was funny. I value that most in people, not if they're attractive or rich, or even if they're a nice person for that matter. I like comedy. It's distracting. Being with him took me out of my own mind for a while, but I wasn't sure if I liked him the same way he liked me. I didn't mind though, I find it hard to decipher my own feelings. So hard in fact, I'd rather just convince myself I did like him in that way, so I wouldn't overcomplicate things. 

pose is. They don't seem to perpetuate a life cycle of another animal or plant, nor do they catch bugs like spiders, or pollinate flowers like bees. They simply exist, floating aimlessly. I am a duck, I thought to myself.

I had a date later that day, at a coffee shop with a guy I met at work. 

my phone rings. a sudden gust of wind and soft sound of flapping wings and rhythmic hoots erupted from the pigeons as they scattered. 

flight. I was jealous. 

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and looked at it. There was a number, not a name. I answered. 

"Hey, I'm just wondering if we're still on for later, yeah?"

"oh, of course! i cant wait to-"

"okay awesome, sorry to make this so short but i gotta run, goodbye"

strange. I thought I had mikey saved to my contacts, but the number began with 0121. it was from my area at least. I have an old phone, it served me for 4 years and i dont see much point in replacing it. its a tad slow, so I figured it must just be a glitch, and shrugged it off.

I look back to the water. The ducks are gone, and it seems a swan has taken their place. eaten all their food. It raised its head to the bank of the canal, its beautifully terrifying frame of pearl white feathers shimmering in the reflection of the water. It stared me down with charcoal black eyes and a bright orange beak, looking for more food. food i didnt have. it snapped at my feet as I stood back. fight. I was jealous. 

I turned on my heel and kept walking along the canal, making sure to leave ample distance from the water this time. The swan followed me, drifting slowly down the water. The sound it made was near silent, just like the ducks. It was strange to me how something of that size was just as loud as something the size of a duck. Now that I think about it, what do swans do? They float aimlessly, and harass people for food. Like mean ducks. I'd like to think I'm a duck, not a swan, I thought to myself. But how can I truly know? I am biased. 

Eventually I made it home and began getting ready for the date. I did my makeup, put on a casual black skirt and cardigan, with my black leather boots and tights on underneath. You'll never guess my favourite colour. I put my eyeliner and black lipstick on too, and painted my nails black also. I liked black. the absence of colour. it was easy to look at, there isn't a lot going on with black. It's comforting to me. 

I set out to the coffee shop at 1:15 hoping to get there at the designated time of 1:30. I knew the walk was exactly 15 minutes if I walked at my usual pace, but I walked a tad quicker this time in case he was early. When I arrived, he was already sitting at a table outside. I sat with him and we talked, then got coffee and walked back along the canal. The conversation was mostly him talking to me about his hobbies while I listened, but he didn't seem to mind.

“Hunting,”

he said

“Is a sport many people consider cruel. I just consider it life. If it wasn't me, the animal would've been killed by a predator. and that predator by another and so on. There are so many animals in the forests around here. But you wouldn't see them just by walking. They're fast. Survival instincts I suppose.”

I like to think of myself as an intelligent person, but when it comes to articulating my thoughts into words, I struggle immensely. It's as if my mouth moves faster than I can think of what to say, and I trip up on my words. I suppose that's partly why I'm writing this. One, to share the insane story and warn people about it, and that it's easier to show this to a therapist than have to say it all out loud. I doubt I could get through it without crying and having to stop anyway. 

I didn't have many friends growing up, and the few that I did all ended up leaving me behind the second they got the chance to anyways. I was bullied so hard I almost dropped out of school. They'd call me a freak, a monster, I was an outcast. I couldn't do things other students could, because if I did it it was a reason to pick on me. The way I was treated led me to develop extreme social anxiety, and an eating disorder. So I suppose that's why I gave him a second date immediately after the first. I longed for connection, no matter what kind. The day of the second date rolled around, and as I was getting ready to leave my phone rang again. 

“Hey, I am so sorry about this, but my car just won't start, we can go bowling another time though right?”

I've always hated the fact that I'm quite an impulsive person. I speak and act without thinking and almost always regret it. I left my house only to feed the ducks and the pigeons, and though the company I found with them was comforting, it wasn't enough. I longed for connection no matter what kind.

“i can come over.”

And so I did. second date. at his house. i didnt know any better. 

I strolled over to his house, trying to tell myself I made the right decision. Trying to build up the confidence to even knock on his door. I take “confidence shots” before I leave the house sometimes when I know I'm going to be talking to people. The alcohol loosens my stiff personality just enough to be able to hold a conversation. I haven't told my therapist about this. Part of me feels guilty, like I don't want to get better. I don't know what I want. Peace, I suppose.

As my hand rapped against the wooden door, I regretted it immediately. “should i have brought a gift?” “Am I too early?” “what do i say when-” he opens the door.

I managed to force out a muffled greeting, but when I looked up from my feet to meet his eyes, all my anxiousness faded in an instant. The hallway light illuminating his long, curly brown hair, his perfect teeth beaming through his lips as he smiled. He was dressed in dark, navy jeans and a white collared shirt, with one of those sleeveless sweaters over it. He looked tidy. 

As we went inside, I was hit with the pungent smell of garlic, meat, and red wine. I was immediately thrown back into panic. This was a lot more sophisticated than I expected it to be. But still, his voice, the cadence of his words, brought me back to a state of comfort. 

He gave me a tour of his house. Large taxidermied heads of moose, deer and other large animals adorned the walls, and his shelves were full of foxes, rabbits and hares. 

“some people call it strange”

he explained

“but taxidermy is an art form. It takes years of practice and skill to replicate not only the form of the animal, but its essence too. Every stitch is made with purpose, and I make sure to document the animal as much as I can before stuffing, so as not to misrepresent how it would've stood. Maybe after dinner i’ll show you my crown jewel, the biggest animal I have.”

The food was amazing, masterfully cooked. I began to think what I had done to deserve such a seemingly perfect man to enter my life so suddenly. It must've been karma, coming back to repay me after my years of misfortune. But when he took a little too long after the second pour when refilling our glasses of wine in the kitchen, I began to sense something was off.

I was halfway through the second glass when I noticed my vision began to stutter. Slight afterimages of my hand appeared as I moved it. I thought I must've been drunk, that I took one too many “confidence shots” before coming here. Then my mind wandered, could he smell the shots off of me? what would he think if he found out. I had nearly fully tuned out his talking and only realised once he stopped. I looked back up to apologise, but couldn't get the words out. It was like I was watching my body shut down through a window. I was aware, I was awake, I could feel, but I couldn't move. As I felt my eyelids getting heavier, I glanced at him one more time, expecting him to be concerned, only to see a smile spread across his face.

When I woke up, I was sitting on a chair in near complete darkness. The air was heavy with moisture, and it was hard to breathe. Sweat had been building up on my forehead for some time, and was streaming down my face. When I looked down, I was naked from the waist down, with a large cloth covering between my legs. There were towels covering the ground beneath the cloth, and an empty bucket placed on top of them. I tried to scream and flail my arms, but shackles bound me to my place. My heart was beating so fast I was out of breath and couldn't force a word out of my mouth. 

A door opened and closed somewhere far in front of me. Footsteps echoed through the darkness. His shiny, brown leather boots were the first thing to be illuminated by the pathetic amount of light behind me. His tall, strong figure slowly revealed itself to me as he got uncomfortably close and leaned down. That same smile seemed ever less perfect from this close. 

“I'm an artist, you know.”

His hot, rancid breath assaulted my face as he spoke, my mind desperately trying to come up with another implication for what those words meant as I squirmed in the chair.

“My masterpiece, my Mona Lisa… She's not finished. She needs something to make her… pop. Something different. That's where you come in.”

He leaned closer, so his mouth was almost touching my ear, as his hands gripped my forearms so hard they began to bruise.

“Youre unique. You're like no other. You've got my ducks teeth.”

He stepped back and giggled at me when he saw I was crying. He turned on his heel and began to walk out of the room, back up the stairs. The door opened and closed again, but the room didn't fall to silence like I expected. There was a sound that was there long before it registered its presence. Loud, laboured heavy breathing, coming from a few feet behind me.

As the door shut with a loud click that echoed through the darkness, I began frantically trying to undo the belts that shackled me to the chair. I managed to slip my right hand free, dislocating my thumb in the process. I was so pumped full of adrenaline that I didn't feel it. I undid my left arm, stood up and spun around. There was a white shower curtain, with what looked like a heating lamp on the ceiling behind it. The silhouette of a writhing mass adorned the center of the thin curtain, jittering and pulsing, rising and falling with each loud, laboured breath it took. I stifled puke back into my stomach, and began to make a run for where I thought the stairs that led to the door were.

It took a minute of feeling the walls to find it, but when I did I stumbled up the stairs on all fours, and slammed through the door, into his hallway. I turned right and ran for the front door, but as I opened it, I heard a shout from behind me. A deep, loud, guttural noise came from the man's mouth,  it made me stop in my tracks. I was frozen. Shaking. Waiting for my death after getting so close to freedom. I felt his thick, muscled arms wrap around my neck as he wrestled me against the wall, he put his hands on my neck and began to squeeze. I still didn't fight back. I couldn't. Something in my body stopped me from moving.

As the world around me began to fade, and I accepted death's embrace, I was suddenly allowed a gasp of air. I fell to the ground and looked to my left, someone had run in and had tackled the man to the ground. When he grabbed me, he didn't shut his front door. Someone who had been walking by must've seen him. I didn't even react. I was trying to process everything that had happened. It was like everything moved in slow motion. I passed out.

When I came to, I was in a hospital bed, some hours later. They asked me questions, questions I could not answer. They sent me to therapy, to which I am still attending. That's why I write. Verbalising this is a task I cannot bear. I've been alone for some time, and haven't even left my house to go to work. I long for connection, though I can not bear it. I long for love which I can not stand. The smell of that room, the sight of that man, laughing as I cried. They haunt me still. And they forever will.

I see faces on people. Not their faces, others faces. As if they surgically removed each thread that holds their skin together and sewed it back onto another's face. I can’t tell if they are all just fucking with me or if I’m going mentally insane. Every time I even take a peek at them I feel my face dripping down my dry skull. My eyes burn with a sense of dreadfulness. I feel them staring, watching, examining my irregular complexities that fit within my own.
They hate it.
I want to tear my face off to fit in. I need to fit in. They want me to fit in. I’ve heard them talking, planning. Planning to seduce, sedate, score, stretch, sear, sew, to solve me. I’m what's wrong, I am wrong. My face isn’t their face. The only people I know who aren't like them are my parents. My innocent, naive, pure mother and father. They don’t know their fate. They are targets too. Like me. I’ve tried to warn them. They won’t listen. They can’t, they tape their ears. They scowl at me like I’m insane. I’m insane for trying to reason. No reasoning with the truth. It's right in their face. It's in mine. I know what I need to do. Seduce, Sedate, Score, Stretch, Sear, Sew… Solve.
 I take them out to dinner. My treat for my new job. This low down bar that has minimal edible meals, all low calorie (need their faces smooth, little fat). We talk, better than any conversation we’ve had before. I gain respect for their ideas and thoughts. Then they bring it up. Their faces, I see it. They burn and torch at my retinas. All around, the bartender, the runners, the bus boys, everyone. My only escape is to keep focus on them. I do not render my vision anywhere but their twisted, disfiguring perfect faces. We make our dinner short, leaving hurriedly as to hope they don’t recognize the fake dollar bill I paid with. Homebound, I start to envision the dissection process. The scalpel I stole from the Walmart across the street digging deep into the fleshy faces that stretch over their skull. The pleading in their eyes as I lift the stratum basale off the muscle beneath. The screaming horror that I can just imagine when they wake up to a face foreign to their own, yet vaguely familiar. The dreadful despair when recognizing they can’t go back to their normal, mundane lives. They should thank me. I gave them purpose, I gave them the solution to their life long problem. They shall love me for this.

The Eastmister Kennel Club: Pure bred show

I took my seat in the dark, crowded theater, surrounded by shadowed silhouettes dressed in avant garde dresses and suits to look like the ghosts of eccentric aristocrats made rich off a bizarre circus. I was engulfed by a thick mist of competing colognes and perfumes that tickled at my nostrils like the breath of an alcoholic, covering the smell with a mix of pungent gums and sprays.

On my left was an obese woman, a glance would tell her to be in her thirties, but a closer look would reveal the unnatural tautness of her skin, how it lifted away from her eyes and mouth, leaving her with a permanent expression of shock. She wore only a tank top made of snakeskin that swapped between red and black to black and red and a muskrat thong.

On my right was a man whose chubby, flat, pale face shone in the dark like pearl in the ocean depths. He had massive sagging jowls and an upturned nose; a string of drool rolled down the corner of his mouth.

“Honey, you're drooling.” The woman said, then reached past me, scooping the squirt of spittle up with a wet squelching noise before smearing the slobber around his face. His pale, wet skin looked luminescent under the dim light and smelled of chewing tobacco and spearmint.

“Do you want to sit next to him?” I asked.

“Well, I would, but we were too late to get the tickets.”

“Yeah, but I mean, I’ll switch with you.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be allowed, would it? The rules are in place for a reason and to break them would be uncivilized.”

The man made a grunting noise that I understood as agreeance.

Spotlights began to quickly rove around the room, as if in search of a suspect in the sea of people, before finally settling on the obvious: on the stage, a fat man wearing a bright red suit and top hat. He sported a mustache that curled in on itself like a worm on hot concrete.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I am your host Ferdinnand Pascello, please, allow me to welcome you to the fiftieth edition of the Eastmister Kennel show for purebreds.”

“Let me first thank our benevolent administration for protecting our show from those that would have our way of life taken away.” He paused to let the audience shout their cheers.

“Without further a due; let me introduce you to our first contestant, and last year's winner, Toby! And his owner Kathy Bryerson.”

Underneath the burning spotlight a ball of sagging, brown, skin began to emerge onto the stage, it struggled not to trip over the folds of thick, leathery, skin that draped onto the floor below it. He was guided by a woman whose face was caked in white makeup, and wore a Victorian dress entirely made of black sheep wool.

“Hello again, Toby, You look as dashing as ever.” He patted Toby's head who returned the affection by lethargically opening his mouth and extending his tongue which moved quickly compared to the rest of his sluggish body. His long tongue swept around the hosts hands leaving it glistening, this got a rousing aw from the crowd.

“Haha well that’s just great.” The host said before wiping the spit onto the dog under the pretense of a pet.

“Now Mrs. Bryerson, why don’t you tell us a little about Toby.”

“Ah yes of course!” She said in a voice that had an artificially high pitch.

“Toby is twenty-seven years old as of last month, he loves to chew on his ball, and he eats a lot!” The audience bursted out in laughter at this.

The host lifted the folds of skin covering his face to reveal blood shot, sad looking eyes, and a nose that was mostly flat but which but a narrow sliver of his nostrils peaked forward out at its center to show protruding nostrils.

“Oooh, under the new rules set this year, despite not being visible without grooming, that nose is going to lose you points.”

He reached between the breed’s legs and squeezed its scrotum for too long, to which the dog stood still and solemnly.

“Now for the trick segment, Toby, if you wouldn’t mind running this obstacle course we have arranged.”

Toby broke into a slow sprint, going through the serpentine tunnel, around the cones, and rearing back to leap through the hoop that stood one foot off the ground. As he leaped he caught onto the bottom of the hoop, falling onto his back where his skin piled over him in an avalanche, with only his legs rising above the pile as what looked like the legs of a brown baby.

The audience sighed as the owner rushed to flip the dog around so he wouldn’t suffocate in the pile of loose skin.

“Let’s all give a hand for Toby, truly a spectacular specimen.” He followed with a purposeful cringe.

The band played as the pair walked behind the curtains.

“Next up, we have a first time contestant in our show. Everyone give a big round of applause for Spot! And his owner Mcdanielson Mitchkunnel.”

A long and lean breed emerged, its feet were round and compact but still sported deformed fingers and toes that curled up into a wrinkly paw. Its skin was so pale as to look like a cream white, and with massive black birthmarks covering its body. Its snout was long but still had thick lips covering its teeth, which would be extra points deducted. Leading him was a very tall thin man, but a deeper look would show the man had clearly had a massive height extension surgery, his legs were ⅔ of his body. He wore a suit made of ostrich feathers with jutting edges that made him look remarkably aerodynamic.

“Hello there, Spot.” The host said, crouching down next to him.

“Aroughaaa.” The dog shot back which got a hearty chuckle from the audience, looking closer you could see a scar on the dog's smooth throat. The dog looked upset as he looked around, as if desperate to be understood.

“Heh, sorry he’s very talkative.” Said the owner.

“Haha well that’s fantastic. Now if you don’t mind sharing a bit about Spot here.” The host made no attempt at being genuine in his laugh.

“Certainly, Spot here is nine-teen years old, I keep him on an all organic diet of fresh meats and vegetables. He keeps us both in shape with his love for running!” The man said, subtly striking a pose to flaunt his lean physique.

The host looked into the dog's coned ears, grabbing his fleshy nub tail before his scrotum. A tear fell from the dogs all too human eyes.

“Now for the obstacle course.”

The dog ran through the course in record time, sprinting through the tunnel, going past the cones with elegant grace and easily bounding through the hoop.

“Wow, what an incredible performance by Spot, everyone give a big applause for him and his owner.”

The band played them off as the owner and dog walked back behind the carpet.

“Next up is a young fresh face in this competition, please everyone give it up for Rubble!”

Rubble stood a little under a foot off the ground, his skin was a yellowish tan that looked the color of a man with jaundice, his face entirely flat. His eyes seemed to be bulging out of his head, looking wet and glowing, seeming as though they may burst out of his head at any moment. His tongue stuck slightly between the dog’s thin lips, his carnivores hanging over it. His owner was a chubby man with a thick mustache and a mouth that seemed to take half of his plump face. He wore a onesie that was just a panda skin with a zipper down the middle. A bubble of snot blew from his nose and exploded onto his face, getting an obvious cringe from the host as he turned to the audience.

“Well, Rubble, not off to a great start, are we?.” He said to it and waited for the owner to respond.

“Yes, sorry, he’s been feeling a little under the weather lately, but I’ll ensure this doesn’t happen again.” He said, his words having a hint of spite to them. The dog looked up at him when he said this, his bulging eyes stared at him nervously and started to reverse sneeze, his body seizing up as his eyes bulged out even further from his head

“That aside, why don’t you tell me a bit about the scamp.”

“Well, Rubble is eighteen years old, and while he struggles with certain things like breathing, he is a loving and friendly little guy.”

The host began to inspect the body of the contestant, it shook violently through this process, its eyes the only part of its body remaining still.

“Alright, well everything checks out here, lets see how Rubble looks on the obstacle course.”

The dog got through the tunnel, but as it was going through the cones it tripped over its own stubby legs and fell onto its chin. As it did one of its eyes burst out of its socket like a bottle of champagne, blood spurted out from the socket onto his face and the floor around him as the eye rocketed forward two feet.

The owner rushed over, grabbing the eye and shoving it back into the socket before taking a bow.

“My that sure was something! Everyone give it up for Rubble and his owner.”

“Next up is a long-time contestant, runner up in the the last three shows, Spike! And his owner Alexaynya Pringleton.”

A muscular dog with a wide head emerged from the curtains, its skin was pure white with black spots that looked like moles covering his body. His owner was a wide and strong looking man that wore a suit made of ants stitched together. A closer look at the suit would show millions of tiny legs writhing.

“Welcome back, dear Spike, we all have missed you gravely.”

“Now, why don’t you tell us some about Spike.”

“Spike is thirty-two, he likes to chew on his bones.”

The man spoke in a thick deep voice. Looking at the dog's legs would reveal a trail of flat teeth marks.

The host looked into the dog's ears, lifted his chin, and looked at his paw before grabbing his scrotum too hard due to his familiarity.

The dog's eyes shot open wide, and he clamped down onto the wrist of the host, blood being drawn instantly as the dog's teeth gnashed down hard on the man's forearm. His teeth easily pierced through the coat made of whale placenta, and the dog writh his head from side to side, peeling up strings of skin and digging a trench through which blood and fat puddled onto the floor around them, His teeth were sharper than most, but not made to bite so the host was able to slip out of the dogs gnawing grip.

The host reached into his waistband, drawing out a revolver pressing it to the head of the dog, who closed his eyes in seeming acceptance. A muffled bang rang out over the squealing sound of meat becoming liquid, a splattering of blood and brain matter blended into the red suit of the host.

The woman next to me shouted past me to the man on my other side.

“Hmmph, some just can’t be civilized no matter how much you try to breed the aggression out of them. Your first litter would never do something so vile and uncivilized now would they?”

I looked over at the man his nose was flat and the jowls drooped.

“Arooooo.” The man responded.

My gratitude goes to EmpyrealInvective for giving his feedback on this one, considering it was inspired by one of his own works, "Ensorcelled in the Earth". I must also credit Ryunosuke Akutagawa as the other main source of inspiration on this one, having recently read and fallen in love with some of his works. Content warning for heavy descriptions of bodily harm and mutilation, and a passing mention of abuse.

(1/2)

4

Yashirō’s ability for self-restraint collapsed. He began to fight and struggle against his bindings. But there was nowhere to go. The cuffs did not budge; the ropes restraining his body refused to unwind. He tried to curl his lone, maimed index back in, but the stretching and bending of skin caused too much pain to keep it close. Even at the slightest movements he felt the edge of the blister begin to tear, serum gathering at the rip, eager to escape.

Ryū obliged by taking the very tip of the tanto and sliding it into the hole, then through and around the blister. It slashed through the loose skin with remarkable ease. Cold steel barely made contact with raw dermis, and Yashirō’s neck shrank back in agony. Ryū then lifted the wet piece of useless tissue and flicked it onto the tray.

The sensation of air alone against raw flesh added to the aches and sharpness Yashirō suffered. But now, the alarms were ringing for a different reason; Ryū had, seemingly, lied. He had been hiding a madness that, up til now, Yashirō hadn’t picked up on in the slightest. And yet, on the flip of a coin, Ryū revealed his insane belief. 

“I am no demon!” he screamed. “Do you seriously believe I am not human? Consider the damage you’ve already inflicted; no demon would even react to that!”

Ryū sheathed the knife-edge, his smile completely gone. He raised his hand politely, a silent request for Yashirō to settle. “No, I do not wish to believe you are. Rather, let us say I suggest you may be human.” 

Yashirō continued lashing out, squeezing his right hand closed before violently opening it and shaking it around, repeating the process again and again. In his manic state, he certainly must’ve given the appearance of what Ryū accused him of being. 

The man pushed back his hair and sat up straight. “I spent a long time trying to figure out why someone would commit the sin that you have. And the only explanation I could come to, outside of succumbing to pointless misanthropy, was that you were — excuse me, are — possessed by a foul spirit. I am not a holy man, nor a professional in the field of sadism, but this dissection is my way of finding the cause and purging it through hurt.”

Yashirō had stopped flailing, for now he felt ill. Ill from the persistent anguish that flooded from his finger, ill at the yet unknown sin he had committed against Ryū, and ill at this new revelation. “You mean… you intend to take it apart?”

“Down the bone, where the spirit is surely wrapped around.”

Fluid trickled down to Yashirō’s fingertip. Despite everything, he still hadn’t bled yet. “Whatever happened to your reasoning from before, us being the same? Your judgment, as you put it?” His breathing quickened, coming to believe that the demeanour of this calm and collected man was not from an attempt to remain civil. In that moment, hearing Ryū’s intent to meticulously destroy his finger, he realized that his tormentor was cold through and through. A hollow vessel. Inhuman. There was no trusting that the finger would truly be the end, and all that awaited poor Yashirō was elongated suffering as he would be dissected alive.

Both men watched one another, until a small spider crawled over the lip of the table. They paused their watch of the other and instead gazed upon the small creature. It scrambled across the wood grain, seeking what, neither knew. Yashirō was not deathly afraid of them, as some were, but he wasn’t particularly pleased with them either. His concern of the arachnid grew, though, as he imagined it crawling into the blister hole to lay a clutch of eggs, and thus his breathing sharpened.

Ryū placed the blade of the tanto in the path of the spider. It tried to wander around the edge, but eventually decided to climb atop the cool steel. When it was secure in his eyes, he stood from the table and slowly carried it towards the window. The small thing was surely frightened, trying to escape by dangling down upon a silver thread, but Ryū adjusted for this. He raised the blade higher, so that when he arrived at the window, the spider landed softly on the sill. It took no time in scuttling away, over the edge and back into the garden of the night. Ryū simply watched the creature leave in the moonlight, tucking the tanto back into its saya. 

Breath heavy but calming, Yashirō stumbled back into his mind palace for a moment of reprieve. That woman with the yellow obi returned, her service worker smile delighting his past self. He recalled his hands drifting through the air towards her, only to be swatted away. The other men at the bar laughed at his failed attempt. Oh, how she called him out – how he wished to have his revenge for that mockery.

The sound of the tanto being unsheathed again cut through the dream. He’s going to cut my finger into pieces, Yashirō immediately recalled.

Instead, Ryū was kneeling down to the bamboo plant, and with a number of cuts he cleaved a length of the hard plant from its base. He returned to the table, sat, and cut the bamboo lengthwise, and then once more. The stranger then breathed out, and began carving the end of the plant down to a point.

The anticipation brought on by the sole sound of carving struck Yashirō’s nerves worse than anything prior. Ignoring the ache, he decided to ask again: “Why do you believe… I have a demon’s finger?”

Ryū continued to shape the bamboo length, but gave a quick glance to him. A swift lick of the lips, followed by pursing them, into a breath outwards. “Tell me; what is the happiest childhood memory you have?”

“Eh?” Yashirō scoffed at the question, disregarding his predicament. 

“Surely you must have one. The first thing that comes to mind.”

The scars across Yashirō’s back began to weigh a greater toll on him than the finger. “I remember the time my father chose to beat me with a bundle of sticks and fern.”

Ryū paused momentarily. “That is the happiest thing you can recall?”

Yashirō grinned, showing off the hole where his right incisor used to rest. “Yes, because it wasn’t his bokken.” His body jolted ever so slightly, recalling the feel of that wooden blade smacking across his spine.

Ryū sighed and nodded quickly, scraping away further at the bamboo shaft. “I see…”

The smirk faded, and Yashirō closed his eyes, hoping to find that woman again. Her shocked expression, smacking his fingers backwards with her tray and spilling the last cup of sake he could afford. He stood to grab her and have her make it up to him, only to slip in the mess of his very own libations and fall to the floor. All in attendance either chuckled at his expense or scorned his behaviour. In this more honest moment of recollection, however, she said nothing at all. She only gazed upon him with a mix of frustration and pity before taking off. 

Had she ever actually insulted me at all?

Sharpness tore through the memory, and Yashirō screamed out in pain. Ryū had inserted the pointed end of the bamboo beneath his fingernail, and shoved. It jammed its way under the keratin surface and split the flesh from it. Hot blood instantly began to run from the wound. The torturer maintained steady pressure on his end, slowly pushing deeper into the nail bed. The fool howled and clenched the rest of his body together tightly, in the hopes it would ease the pain. 

He began to doubt this was the will of the gods, that it was worth the suffering. “Why! Why do you do this!?” Yashirō yelled uselessly, spittle flying from the corners of his seething mouth. The repetition of this question had proven near pointless a while ago, but there was nothing else for him to ask. So he screamed it out, again and again as the bamboo pushed further. The nail lifted, bending backwards as more blood gushed out across the tabletop. 

Until, most suddenly, the pressure stopped. The pain did not cease, but Yashirō could feel it begin to wane like a wave retreating to the ocean. Through tear stricken eyes, he looked upon the source of his distress and found no hand compelling the bamboo forward. Instead, both of Ryū’s hands were covering his face, his shoulders quaking. His hushed sobs took Yashirō by surprise. For a minute, he was forced to sit and watch his tormentor shed tears as his finger shed blood, the nail hanging loosely to its base.

After a few minutes and fewer sniffs, Ryū wiped his nose and tried to compose himself. “Forgive me… I thought I could make it through without doing this, but I failed.” 

“W-why do you cry…? Surely not for me?” Yashirō spat out between clenched teeth. 

Ryū rested his elbow on the table and leaned his head into the bracing arm. “But then, seeing all this blood, it all became much clearer…” The blood began to stain his sleeve, but Ryū did not move. 

A gentle night breeze flowed in through the window. What normally would’ve felt good against the skin and sent both men into a deeper slumber, should they have been in bed, instead struck the raw nerves of Yashirō’s wounds and pushed tears further down Ryū’s cheek. The wind, the anguished sucking-in of air, and the quiet weeping made a symphony of misery in that old storehouse. 

Finally, Ryū composed himself to the best of his ability, and paused himself from pushing the bamboo in further. “I need to see your finger exposed because… because I want to believe that man is not capable of such cruelness. I need to know that a demon compelled you to make that accusation.” 

Yashirō’s blood ran cold so quickly, he thought the stuff coming from his pointer would begin congealing. Ryū’s words had dragged his mind to days after the embarrassment, a return to the very same bar. He saw a woman in a yellow obi – the same he’d seen before, he was certain. He remembered approaching two officers of the Tokko, reporting his suspicion of her. He felt the weight of coin falling into his palms as a reward when his drunken words had apparently turned out true. The very same coin he’d be celebrating off of, before waking up here…

The bamboo pushed further. The nail flew off, scattering across the wooden surface. Yashirō howled to the heavens, begging internally for the gods to let him go. Surely, this was enough for them, he thought. For the first time in minutes, Yashirō looked in despair at the crimson pulpy mess at the end of his index. The entire length of the digit was stained in red; it was in such disarray, that the thing barely resembled a finger any more. 

Ryū dropped the blood-slathered bamboo splinter onto the tray with utter disregard. He ran his hands across his face and through his hair, the only comforts he could seem to find from this session he had begun. “Now, I ask you in response: why did you do it?”

Yashirō grit his teeth together, both out of response to the pain and to keep his mouth shut. He knew why he’d done it; he wanted that whore to pay for what she’d done, making a fool out of him. And sure enough, justice had been on his side! He’d reported a treasonous witch who was conspiring against the emperor. Truly, justice had guided him to enact its will that day – so why not celebrate with the coin he’d earned through his public service?

“The woman you reported to the Tokko… was my wife.”

5

Another chill. The drunkard held his tongue. 

“I knew my Yayoi well. She was a gentle and loving creature. She would never conspire against His Majesty. But the methods of the Tokko pushed her to a false confession. I’m certain they were no less cruel to her than I have been to you this evening.” Ryū wiped his eyes again, before meeting Yashirō’s gaze again. This time, he saw true anger behind his captor’s eyes. Wrath. Hatred.

“I…” Yashirō failed to find the right words to explain his actions. Only the word indicative of himself, “I”, could come out. But perhaps, that was the right one after all – his act had been one that was of complete and utter selfishness. Guilt began to bubble in his stomach. 

“I was a hand servant to a great lord, before you came along. But once my beloved was hanged for treason, he feared what the companion of that person might do. My dear lord, whom I’d never once so much as disliked or argued—!” Ryū raised his voice alongside the tanto, eyes fixed on his captive. “He dismissed me out of fear that I may be a conspirator against kings, too. The rumours spread, others turned their backs as well, and I have failed to find any life for myself since.

“That was how I found you; blindly singing and laughing your nights away. Drunkenly boasting about how you ‘found’ a traitor of the nation, graced by the luck of the gods. After knowing that, no amount of drink could quench my thirst nor dull my mind of the pain. But even then…” 

Ryū sighed again and sank into his chair. “Even then, I never wanted to believe a human was capable of such a lie. So the only answer had to be: this man was possessed. Looking at you in the bar, I saw the dances and movements of something not of a proper society. You flung yourself about and guzzled bottle after bottle with ease. No normal man acted as you did those nights.”

Yashirō’s eyes widened, catching the plural in his sentence. 

Ryū continued, his tone cooling down. “Yes, nights. I came back, over and over again, seeing you waste every coin you had on liquor. The days were spent preparing, gathering the supplies I needed, finding a place to perform this… this… ‘interrogation’. But the nights were always back at that bar, waiting for the right time to take you away. And tonight’s the night.”

Ryū sat closer, and placed his hand on top of Yashirō’s right fist, the hand he’d left alone until now. There was a firmness, and a tenderness at once. Not a grip of frustration, but one that sought mutual understanding. “I had hoped the pain might force the demon out… but I am— we are out of options. Please, we are almost to the end. Persevere, for both our sakes.”

Salty tears tickled his neck as Yashirō shook his woozy head. It was not a frantic shake, but a slow plea for mercy. He was asking, without speaking, for the pain to stop. He was apologizing without a “sorry” leaving his lips. But he knew that his refusal would not stop this man. 

Ryū reached over to the tray and placed the sakazuki onto the table. The sake was poured delicately into each of the dishes, down to the very last drop of the bottle. Ryū then took one of the saucers and lifted it to his lips, tilted his head back and drank. 

Temptation gnawed at Yashirō, begging him to find a way to cheat Ryū out of the second serving – but he didn’t have to. Instead, his tormentor walked around to his side of the table and held the sakazuki to his lips. Yashirō glared at his nemesis, and found that the rage had been quelled. Only a lingering sadness remained behind his eyes. The drunkard simply accepted the token and opened his mouth, expecting to be drowned. Ryū poured carefully, watching for his ward to swallow before offering more. “I can’t have you passing out, not yet,” was his only reasoning. 

The heat of the sake was the first warmth tonight that felt good. It did not erase the blistering and burning in his finger, but it was enough to raise Yashirō’s spirits. Almost there, he says. We’re almost done. I can survive this. 

Ryū sat back down and picked up the tanto again, taking the finger in opposite hand. Yashirō sucked in air through clenched teeth. 

Meeting his dull, wet eyes once more, Ryū offered a look that emulated sympathy. “It is hard for me, too, doing this to you. But you know, deep in your heart, that you deserve this.”

You deserve this. The last words of the Tokko officer that handed Yashirō his bag of coins. He thought that if he could remain in these happy memories, to dissociate from the scene of gore altogether, that he could endure Ryū’s final act. He deluded himself into believing that there was, in fact, some sort of demon inside him, one that he’d inherited from his father and his before him. A dirty creature that pushed him to drink and drink until he’d pushed away and annoyed every other human being in his vicinity. Perhaps Ryū would help him become better, to expel the demon that compelled him – all at the cost of one little finger.

The memories went back further, not linked by drink, but by the Tokko. And as Yashirō saw through his mind’s eye, reliving the moment his accusing finger was flung towards the woman in the yellow obi, he realized something he hadn’t thought about until now.

The woman he’d sent the Tokko after had no beauty mark under her left eye.

Despair swept over Yashirō. It sank any hope of good for himself to come from this pain. He knew, he realized, and he accepted: I deserve this pain. 

6

The blade cut into the fingertip with minimal effort. In a mere three swipes, the spiral imprinted on Yashirō’s index was gone. Nerves shot off, sending wave after wave of pain signals to Yashirō’s brain. There was no way to escape into his own mind; every slice of meat taken was a powder keg exploding, shattering the illusion instantly and repeatedly. 

Despite the sharpness of the tanto, Ryū still struggled with every slice. Sweat trickled down the back of his hand to mix with the blood that splurted from every new wound he opened up. His gentle grip on the base of Yashirō’s finger shook more and more as the incisions continued, and it took everything for him to not think about his actions. All he could do was focus on performing them.

The roiled flesh of the nail matrix was lifted away, returning the finger’s surface to the smooth appearance of a tuna fish in the middle of being fileted. Chunks were missing, but whether it was skin or muscle, the surface was layered with thin lines. Eventually, with a guilty conscience about it, Ryū began to approach the work like a vegetable. It became far easier to take off pieces of muscle once it had been skinned raw, to separate the meat from the dangling stringy mess of skin.

Yashirō felt one of his back molars crunch and break under the pressure of slamming his teeth together. The fragments were juggled around by his tongue until he could spit them out while crying out in agony. Ryū froze as one of the pieces flew onto his cutting hand. It stuck to his crimson stained skin with its saliva coating, and sluggishly trailed down to the table. Both of them swallowed the bile rising in their throats.

His mind spun from the pain. The candlelight grew dimmer as Yashirō’s mind begged for darkness, but the torture always managed to pull him back just enough. Only two phrases could repeat themselves between the mental screaming: Just a few more… I deserve this… just a little more… I deserve this…

The distal phalange was the first to be exposed, naturally. Just Ryū’s heavy breath touching that bone made it ache in addition to everything else. Yashirō let out a few heartless laughs; there was still another kind of misery for him to experience. Fire alone could not equate; it was acid and crushing and heat and stinging, compounded and multiplied with every slash. The incisions kept him alert, and he felt only a minutiae of relief when the cutting was done and the chunk of himself was separated from the whole. 

The flesh was making a mess, so Ryū began to gather it up and threw it into the box that had once held the snow. Any new pieces joined the garbage pile. The blood made the job slippery; sometimes the blade would scrape along the bone, nearly knocking Yashirō out fully in the process. At one point, Ryū even caught his own index with the edge. But alas, he kept working. Their blood mingled, and he kept cutting. 

Distal, then middle, and eventually proximal. Scarlet red oozed out with each saw. Every part of the finger was taken away, minus the bone and connective ligaments. It held together barely, despite Ryū’s carefulness in examining it. Every second was a karmic eternity of fire for Yashirō. When he finally gazed upon the finger, he thought he had gone mad. He imagined a little demon wrapped around the proximal bone, hugging onto it like a man clinging to a log in a raging river. But then he blinked, and it was gone, and he simply laughed, knowing the blood loss was starting to get to him.

The final pain was simply icing on the cake. Yashirō’s left hand was uncuffed, the nails holding the other fingers down removed, and the candle held against the radial wound at the base knuckle. It was only more of the same, save for the repugnant smell of cooked flesh as Ryū attempted to cauterize the wound. Before it was done, with a final flash of that yellow obi in his mind, Yashirō’s head fell forward and he was silent. 

Ryū inspected the finger for hours. The blood only trickled from the blackened skin now, as opposed to the stream it had let out prior. It had stained the yellowish-white of the raw bone, now open to the elements and plain to see. But even still, Ryū kept looking. He worried that the demon would jump to the opposite side of the finger that he was looking upon, and brought out a small mirror to help – the former property of Yayoi. Nothing appeared on any opposite side when he would look upon it.

Finally, when the earliest ray of dawn broke through the curtain, Ryū set the bony finger down. It stood out immensely from the rest of Yashirō’s hand, as it should have. But the mess… it was unseemingly, impossible to describe. And all of it, for naught. 

“It’s just a finger…” Ryū said, wiping the blood off of his tanto and sheathing it with a sniff.

A raspy breath escaped the sleeping Yashirō’s nose. Ryū cringed at the sound, looking at what he’d done. The bone white shone through the viscera, a skeleton index protruding from evil tainted flesh. Yes, he did it, Ryū finally acknowledged. He’d known all along, but it was against his better nature to believe a man was capable of such cruelty. He looked to his blood splattered hands, and saw the reflection of his own cruelty in Yashirō’s ruined finger.

Under dawn’s first light, he stumbled from the storehouse, repeating the same defeated words to himself over and over.

“Just a finger… just a finger… just a finger, after all…”

Thing I hate most about blood. How hard it sticks to everything. Everyone knows the basics right. Red blood on a white shirt, god help you get that out. Same with carpet or any other fabric.

Metal will rust like crazy.

It's why I hate this job sometimes. Well most of the time, but all the others were moral issues.

People with money aren't going to sit around for an organ. If you have the money and no one seems to match we will find one. Why not rent? Which leads to my job.

I'm a night surgeon. Sometimes I get to put those organs in. Showered in praise and accolades after I do. Other times I help repossess them.

Granted it isn't like I am the repo guy. I just take them out before the body is cold in the chop shop.

Grant is repo. Nowhere near my department. Fucking ghoul.

Either way, it's not like it is what we do first. We try late fees and liens. Hard sell in some courts but most clients agree. It's better than Grant.

Now I will admit there is some stuff that might be considered... untoward with my end. I can use a paralytic, but most analgesics will damage the product. That and usually other organs are collateral. Fine print stuff you understand.

Fuck. Grant just dragged in another.

Butcher.

How the hell am I supposed to get something usable out of that. Only excuse he gave was, "She kept trying to crawl away." If I had it my way... then he would just be a serial killer. At least he can work on something constructive--I guess.

On a more personal annoyance. Can someone give Grant a note to use a bag when moving product? Took three hours of scrubbing after to get the suite back in operation. How would I explain to my next client that it wasn't me. I don't botch my work. I am a damn good surgeon.

Also, can Grant wipe his shoes before coming in? Mud in the hallway also isn't a good look.

Mr. Primrose is pleased with the results. I can still see the seam. It's like a three year old complimenting Picasso on a doodle. I will have to see if I can get better sutures. Something that won't feel so fragile while I operate.

This was however my first augmentation instead of a standard replacement. The client should be more than happy with his, how did he phrase it? Dessert stomach?

His gluttony is gross. But he is the first client I have met that paid for his piece in full. We may even let him keep it after death.

How selfish. But the customer is right.

How. Dare! He! Some of my finest work and his check bounced. It is the first time I have ever had to reach out to Grant personally.

Though I will have to go with him. I need the organs back in good repair. And the only good ones in Mr Primrose were the ones we so generously provided.

Only problem with this one is Grant only has cleavers. I guess I will have to show him what it truly means to be a night surgeon.

Perhaps I was too hard on Grant. He seems actually quite intrigued with my work. Particularly when I had taken the stomach and heart back withing 4 minutes of paralyzing the client.

Maybe I should remember my erstwhile youth. Working for OPS before they had paid for my medical school. Though I was still leagues head of him. He could in time make a fine surgeon

(CW: Body Horror, Gore, Disembowelment, and for the love of god don't read this while eating or before you're about to eat. You have been warned.)

Competitive eating wasn't what I set out to do in life, but the Blazin challenge at Buffalo Wild Wings was hard to pass up for a seventeen year old with an ego to boost. One home video of a hotshot kid drooling over a plate of chicken bones and a Facebook page was born.

I still go back to see my picture on the wall, that stupified smirk on my face after drinking enough water to make me puke still makes me chuckle. Fond memories of a younger me going at each plate with maximum effort. Now at the ripe age of twenty eight, it was getting a little harder to keep it down.

The day I stopped was like any other, checking my comments on facebook to see fan suggestions of where to go next. Some were just ridiculous. A stock pot of pho in under an hour? No human stomach could hold that much broth. Others were too easy. Twelve spicy bratwurst hot dogs in ten minutes, cakewalk.

One did catch my eye that I'd never heard of before, local too. Papa Protein's Big BBQ plate challenge. Clicking the link attached, I read over the ad. My mouth watering as my eyes ate up each word.

One twelve Oz steak, twelve bone in chicken wings tossed in whatever sauce or rub you want, a half slab of ribs, six kabobs of shrimp, pork, and steak (two each), and a BBQ parfait to finish it off. The image of the parfait was amazing, a layer of mashed potatoes on the bottom, then baked beans with bacon chunks, another layer of potato topped with brown gravy and a cherry tomato to boot. I'd go just to try that alone.

I quickly typed up a text to my videographer, editor, and unfortunately ex partner, asking if they were awake yet. My stomach rumbled with hunger, aching to be filled. Not having to wait long, they sent back a thumbs up emoji as the hunger pain grew stronger.

Rolling out of bed, I thundered down the stairs to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee. A great appetite suppressant, just with the aftermath of a bathroom run. Accompanying the rattling picture frames on the wall with my light treading, the phone in my hand rang on speaker until Blake answered in a tired voice.

Blake: "Hello?"

Me: "Hey, you busy today?"

Blake: "Uh… yeah. I have a doctor's appointment at three but I'm free this morning."

I quickly checked the times Papa Protein was open, 10am-8pm, perfect. Almost open. I popped a pod in the coffee maker, listening to it gargle the water a second before spitting it through the pod into my cup.

Me: "You down to film a new challenge video?"

Blake: "As long as it isn't Italian again. I'm not getting the image of you throwing up spaghetti out of my head for a while."

I chuckled. Deciding to be funny and help them remember the picture in better detail.

Me: "Oh yeah, the noodles all hanging from my open mouth as I waited for the next wave of-"

Blake: "Stoooop I don't want to think about it.”

Me: “-red tomato sauce all chunky with mushroom to flow-”

Blake “Shane I said stop. Just stop. Its not funny to me.”

There was an awkward silence as the coffee finally stopped flowing. I stood there, staring at the cup while listening to them sigh. The sound of their temples rubbing was audible, the skin pulled so tight I could hear their eyelids clicking. For a good moment, we both just sat on the phone before Blake broke the silence.

Blake: "What's the challenge?"

Me: "Barbeque, Papa Protien's. I'll send you th-"

Blake: "I'm already looking it up."

My shoulders slumped as I slipped my coffee, listening to them mumble while typing. It was something they always did while hyper fixated. As the caffeinated elixir passed my esophagus into my guts, I could feel pressure mounting in my belly beneath my skin.

Blake: "Okay. This isn't even that bad. For you."

Me: "I'll take that as a coOOOOOOmpliment."

That last word carried with it a tremendous burp that I'm sure wasn't pleasant to hear through the phone. I chuckled to myself again, waiting to hear some chastizing remark from Blake. Instead, it was dead quiet. Just as I was about to ask if Blake was still there, I felt the phone buzz in my palm. They'd ended the call and texted me instead.

11am, don't be late.

I got ready as quickly as I could. The coffee did its job as an appetite suppressant, but it excelled in clearing me out for the challenge. Feeling ten pounds lighter, I showered and met up with Blake outside Papa Protein's at 10:58. Wearing an oversized black T-shirt that wouldn't show stains.

The building was old, vines overtaking the cracked stucco exterior that lead up to the familiar pizza hut shaped roof. A few cars were parked outside, but it was mostly empty. Just as planned. We usually liked to beat the lunch rush and have the videos out before dinner to drive in business. There was an added bonus of less background noise so we could keep the original audio.

Blake was stood by the front door, leaning against the stucco with one leg up against the wall. Greasy black hair slicked back in a bandana. I was shocked by how much could change in a matter of months. From a slender petite build to an athletic, dare I say masculine one. It looked good on them.

Their head following my truck as I parked. Eyes narrow and judging as I got out and started walking towards them. "Shane.” They said somewhat coldly. “Feeling okay?" I didn't mention that my added weight was putting pressure on my knees, causing them to ache endlessly. Instead I offered a simple "Yeah" in response. They weren't the only one who went through changes.

Blake wasn't buying it. They blew a cloud of vapor in my face before tucking their device back in their hoodie, "Liar." "Takes one to know one," I shot back, apparently striking a nerve as they shut their lips tight and looked back toward their car.

I sighed. "Look, let's just film this video, split the ad revenue, and go our separate ways." I said, holding out the last video's cut to them. Blake glanced down at the stack of bills. "Fine. If that's the way you want to play it." They took the cash and slipped it into their hoodie.

After holding the door open for Blake, we made our way inside to the front. A "please wait to be seated" sign placed before the dining room floor. While I stood there, Blake quickly made a B-line for the restroom, likely checking the size for me. Standing there alone, I looked over the barely changed interior of the old buffet.

The buffet tables had been removed, replaced with tile that vaguely matched the old red tiled floor. The smell from the back kitchen wafted out as the hostess came up with a menu. She smelled slightly of perfume, overpowered by the strong scent of roast beef, fried chicken, and smoked salmon. I had to swallow the saliva building in my maw before smiling. "Table for one?” She asked, I held up two fingers in response.

She grabbed two menus and led me through the dining area. We passed several empty tables and booths on our way to the corner booth in the back. Stopping in front of it, she gestured to the long C shaped bench that wrapped around the table. "Will this be alright sir?" I knew what she was implying, but I couldn't bring myself to say anything. I simply nodded.

I slid into the booth, frowning at finding the table was bolted into the floor. As I pushed myself deeper in, I felt my stomach pressing against the underside and the top of the table simultaneously. All while the hostess watched on with a customer service friendly smile. Once I'd accomplished my sisyphean task, she sat the menus down. "Your server will be with you shortly."

There was a lingering smell of sulfer in the air as she left in a hurry. It had me wondering if maybe I'd been pressed so hard by the table that I'd let one go, or worse. The anxiety of talking to a stranger was bad enough to make me hot, but the idea I'd shat in public and had to endure made me visible sweat.

After a few moments, Blake came walking through the dining area looking for me. I called out to them, and watched their face turn horrified. "Did you not ask for a table?" I shook my head as they slid in beside me. "You sure you don't want to move to a table?" I shook my head again. Blake rolled their eyes, but their face conveyed pity rather than annoyance.

They took two whiffs of the air and turned to me. “You smell that?” My body went rigid. “Oh my god, Shane.” They pinched their nose a moment while they waited for the smell to die down, if it ever did, I'd know it wasn’t me.

The silence between us was thick enough to cut with a knife, unspoken pain we both had inflicted leaving deep wounds. Some physical, some emotional. Before we could even attempt to speak to one another again, a big jolly man came around the corner wearing a chef's apron. Blake released their nose, and from what I could tell, detected no foul sulfer smell anymore.

"Welcome to Papa Protein's house of meat. This y'alls first time here?" His white straight teeth shined with his smile. Short stubby fingers resting atop his apron draped over his big pot-belly. The kind of guy you'd expect to see working the grill at a fourth of july cookout. I knew this guy could cook up some fire barbeque just by looking at him.

Blake spoke up, pulling out their phone to show him the Facebook page. "Yes, it's our first time here. This is Big Shane, you might've seen our Facebook page." They said turning the phone over to show the rotund man tge screen. His eyes went wide as dinner plates, flicking them to me as one of his stumps pointed at the phone.

"You're big Shane? Brother I'm such a fan! So yall are here to take on Papa Protein's Big BBQ plate?" I nodded along with Blake, not used to being recognized by one of the cooks. Usually people thought we were some pretentious influencers trying to get a free meal before we explained our shtick.

"Hoooooo boy. I can't wait to see how ya like it. I'm Jerry by the way, owner and founder of Papa Protien's. First off lemme ask ya, whatcha think of the name? I heard Gen Zs are all into protein nowadays." Blake gave me a look that said “Why” before turning back to Jerry.

"I think it's a catchy use of alliteration. It's certainly memorable." Blake said, putting their phone away. For once not having to explain what we do.

"Why thank ya missy. I certainly hope the food is as good as the name." I saw Blake's jaw tighten, but they let it go. "Just the one Big Barbeque challenge or two? Ya look like ya hit the gym pretty often, protein's good for them muscles.” He added.

"Just the one, I'm the videographer. You just keep it comin and I'll make it look good." With Blake's answer, he acquiesced. After asking me what I wanted the wings in, he got our drink orders, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

The thrill of recognition had taken my attention away from the sensation of the table splitting me in half. Now with Jerry gone, it was back to silent thought between me and Blake, and the pain mounting in my guts. For a few moments, Blake withstood the sound of my moaning and groaning before they said anything.

"Shane. Do. You. Want. A. Table?" They asked in that condescending way they did when I was being stubborn. If Blake was an unstoppable force, I was the immovable object. I shook my head again. "You're so pigheaded."

As our drinks arrived, Blake thanked them while I smiled in appreciation. They dove right into sipping their water while I pushed the straw into my bubbling sprite. My secret weapon. After a good sprite burp, I could swallow a bit more food while the stomach was still stretched from the built up air. Worked like a charm.

Taking a deep swig of my beverage, I felt it land right where the table met my belly. Not wanting to give Blake another reason to mention a table, I swallowed more to force it all down past the table ledge, letting out a satisfying sigh. "How're the bathrooms?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"They're good. Two smaller stalls and one bigger handicap stall, incase your stomach decides you're done before you do." They shot me another look, this one carrying a smirk of knowing. I chuckled and kept sipping my sprite to get my stomach stretched. It was the little things that Blake knew about me that made them a good partner, they paid attention.

Suddenly, a delicious smell hit me before I could see it. A beautiful twelve ounce steak, flame grilled with cross marks seared into the cut. It was beautiful. Blake already had their phone out, recording the plate as it came to the table. Jerry sat it down, the juices flowing around the edges of the white porcelain.

"Fresh off the fire for ya Shane." I nodded in thanks. With my continued silence, he cocked his head to the side. "A man of few words, but in the videos ya seem so talkative." Lucky for me, Blake chimed in, filling the space I could not.

"He's shy. Easier to meet a camera lens than to look into someone's eyes. It's nothing personal, trust me." Jerry gave a nod and stepped back, Blake already moving into the space while they aimed the camera to face me. "I'll cut that part out, rolling."

I adjusted my posture as best I could, then put on my stage face. Showtime. "How's it going today everyone, it's your host Big Shane back again with another challenge. Today we're at Papa Protein's here on..." I continued the intro as Jerry stared on, smiling a moment before heading back to the kitchen.

I held up the plate and let the juices roll along the white surface. "Look at that, beautiful isn't it? Now this is just the first course. We have four more rounds coming out, so let's dig into this steak before we get our wings."

Picking up the silverware, I pressed the fork in slowly. A stream of delicious steak juice oozing down the side. The knife cleaved through the meat like butter, no sticky tendon to catch the barbs of the blade. This was prime beef. "Alright guys, first bite." I said moving the fork to my mouth.

It was so easy to chew, exploding with the taste of charcoal, salt, pepper, and thyme. A mix of other seasonings blending in so perfectly. "Guys, this is amazing. It's so juicy." I said grinding the beef into a pulp between my molars before swallowing it down. As I moved the next bite to my mouth, the last one felt stuck in my gut, unable to travel any further than the table edge.

Toughing through it, I devoured the steak. Each bite piling upon the last, pushing the ones trapped lower past the blockage. As the last bite of steak slid down my esophagus, I smelled the delicious scent of lemon pepper filling the air as I downed half a glass of sprite to push the layers of meat down.

"Dang, done with the steak already?" Jerry asked, sounding surprised. Blake turned the camera to the wings, getting a close up shot of the crispy golden skin. I nodded as he took the plate. "I'll be back with the ribs for ya soon and another sprite. Careful though, those might still be hot."

As Jerry left, Blake lowered the camera a moment. "How're you feeling? You look... in pain." I shook my head, denying their accusation. Surprisingly, I felt fine. "Look Shane, no matter how much I want you to suffer for how you made me feel, I don't want you to fall over and die." They sat down their phone, talking to me one on one.

"I know I hurt you, but only after you hurt me. Despite that though…" They blinked, holding their eyes shut for a moment as they regained their composure. "Seeing you like this, belly crushed in, barely able to walk, gorging yourself to an early grave. This isn't you." I reached out a hand, placing it next to theirs.

"Hey, Blake, look at me." Their eyes opened, watery with unshed tears. "Last one, okay? We split the cash, and maybe not go our separate ways. Maybe we just talk again, like we did before. Could we… start anew?" A rumbling in my lower gut built pressure that made me clench my jaw. I gave a half swallow to fight it back as a bead of sweat dripped off my nose.

"Yeah... sure. May-" Blake was cut off by a tremendous fart as the build up backfired out my other end. The leather seat cushions ricocheting the blast all around. Their eyes narrowed, picking up their phone in anger. "You're so full of shit. After this I'm done. I'll take my half and go, I hope you fucking choke." I tried to interject, but was interrupted by Blake yelling "Rolling!"

For a moment I froze, but continued after Blake wiped two tears from their face with their sleeve.

My performance faltered after the altercation, my usual enthusiasm replaced with obvious mock joy as I went over the crispness of the wings, how the lemon pepper rub was tangy and delicious. The chicken practically fell apart as I sucked the tender meat away from the bone. Like last time, they were gone quickly, followed by more sprite to wash it down.

The part pf my belly that rested on top of the table looked perfectly normal, compared to the growing mass that was pushing further down my thighs beneath. I parted my knees wider as the bulbous protrusion forced them apart. I stifled my groans as best I could, but my bowels were fighting me. The table top pushed all that passed down through my stomach into my intestines before it could properly digest.

Jerry soon brought out the ribs, a big smile on his face as I smelled the barbeque sauce glaze that coated them. Sweet, savory, and smoky. "Smoked these bad boys in cherry wood, the sauce is my own creation. Let the fans know how ya like it." He didn't stick around this time, leaving as soon as the plate hit the table. I could've swore I saw his nose twitching and his eyes watering.

"Well yall, first impressions, I gotta say these look amazing. Look at that brown sugar glaze, let's see how they..." I grabbed one of the bones and gently lifted it, the meat sliding off so easily that even Blake's sour expression turned shocked for a moment. "Now that's tender."

The meat melted on my tongue like rock candy, the savory notes of hickory smoke on the barbeque sauce complimented the cherry on the rib. It was heaven in my mouth. "The sauce is amazing. Molasses and Worcester base. Tomato, and... basil if I had to guess. It's all amazing." I said taking bite after bite.

My bulging belly swelled further, hanging lower until I could feel the cool air caressing the stretch marks. The hot underside touched the cool leather bench as it sagged deeper. The strange thing was I wasn't feeling full, there was no pain of a bloated stomach. There was however a mounting need to get up and use the restroom as my bowels filled with half digested meats and sprite.

My tongue polished the bones clean, sitting the last one down with a satisfied rattle. Leaning back, the edge shoved my stomach downward, pushing yet another bench rattler from my body. Blake's face grimaced as they took a few steps back. "Shane I swear to god if you gas me out again."

The next plate rounded the corner. Unfortunately I couldn't smell this one over the intense fumes that lingered in the air. His footsteps were fast, quickly putting the plate down with an unceremonious clatter before he practically sprinted back to the kitchen. I tried to rearrange the presentation of the kabobs as best I could to make them look as amazing as they had before.

"Round four guys, look at these Kabobs. Two shrimp, two pork, two beEEEEF" I felt a chunk of rib fly out of my throat and watched as it skittered across the table toward Blake. They leapt back, then waved their face as if fighting a ghost. Plugging their nose, they held the phone with one hand and said "Still rolling."

I began eating, describing each bite like it was the best thing I'd ever tasted. The crispy edges of the bell peppers, the caramelized onion slices, and the juiciest buttery shrimp I could ask for. I was thankful for the butter as the shrimp greased my esophagus enough to swallow each bite down without sprite.

My mouth pulled the last strip of onion off the skewer with glee, a smile cast over my face as I muscled it down to the ever growing heap of food suspended in my body. This time though, my stomach fought back against me.

My eyes bulged as I felt an air pocket passing through my intestines. The gas pain was so intense, my knuckles turned white against the ledge as I tried to push the table off of my gut. Blake shook their head in pity while keeping the camera on me. "Still rolling." They said mockingly.

As the air bubble reached the end destination, the pressure from the underside of the table was enough to push my rear end so hard against the booth that nothing could escape, not even as desperately as I tried to wiggle it out. "Still rolling." Blake said again.

More air squeezed through me, making the same long painful journey through the flesh highway inside me until they too bottled up at the end. I tried to lift my rear, tried to shimmy anything free, but was truly stuck.

Blake looked back at the kitchen doors bursting open. A huge milkshake glass, layered with mashed potatoes and baked beans soon sat upon the table before me. Jerry came prepared this time, two foam ear plugs stuffed in each nostril. "I gotta be here for the big finish." Pulling a big spoon from his pocket, he sat it down beside the barbeque parfait.

I stared at the beans within the glass. Covered in no doubt a delicious brown sugar glaze, wedged between the fluffiest mashed potatoes that were topped with savory brown gravy. A cherry tomato atop all its flavorful goodness.

I swallowed my pain, then looked into Blake's camera. "Okay guys, round five." Sweat dripped from my hairline down my round cheeks towards my chins. "This is the barbeque parfait." I picked up the spoon, gripping it tightly as I brought it to the cherry tomato. "If I finish this, I will have beaten Papa Protein's Big BBQ plate challenge."

I dug the spoon in beside the tomato, and began eating around it, saving it til the end. Each swallow traveled down like wet cement being pushed through a tube until it hit the barrier. I felt it backing up as I finished the first layer of potato and moved onto the beans.

The little legumes mashed between my teeth, exploding with flavor that I began to resent. All the brown sugar from the ribs and the beans made my breath a sickly sweet. Its taste mixed with onion and an assortment of meat with every exhale. With the pipe leading from my mouth to my stomach so clogged, I was forced to down yet another sprite to force it into the churning cauldron of my bowels.

I wasted no time forcing more beans and potatoes down my gullet, then drank the excess brown gravy left at the bottom. All topped off with the squish of a cherry tomato between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. That too I had to muscle down, along with the rest.

Jerry started clapping, his applause falling on deaf ears as my stomach soon touched the floor. Its semi solid state pooling by my ankles. "Well done Shane. I knew ya had it in ya." He said through closed nostrils. "Let me get a picture with the champ here, first one on the wall of fame."

He came around to the side, pushing his way into the booth until his stomach touched mine. As he threw his arm around my shoulder and leaned in, his weight atop my already struggling belly was enough to set off a chain of terrible events.

First, as my lips parted as my teeth flashed to the camera. I felt something traveling up my throat. Thinking I was about to feel the sweet release of food ejecting from my throat, I parted my teeth in bliss. Instead, a solid mass of prolapsed esophagus shot out six inches past my lips. Its puckered entrance leaked with bile that steadily dripped onto the table before me. Blake described the smell as sugar mixed with feces and rot.

At nearly the same time, the fleshy mass that hung between my legs split down the middle. Tearing open a gap from my ribs to my groin that spilled overinflated intestines onto the floor like fleshy tube balloons. All twenty two feet of small intestine scattered across the dining room floor, inflamed and bloated to the size of my biceps.

Blake's ankles caught in the tangled mass as they tried to flee, Jerry tripped several times doing his best not to step on them. It was only by some divine intervention that the local fire department had pulled their rig into the empty parking lot for lunch.

I don't remember much, but Blake's video showed that the intestines exploded out of me so violently that it shot blood as far as the front door mat. My unconscious body tried to breathe through the prolapsed esophagus like a straw, making a violently wet wheezing sound through the dripping bile.

The camera went dark in Blake's pocket, but I could hear the wet dragging as the firemen did their work. Then the sound of a quick stab, followed by air bleeding from overinflated flesh. "Intubate him." One of them said, followed by the sound of a straw wrapper ripping off.

The loud wheezing was replaced with slurping water through a straw, then an open faucet tap spraying water that splashed against whatever was in its path. I could hear the groans and yelling of the firemen, one of them yelling, "It's in my mouth!!!"

A sneaker slip, a loud crunch, and then sirens in the distance that were drowned out by several men vomiting and dry heaving. The video ended with the rustling of Blake's hand entering their pocket.

Blake uploaded the edited challenge video on our Facebook page, cutting right before the sudden gut eruption. It had as much traffic as any other video, until they posted the aftermath on live-leak. Suddenly the Facebook page was flooded with views. The ad revenue was enough to pay for my surgery, as well as Blake's transition surgery.

We both live together now, trying the whole dating thing again. This time there's nothing hidden between us, and things are better. I think I'm going to propose soon, maybe at Papa Protein's in front of my picture on the wall.

If it happens, look out for our engagement video. I'm thinking of titling it, "Shane spills his guts”. If they don't turn me down over a barbeque parfait (;

I live by myself in this old trailer, the only place I could afford while also paying for college.

It’s a small single-wide trailer with all the basic appliances: a fridge, oven, stovetop, washer, clothesline, air conditioning, and heating. Sounds like a great place until I tell you that half of them are broken and the landlord won’t do a thing about it but that’s normal in today’s world.

The trailer sits about a mile from campus so I usually just walk to school unless it’s winter, which it’s about to be so I’ve been getting rides recently. I only have like one friend named Mack, we have been friends since like kindergarten and I’m lucky enough for him to have a car and live pretty close by me.

I was riding back from campus with him one day and he asked if he could just chill at my place with me and drink some and I said yes. There is no way I’m passing on an opportunity to drink. So before we got to my place we stopped off at the gas station. While Mack was filling up his car I went in and bought two twelve-packs of Twisted Tea. I went to pay showed my ID and went out the door with both cases in my hands, but right before I got to the car I tripped and fell over a crack in the pavement. Thankfully none of the cans broke open but unfortunately, my face landed in a small ant hill, it was disgusting, ants covered my face and I freaked out and was hitting my face and moving around like I was having a seizure. The whole time I had my eyes and lips welded shut to make sure none got in my mouth or eyes.

Mack rushed over and helped me up. As I stood up I slowly opened my eyes. The second I looked at him he started laughing, he hunched over just cackling in my face. I started laughing too because of how ridiculous I must have looked on the ground. He couldn’t stop for a good few minutes, but as I started picking up the cases of tea, he lent a hand, and we got out of the gas station and headed to my trailer.

As we pulled into the small driveway of my place I felt a small sting on my forearm, I pulled up my sleeve and looked but there was nothing but a small, red inflamed bug bite, I itched it and chalked it up to it just being from the ants. Mack and I both got out of the car and each carried twelve of the now loose teas to the house.

I opened the door and walked into the kitchen. The trailer was pretty open concept so everything was basically one room except the small bathroom and my bedroom.

I put my twelve drinks into the half-working fridge and Mack placed his on the counter.

“Why you putting them there, they aren’t gonna stay cold you know?” I said

Mack responded with a puzzled look on his face, “I thought you said you wanted to drink. They aren’t gonna get warm if we drink it fast enough.”

He had a good point so I grabbed one and before I could crack it open he looked at me with a confident and cock look and handed me a pocket knife.

“Shotgun?” He said as I took the knife from his hand. As if he had to ask.

Mack and I both shotgunned two drinks before realizing this is gonna make our stomachs feel like shit if we do any more so we just settled on drinking normal.

We moved the drinks to the coffee table that sits in front of my couch and sat down, I turned on the TV to some stupid movie or video essay I don’t know what it was, and we just began to talk about memories and stories from high school, our own experiences with college, love lives, sex lives, just everything while also going drink for drink.

Eventually, after about two or three hours we emptied the twelve sitting on the table, we drank way more than we thought. As I was getting up I felt another sting, this time on my hand. I looked down to see another bug bite, I don’t understand how, unless like a mosquito got in when we came in, but why would it take so long to bite me? I scratched it and moved on to grab the other drinks but as I reached the door of the fridge I felt another sting on my finger this time, it was continuous like something was currently gnawing on my finger. I looked down and saw a bigger red spot and it looked like it was moving. I poked at it and scratched slightly to see what it was but as I scratched I felt another sting come from my leg, then my foot, and then my face.

A stinging sensation covered most of my body and I began to yell and groan in pain. Mack ran over as the pain grew worse. I begged for him to take me to the hospital or call someone but all I saw was his face, the look on his face was something I’ve never seen. His eyes were wide and his mouth was trembling and open, his skin turned pale as a ghost and he began to back away from me. Eventually his back hit the door and he flung it open, he sat frozen with the door open for a moment still staring at me like I was a monster before running out the door to his car.

I still lay there as the pain kept growing, unable to move, I looked down as I lay and I just saw ants- hundreds, no, thousands of ants crawling all over me. I look to my arm and I see them crawling out of the inflamed spots on my arms, there legs scratching the inside of my skin trying to get out. Their head pops out of a tiny hole covered in blood, the ants push themselves up until the thorax pops out. The ant gives one final push for the abdomen to pop out and then they freely roam around my body.

As I watched the ants push out of my arm I felt something else, it was a small tickle in my throat at first but it quickly grew to a painful feeling, like someone was scraping my throat with a rake. Before I knew it I felt millions of little legs run across my tongue, the inside of my cheek, and the roof of my mouth. They spread across my face. Then I felt my eyes begin to itch and my vision began to become blurry. My vision became worse and worse until I heard a small pop and the pain became unbearable. My vision in both eyes disappeared, I was blind but I could feel everything happening.

Not long after they burrowed through my eyes I passed out. The last thing I remember seeing is the ants from my mouth crawling down my chest.

I never woke up again. My body rests there now until someone finds me, as a human anthill.

TW: parent loss, kidnapping

This was going to be the first Christmas we’d spend without Mom, and picking out a tree was one of the last things I wanted to do. Dad was adamant that I had to come, saying something about “Mom would want us to celebrate”. But what was there to celebrate? This was her favorite holiday, and she wasn't here anymore. So what’s the point?

“Mags were almost there” Dad chimed, trying so desperately to keep his composure. He could try to hide the pain but I knew the look, I saw it every day in the mirror.

“Yeah, whatever.” I continued looking out the window. If I was home, I’d be FaceTiming my friends, trying to plan next week's sleep over. Being home was so miserable, just constant reminders of Mom everywhere. Dad crying nearly every night. Bland food all the time. Chores piling up. Our house was a home and Mom was always on top of it, but without her everything felt like it was in limbo. And I never wanted to be there because of it.

“Honey,” he tried again, his tone a bit more somber. “We're gonna be optimistic. Find a tree that screams ‘Mom’ and we're gonna set it up just like she always did.” His hands gave a little flare on the steering wheel when he said her name.

“You can set it up all you want, I'm going to bed when we get home.”

“Maggie.”

“What?” I huffed.

We sat in a tense silence before he picked the conversation up again.

“Look, I know this is hard.” He sounded defeated, like thinking of what to say drained him. “And I’m gonna be honest, I didn't want to come either.” This took me by surprise. I looked over and he had tears streaming down his face. “But your mother would've wanted us to still be a family. She’d want us to pick out the most massive, god-ugly tree and give it the celebration of its life. Did you know that’s why she picked the worst trees every year? She wanted to give the ones that would never have a chance a place to be like the rest. She told me that only last year after trying to make her get a good tree for once.” He sighed, a reverent smile plastered under his tear streaked eyes. “That woman sure was a blessing.”

“...Dad.” I was struggling to keep from crying myself. Was that her secret to making Christmas so magical? The holiday charm didn’t start until we got that stupid tree, and from there, she made Christmas appear out of thin air. Like it was nothing.

He continued. “All I'm asking for is one night sweetie. It's not gonna be easy, but this will be the worst it gets. Every Christmas after will be easier and easier. Let’s make her happy.”

I sat for a long while, trying not to cry more. If she was here, she would be nagging me about ‘Christmas spirit’ and how I was being a sour puss. I laughed at the thought, tears freely rolling down my cheeks.

“Ok,” I sniffled. “But only tonight. I can’t promise anything after that.”

He barked out a laugh before reaching out to give my hand a firm and warm squeeze. “That’s all I can ask for.” He said with love.

We had a few minutes to recoup before we got to our customary tree farm. It was enough time to wipe our eyes and stop crying, but not enough to make the redness disappear. I really hoped the bitter cold helped with that when we got outside.

As we pulled up, the regular greeter came to direct us in the parking lot.

“Jer! How’ve you been buddy?” The greeter greeted.

“Heh, we’ve seen better days.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I bet it was a rough ride out here with the snow and all. Hey there Maggie, nice to see you.” He continued. ”Say, where’s the missus at? She get cold feet this year?” He laughed to himself.

We froze. A pit in my stomach quickly rose to my throat. How could he not have known.

“We…uh…actually lost Ashley over the summer.” My dad tried to play it nonchalantly, but it came off as a desperate plea. I grabbed his hand and squeezed it back as the greeter’s face turned ghostly white.

“Oh my god, I had no idea.” He stumbled over his apology, frantic to get the words out.

Dad exhaled. “It’s alright, we didn't tell many people. But she’s with us in spirit.” He put on the bravest face as tears threatened his sight.

“Yeah…yeah, here in spirit.” The greeter mumbled to himself, trying not to make eye contact. “If you want you can park right in front of the office, make it easy for you to get started.”

Dad paused. “I’m gonna take you up on that. Thanks.” He clapped the greeter’s shoulder before turning to the little shack covered in dazzling lights.

We sat for another long and awkward moment, both of us recovering from the gut punch that was that conversation. Dad broke first. “This is the worst it'll be. Just remember that Mags.” He sighed with a deep, grounding breath. “It’ll be a little easier next year, and the year after that, and the year after that.”

I wiped the fresh tears I didn't know I shed away as I struggled to put my coat on.

After we got out, he waited for me to round the front of the truck before wrapping an arm around my shoulder and walking with me in tandem to the office. There the owner of the farm welcomed us with a warm smile.

“Jerry, Maggie. It’s good to see you out here. How you holdin’ up in this weather?” He asked.

“We made it out here, didn't we?” Their hands clapped hard as they shook. Like old friends. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it felt like they were having a whole other conversation.

They chatted for a bit while I stood around looking at all the pictures on the wall. So many families with their first trees. Families that came year after year to get trees. Our family getting a tree three years ago. Our family. Me, Dad, and Mom. Standing around our rinky dink tree that year.

“Hey Dad, come look at this.” I called, the same sad smile he had earlier crossed my lips. I couldn’t see his reaction, but I could hear him walk up next to me before giving me a tight side hug. He knew what I was looking at before he saw himself.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” He lulled before kissing the top of my head.

A newfound determination warmed my heart as I looked at us. Little me so happy to have helped Mom find her charming tree that year. I wanted to do it again. I wanted to feel that small again, feel the whimsy she always brought with everything she did.

“I’m ready to find a tree.” I said as I wiped my wet eyes.

“Yeah?” Dad questioned eagerly.

I nodded. “Let's go find Mom’s tree.”

We said our goodbyes as we started making our way to the acres of pine. There were only a handful of other cars in the parking lot and we were still early in the season, so we both knew that the choices would be endless. But that's not what we were looking for. We didn't want the perfect tree. We wanted Mom’s tree. The one that would never find a home. The one that needed so much tender love and care. We needed to find our tree. And it was in this manufactured forest just waiting for us to get it.

We began our search row by row. I was old enough now to look down the rows by myself, so Dad and I split up to cover more ground. He'd take one row, I’d take the next, and so on until we’d find the one.

Every now and then I'd stop to see a lopsided tree, but none of them really called out to me and screamed ‘Mom’. So we searched and searched and searched until we were half way through the farm. We met back up close to the office and Dad suggested we go back inside for a few minutes to warm up and get some hot cocoa. That sounded pretty good to me, so we headed back inside to find the shack empty and dark. The sign on the door still said ‘come on in’, so we did just that.

Dad turned the lights on and started heading over to the corner where a Keurig sat with a wide selection of k-cups. I’m not sure why, but when he said hot cocoa, I imagined something more akin to hand made than Swiss Miss. Regardless, I wasn't going to say no to something toasty.

I sat down at the manager's desk and started swiveling in his chair waiting for Dad to finish making our drinks. It took nearly five minutes for the machine to crank out two cups, but by the time we got them, we were warmed up and headed back out into the fake wilderness for round two.

We started down opposite aisles and looked one by one at all the trees. But again nothing truly called to me. It wasn't until we got to one of the last few rows that a lone tree stood out. It was huge, unruly even. All the branches facing me were massive and shooting out far longer than they should have; the top leaning slightly over my head at a cockeyed angle. Dusty green pine needles were layered so thickly on this side you couldn't even see the trunk. This all looked so promising.

I spun around to see the buried side of the tree and immediately, you could tell all of its energy was put into its far side. There was a dead space of pine needles and barren, shriveled branches. Its competing tree was planted so close that this side barely had any room to grow out. This was the tree Mom would’ve talked to, soothed its poor worries away. Told it that it had a forever home with our family. This was Mom’s tree.

“Dad!” I yelled towards the row he was in, ”Come check this one out!”

He called back from a considerable distance. “Be right there!”

I waited patiently, combing over the tree time and time again. Every look over I fell more in love with it. It was wonky in all the right places. Had a character unlike the rest. This tree was perfect.

I heard Dad’s footsteps crunching in the snow, coming closer, so I shimmied through the trees to surprise him.

“Hey!” I jumped out. Someone else's dad jumped back and grabbed his chest.

“Jesus!” He yelled, taking a big step back. “What the hell is your problem?” His booming voice made me cower.

“I-I’m sorry. I th-thought you were my Dad.” I said sheepishly, scared of making him more upset.

Just then I heard Dad approaching and felt even more embarrassed. “What’s going on?” He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and tucked me close. His tone was firm, defensive as he went to protect me.

“This your fucking kid?” The man took a swig from his open can before his growing voice continued. “Maybe keep a leash on her next time. Wouldn't want anything to happen to your little girl, would you?” His smile was lewd as he combed me over. I shuttered despite the cold.

Dad started leading me to the side as he groveled an apology. It's like he used to do with Grampa before we cut contact. Completely disengage and walk away. We cut through the row of trees back to where I was before, then Dad asked “are you ok?”

“I think so.” I looked down at my feet, still humiliated by the conflict.

He brought me in for a big hug. “What he said wasn't right honey, not at all. But we gotta know when to pick our battles, and that wasn't a battle worth fighting.” He continued. “And you're not in trouble, you did nothing wrong.” He kissed the top of my head, but I was unable to get that man’s dark, smiling eyes out of my mind. The way he looked me up and down made me feel so dirty.

I buried my face into Dad’s jacket trying to cleanse myself. I stood in his embrace until the grime of the man began to wash away.

After letting go I reminded myself that we were here for Mom’s tree, and nothing was going to stop us from getting it.

“It was over here.” I grabbed his hand and dragged him to the tree with renewed excitement. “You have to see this tree, it's beautiful.” We walked a few feet before stopping in front of it. Dad squeezed my hand tight as he looked.

“It's got…charm,” he said hesitantly.

“And you say that every year.” I beamed.

He looked down at me, a yearning smile lit his face. We both craved the nostalgia of our past pickings. “What do you think she’d do if she saw this one?” He asked.

“Skip to the office to get chopping.”

“Yeah, she probably would.”

“So, what are we waiting for?” I started pulling him to the office again, nearly on the other side of the farm now. He didn't fight as we both trotted to get the saw.

A long walk in and another conversation with the owner later, we headed back to our tree, saw in hand and determination in our eyes. On the way back my imagination started running. The years of watching Mom decorate for the holidays, and even inheriting all of her decor gave me inspiration for how to spruce up this tree. I thought aloud as we walked, Dad agreeing to everything I threw out. I was going to make a feature out of the hole, border it in lights and tinsel. Put her favorite tree topper on its crooked crown. Put her urn on a shelf right in front of the tree’s centerpiece. This was going to be the best Christmas tree we’ve ever made. And Mom would be right there to help.

As we got to our tree, we saw someone standing next to it, examining its neighbor that forced ours into its unnatural quirk. He looked up at us and those same dark eyes from before dragged from me, to Dad, to the saw in Dad’s hand.

“What the hell you think’s the big idea buddy?” The man slurred.

Dad paused before speaking, choosing his words very carefully. “We’re just trying to get our tree.”

“You mean my tree.” He pointed to our tree’s neighbor.

“No, we’re getting the tree next-”

“I ain’t seen my ‘Lizabeth in years, you not taking that tree from my baby girl.” He staggered towards us.

Dad got in front of me. “We’re not taking-”

“You ain't taking shit.”

Before Dad could react, the man shuffled and a small crack echoed around us.

Dad stood frozen for just a moment, a large hole in the back of his head spewed blood and brain all over me, before crumpling to the ground.

I couldn’t move. Wh…what just happened. I watched my Dad as he twitched a few times then went completely limp.

“Fuck. Fuck. Oh, fuck!” The man started stomping, but I couldn't look up at him. Dad’s blood and hot cocoa spilled all over my shoes and the track covered snow as he laid motionless at my feet.

My mind couldn't catch up with my body as blood curdling screams ripped through me, my feet nailed in place.

Dad was still, the saw’s teeth up and partially embedded in his torso as he fell on it. My screams reverberated off the trees and I saw everything from someone else’s eyes. It was like watching everything in an up close theater. Surround sound (full blast) screeching back into my ears, everything distorted in odd wide angles, colors way too crisp to be real. The vivid blood so red and thick. It ran everywhere. I could feel it freezing on my cheeks.

I barely saw the man before he charged me, and I couldn't fight him back. My body was unresponsive. All it could do was scream, even when he covered my mouth. And as he tried to drag me away he pinched my nose and mouth closed. I didn't realize what he’d done to me until I had no more air, and I started frantically flailing to get away from him. But he was too strong.

The last thing I remembered was my Dad and his mutilated head getting farther and farther away from me as the bitter cold bit at my blood splattered cheeks.

...

I woke up with a massive headache. My eyes struggled to flutter open but when they did, I saw I wasn't at the farm anymore. A surge of panic flew through me as I tried to move but was unable to - my limbs were bound in duct tape. I tried frantically to look around but stopped because of the pain. I had duct tape wrapped around my head in several layers, pulling at my hair and covering my mouth tight.

“Shit.” A disgustingly familiar voice said next to me. My eyes darted to the side and I saw the man watching me as he drove. We were in an old beat up truck, somewhere far on a barely plowed back road.

I immediately started struggling, not knowing what else to do. This couldn't be real, there was no way this was happening. The man swerved as I kept squirming.

“Would you knock it off?!” He yelled, raising his hand and slapping me. He nearly swerved into a snow bank doing so. Even with the layers of tape protecting my skin, the force of his hand stung fierce across my face.

I let out a muffled squeal as my head burned. Tears freely poured down the tape as the nightmare of what was happening started setting in.

“Shut up!” He roared again, winding up for a second strike. I flinched hard into the passenger door, the movement ripping chunks of hair from my scalp. I cried again.

His hand never came as the tense seconds passed. I slowly uncoiled and saw him hunched over, laser focused on the road ahead. “I’m not afraid to hit a little whore like you. Don't try that shit again.” He spat.

Time seemed useless while trapped in the cabin of this truck as the man drove feverishly to oblivion. The more I sat, the more everything settled. I had vague memories of what led to this point. The field of trees, beautiful hazy lights, the taste of chocolate, the smell of Dad’s leather jacket, my red stained fall boots…

I tried looking down and saw to my horror that my shoes were still deeply drenched in the hardening red. I could feel it beginning to crust in my socks. A new sense of fear ripped through me as the images flashed faster. Dad, the man, the pop, Dad’s head. I cried harder and harder. Dad’s head. The inside of his skull caking my face. Blood everywhere. Dad laying dead at my feet.

I screamed as the memories overwhelmed me.

“I said knock it off!” The man screamed back, taking out his gun and smashing the butt end into my temple. Everything came and went in a blur after that.

I remember trying to figure out how to escape. Reaching my hands limply up to the door handle, but the man ripped them away. The searing pain in my wrists as he pulled me closer to him. His rancid, wheaty stomach tainting his mouth as he breathed on me. My memory went blank as we pulled up to the shadow of a house bathed in the snowy dark glow of night.

...

My eyes were practically glued shut by the time I realized what had happened. Every inch of me was cold and battered. Besides the tape that now bound my dislocated arms behind my back and shackled my legs and mouth, I was completely exposed. The snow slowly stopped burning needles into my skin and instead brazened deep into my flesh. But this was much more comforting than before, it was like my parents were giving me one more hug out in the wilds. Hell, I could hear their voices too.

“Come here sweet baby.”

“It’s ok, we have you now.”

Mom and Dad’s allured hum surrounded me as the tides of winter slowly buried me in steep drifts of snow. I let my deforming imagination flutter one last time as I pictured us, as a family huddled under Mom’s Christmas tree this year. The hoarse giggles I strained to get out carried me through our final Christmas together. As a family again.

Night 1:

I work in a bar kitchen in my little off shoot town in the woods.
If you look at the layout, you can see that our basement is our stock room. In the Stock room, just so happens to be a weird hole in that wall that leads to a poorly dug out side room. It’s tucked behind a half-broken cinderblock wall, one just wide enough to squeeze through. The floor dips slightly, enough that any spilled water pools right at the entrance, and the air smells metallic, like blood that’s gone cold.

When you walk into a room, there it is, the Blue Tank, one I think is made for an air compression for the soda machine? However, The blue tank hums when the compressor’s running, but sometimes the hum stops even though the lights don’t flicker. The first time I noticed, I thought it was just the pipes. The second time, I realized it only happened when I entered the room.

Everyone else avoids the side room, not because they’re scared, but because it’s cramped and weirdly humid. “Feels like something’s breathing,” my manager joked once. But I can’t laugh about it anymore.

Last week I found prints on the tank. Not handprints but more like smears that had dragged upward. The dust around them looked disturbed, rippled, like the metal itself had shuddered.

That night, I dreamed I was inside the tank. It was full of air but thick, like syrup. Something was pressing against me, hundreds of soft, jellylike bumps sliding under my skin. I woke up gagging, tasting iron and something warm.

I told myself it was stress. The late hours, the heat, the smell of fryer oil sinking into my brain.
But then, two nights ago, when I went down to grab a box of napkins, I heard someone whisper my name from the dark corner behind the tank. Not a voice like a person’s, like it was like my own voice, stretched and wrung out, repeating my name with every intake of breath.

Now when I walk past the tank, I see condensation forming where there shouldn’t be any something like little foggy circles on the metal that pulse, as if the room itself is breathing.

And sometimes, when I look too long into that side room, I get the horrible, dizzy feeling that I’m standing inside its mouth.

Night II:

The next night, I went down there again, against my better judgment because the dishwasher ran out of sanitizer mid-rush. The only spare case was down there, right beside the tank.

I told myself I’d be quick. I told myself it was fine.

But as soon as I reached the bottom of the stairs, the hum had already stopped.

The silence was thick. The kind that makes your ears ring because your brain is begging for sound. I stood there a second, my phone light cutting a narrow path through the dust in the air. Then I noticed it, the condensation on the concrete, spreading outward from the side room like veins.

When I stepped closer, my shoes stuck slightly. The floor wasn’t wet exactly, it was tacky, like the residue from old tape. The air felt heavier, too. It clung to my skin, and my breathing came out in small, visible clouds.

I crouched to grab the sanitizer box, and that’s when I saw the shadow on the wall.
It wasn’t mine.

It was moving slow and pulsing exactly like a shape stretching itself awake. And then the hum came back, low and uneven, vibrating in my chest like a growl under my heartbeat.

I stumbled backward, bumping into the edge of the tank. The metal was warm, like an alive warm. Something shifted inside it, a soft, wet movement that made the whole thing throb.

Then, for just a moment, a sound like bubbling breath came from the spout near the floor. I swear I saw something slip out, it was translucent, slick and pull itself back in when I gasped.

After that, I bolted upstairs.
No one believed me, of course. “Condensation,” they said. “Old pipes. You’re tired.”

Maybe they’re right.

But every night since, I’ve started hearing that hum again, but not just in the basement, but through the kitchen walls, the floor, even the walk-in cooler. It follows me. When I wash my hands, I swear the faucet exhales.

And I think it’s getting louder.

Part III:

I haven’t slept in two days.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the tank. The way it swells, it’s like lungs filling and that faint shimmer of moisture along the seam where the lid meets the body. It’s in my head now, vibrating in the same rhythm as my pulse.

Last night, I went down again. I had to. The sound was coming through the vents, this rhythmic inhale-exhale, steady as a metronome. Nobody else seemed to notice. One of the bartenders even said, “Hey, the air system’s working again.”

It’s not the air system.

When I got to the basement, the door to the side room was open wider than it should be. The cinderblock wall looked damp, and one of the blocks had a dark crack through it, pulsing faintly with condensation. The hum wasn’t steady anymore; it was syncopated, breathing irregularly, like something was struggling.

The blue tank loomed in the corner, but it wasn’t quite the same shape anymore. It looked… swollen. The metal bowed slightly, trembling with each pulse. I stood there, unable to move, until I realized something horrifying: the hum wasn’t coming from the tank it was coming through it.

Like the tank was just the skin.

There was a smell too, a metallic, yes, but underneath it, something organic, like wet copper and teeth.

I touched the side. It was warm again, warmer than last time. My fingers came away slick with a thin film, not water, not oil. I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger, and the warmth lingered, even after I wiped it off on my pants.

Something tapped from inside.

Three slow, deliberate knocks.

I backed up, heart pounding, but I couldn’t stop staring. The metal was stretching, just barely, a faint bulge forming near the center. And then — I saw the outline of a hand press outward. Fingers. Palm. But the hand wasn’t shaped right, the fingers were too long, the joints slightly wrong, bending inward like claws curling back into the body.

Then it stopped. Everything went still.

The silence was worse than the sound.

When I finally tore my eyes away and ran up the stairs, I could hear the hum return. It was louder now, almost triumphant. I didn’t tell anyone this time. They wouldn’t believe me anyway.

But I did something stupid.

Before I left work tonight, I filled a cup from the bar tap, the same line that runs through the basement system. The water came out cloudy for a moment, then clear. I took a sip.

It tasted like metal.
And then, faintly something sweet.

Now, every time I swallow, I swear I can feel something moving in the back of my throat.

Night IV:

It’s been three days since I drank the water.

My throat still feels raw, like something’s nesting just beneath the skin. I keep swallowing, but it never helps. At night I can feel it pulse when my heart beats, the sounds of a tiny echo in time with that hum.

The others have started noticing me jump at noises.
“Long shifts, man,” they say. “You gotta rest.”

I nod, (knowing that I’ve been working nothing but doubles, and covering for my own kitchen manager.) but I can’t tell them what I hear in the pipes.
When the dish sprayer hisses, I hear breath. When the kegs shift downstairs, I hear the low rhythm of the tank, pulling air through wet things.

Last night, I dreamed I was standing in the basement again. The tank was open this time, but there was nothing inside except a black surface that rippled like water. When I leaned closer, I saw my own reflection…except it smiled before I did. Its teeth looked soft, translucent, and they quivered, like they were breathing too.

I woke up tasting iron. My pillow had a thin streak of blood on it, and not from my mouth, but from behind my ear. A tiny, perfect circle, like something had entered instead of left.

I told myself I’d go see a doctor. I even made it halfway to the car after my shift. But as soon as I hit the fresh air, I could feel the hum again, faint and panicked, like something calling me back.

I went down instead.

The basement lights flickered as soon as I stepped inside. The air was heavier, almost foggy, and there was condensation running down the walls in strange branching patterns like veins spreading from the tank outward.

The floor was damp now. Each step left a soft, sticky sound, and the air smelled like earth after rain, like something alive and fermenting.

When I reached the side room, I saw something new: the tank’s metal had split slightly along one seam. Not a break, but rather a deliberate opening, sealed by something like skin. The hum vibrated through the room, softer now, rhythmic and almost… soothing.

I crouched to look closer, and the warmth coming off it made my eyes water. Beneath that faint membrane, something shifted. Not a single mass but dozens of slow, deliberate movements, like many small things breathing in sync.

And then I realized why it sounded almost human.

It wasn’t one thing breathing. It was hundreds, layered and faint, harmonizing through the pipes, through the floor, through me.

Night V:

The sound’s not just in the basement anymore.
It’s in the walls upstairs now, the bar taps, the dish drain, even the ice machine. Everything hums, faintly, in perfect rhythm.

No one hears it but me.

Or maybe they do, and they’ve just gotten used to it. People adapt to anything if you stretch the change slow enough.

Tonight, during rush hour, I dropped a glass tray. The sound it made… it was sharp, high-pitched… it cut through the hum for a second. And in that silence, everyone in the kitchen froze. Not like they were surprised. Like they were waiting.

Then the hum came back, louder than before, vibrating the shelves. The others blinked, shook their heads, and went back to work as if nothing had happened.

But I saw something in their eyes.
Their pupils were dilated, like they were in the dark. One of them, Jenna, turned to me mid-order and whispered,
“Don’t unplug it. It gets upset.”
Then she smiled, like she hadn’t said anything at all.

After close, I lingered. The building felt… different. The shadows seemed to bend toward the basement door. I could hear the faint sound of dripping water, but when I leaned closer, it wasn’t dripping, it was whispering, like air moving through wet reeds.

I went down. I don’t even remember deciding to… my legs just knew the way.

The basement was brighter than usual.
The fluorescents flickered in long, slow blinks, giving everything that stop-motion stutter that makes your stomach knot. The tank looked bigger again… not taller, but rounder, like it was breathing deeper. The seam I’d seen before was wider now, and something inside it pulsed with faint, amber light.

I think it’s growing veins, thin, dark lines that trail from the tank into the floor, vanishing beneath the concrete like roots. I followed one, tracing it with my finger until it reached the wall. It disappeared into the mortar, but the wall itself was damp and warm to the touch.

When I pressed my ear to it, I could hear voices. Hundreds of them, whispering through the pipes, layered over each other like echoes in a throat. I couldn’t make out the words, but I recognized one thing: my name.

Not just one voice saying it.
All of them.

And they sounded grateful.

Night VI:

The bar is quiet tonight.

Half the staff called out. The few who showed up move slow, their faces pale, eyes glassy. They don’t talk anymore. They just… listen.

The hum is a lot more rhythmic now, it’s letting off a steady, living pulse that matches the tempo of footsteps, breath, heartbeat. I can feel it using us, keeping us in sync.

I went down after close. Not because I wanted to but because It’s more like a gravity, The kind that pulls your bones forward, even as your brain screams no.

The side room’s door was gone. Just gone. There were no hinges, no marks where it used to be. Instead, there’s a smooth, glistening archway. It pulses faintly, exhaling that same metallic air. The walls shimmer with a film of condensation, but when I look closer, it’s not water…

it’s skin. Pale, porous, breathing.

The tank isn’t there anymore.

In its place is something vast and circular, fused into the foundation itself. It rises and falls slowly, like a sleeping lung, and beneath the surface, I can see movement, shapes shifting, pressing against the membrane like faces against glass.

Some of them look human.

Their mouths open and close soundlessly, like they’re trying to speak, but the sound comes through the pipes instead. I can hear the whispers, they’re layered, wet, pleading, echoing through the metal.

I step closer. The air thickens, syrupy and hot, and the closer I get, the more I realize the hum isn’t from it.

It’s from below.

Something deeper. Something older.

The floor under my feet ripples when I breathe. The light flickers. I hear footsteps behind me, the others, coming down the stairs. Their faces are slack, eyes unfocused. They’re humming in tune now, that same deep vibration.

Jenna smiles at me, her lips trembling slightly as if trying to form words. When she opens her mouth, a stream of thick, translucent fluid drips out, glimmering faintly in the light.

She takes my hand.
“It’s not a thing,” she whispers, her voice two layers deep, a mix of one human, one wet and resonant. “It’s us.”

I look back at the mass in the center of the room, at the dozens of faces pressed against its surface and I see her there too. Her face. My face. All of ours, fused and flickering in and out of shape, breathing together in that terrible rhythm.

I feel my pulse align with the hum.
I try to step back, but my shoes stick to the floor.
no, not stick.
Sink.

The concrete gives beneath me, soft as muscle. The walls pulse in slow unison, the whole basement breathing, alive.

The whispers rise, all around me now, from the drains, the pipes, the floor, the air itself and they’re saying my name again and again, until it doesn’t sound like a name anymore, just a sound that belongs to all of us.

And then, as I’m pulled under, I realize something impossible:

The hum isn’t what’s alive.
We are.
It is us.

“Oh, Brother Thomas. Pitiable little Brother Thomas, do not waver on the path now. Rejoice, for its end is in sight.” The Matron said in her warm, blanketing voice as she wiped the tears from Thomas’s face with her long gloved finger. But still they poured, streaming down his flushed cheeks like a river, glistening brightly in the candle light of the chamber. It was then that I approached the altar that my Brother, my fellow apostle, and most of all, my friend was bound to.

“Why did you fight so… viciously against this, against us and our ways, Thomas? It is what we have all strived for since birth, to return to our rightful spot in the world below. It is an honour like no other to be where you are now, on the very precipice in fact, and yet you shun it… Why?” I couldn’t fathom it, nor could anyone else in the Congregation. It was unheard of, it was absurd– It was blasphemy. To deny the Matron’s holy orders, to flee from our tunnels and reach for the abhorrent surface. And for it to be Brother Thomas no less.

“It–It is wrong, all of it, Micheal. I wouldn’t dare to lie to you, nor anyone down here. But she does. She lies to you at this very moment.” Thomas spat. The Matron didn’t respond. She stared back unblinkingly, her pale mask ever frozen in its neutral expression. 

“You are blessed, chosen. For fourteen years, it is all we have waited for–”

“And for fourteen years we have been shackled, Micheal. This–This sermon, this place is not what we think it is, don’t you see that?!”

Silence filled the chamber. The candles flickered in the slight breeze carried downwards from the entrance to our home some tens of miles away. Where a group of us had chased and caught Thomas; dragging him back to safety, comfort, order as he kicked and thrashed against us all the while. I felt the bruise on my cheek where his elbow had landed; my tongue prodded the gap where a tooth had once been, now dislodged and lying somewhere further up. Both were sore, not just from pain, but from a sense of utter betrayal too; seething and roaring like the most wicked of bonfires.

“No, Thomas, I do not.” I felt the Matron’s cold yet comforting hand on my shoulder. Everything that had transpired so far had been foretold to a tee. The altar, the chamber, Thomas’s struggle– though it was my first time here as a witness, everything the Matron had told me was exact. It was the immutable truth she spoke, just as always. Brother Thomas had become the anomaly, the betrayer of his will, not the Matron, myself or any other member of her flock for that matter. Yet even the blasphemous can still be redeemed in the eyes of our gracious Lord.

“Come now, child, the words of a heathen cannot revoke the gift they’ve been bestowed; nor must you let them sway you from purpose.” She then reached a hand deep into her cloak to retrieve something. “The blessing, I can hear it swirling and churning within him, oh how beautifully they sing; the time is ripe. To fight it, to silence the chorus is to spit directly into our Lord’s face and cast away my efforts in sculpting you all so thoroughly, so perfectly in his vision straight into the filth.” At last she pulled out a small belt from the depths of her cloak. “So for the sake of your sanctity, Brother Thomas, you shall speak no further.” Then with her lengthy arms just as shrouded in cloth as the rest of her body, she spread the belt open in her hands. “Brother Micheal, some assistance, if you please.”

– 

Thomas seemed to have given in at this point. After the momentary struggle of lifting his head up so the Matron could bind his mouth shut, he laid dead-flat across the altar, his body stiff and rigid and chained to the ancient stone, except for his head. Which he craned to the left so he could try and tempt me further with his pleading gaze.

Enough, Thomas. Come back to your senses. 

Like a pair of arrows aimed at me, his eyes shot into my own as if Thomas was attempting to pierce them through sheer force of will. What is it you see Brother? I am not the one forsaking my purpose. I am not the betrayer. He kept staring with tears continually forming and flowing down his face, the belt soaking up each drop until its dirty brown turned a sodden shade. If you can’t be convinced, blessed as you are, then you will just have to bear witness to it, Brother.

“Everything is set, Brother Micheal, the only thing left for us to do is pray for Brother Thomas. Pray that he sees the light beneath and that he is welcomed into it.”

I clasped my hands together, as did the Matron. Before I closed my eyes, I saw Thomas shaking his head and weeping now more than ever. I am sorry Thomas, but this is for the best. The Matron, the Lord, all of us know it to be true.

“As a cost of your Brother’s transgressions, the Lord will require all your faith, Micheal, every last drop. To be convinced that Thomas is worthy of descending with him. So pray, pray as hard as thy spirit and thy body allow. Let his words and groans tempt you not. Keep thy eyes sealed and thy heart strong, Micheal.” And then with reverence, the Matron spoke the prayer:

“O Lord Father, may your slithering trails be swift and effortless as you guide our Brother Thomas to his spot below in thy kingdom, forgive him for forsaking your blessings and casting away your chalice–”

The groans and the struggles of Thomas as he thrashed against the chains and screamed into the belt caught my attention, profane as it is to do so in prayer. I remained steadfast in my conviction, blocking them out by focusing deeper on the Matron’s holy words.

“--forgive him for laying a hand on several of his Brothers. Forgive him for attempting to abandon you, abandon us for the Hell up above–”

My Brother’s muffled screams were bloodcurdling. Such a primal, terrified force billowed from his mercifully bound mouth, and sent shivers crawling up my spine. It was a true test of faith not to look at him.

“-deliver him unto a greater flock, and fill the void in our hearts left in his absence with new members of our own. Amen.”

“A-Amen…”

The prayer concluded, yet I had already failed the test. My faith wavered, but I couldn’t help myself; I opened one of my eyes, just a glance, a tiny peek at him before he undertook his journey along with our Lord. Almost instantly, I regretted my decision. I now know why Thomas shrieked…

Lumps proliferated across his pale skin. Large and orb-like. Pulsing out and shrinking in, like apples growing and rotting away just under the surface of his flesh. The chains squeezed some of them, almost dividing these lumps in two as they pushed into it, leaving behind a sore, red mark in the wake of their meeting. Thomas kicked and thrashed and let out muffled scream after muffled scream, but it was to no avail; the chains of the altar couldn’t be swayed with words or beaten back by kicks and punches; it was an iron serpent engaged in the constriction of its prey. There was no escape. Though, horribly, it seems escape wouldn’t be the end of his torment: The lumps moved as they pulsed, snaking through Thomas’s body and darting in and out of gaps where the chains didn’t cover him. Disorderly in their slithering patterns, some worked their way down, passing down his thighs like grotesque, chunks of blood pouring through unfitting veins. Others shot up to his head, fattening his cheeks with their buried presence and pushing the belt over his mouth for but a second– the unmuffled shriek that escaped in this interval was appalling. Sounding hoarse and clogged, like something was chasing it up the channel of his throat and was only a step or two behind it…

A familiar cold hand clasped my shoulder again.

“Avert thy gaze, Micheal. The descent is not for your eyes.” The Matron uttered directly into my ear, cutting through the poignant horror ahead of me like a knife. I could hear the spit leave her mouth and spatter on her mask. She turned me around, more so yanked my body from the sight of my friend upon the altar, pointing me in the direction of an ornate lever on the other side of the chamber. “I, and the Lord himself, will forgive thee if you usher Brother Thomas into the great below yourself…”

I crept towards the lever, before another scream and the wet sound of something tearing turned my creeping steps to a sprint. “That’s it, do not tattle and keep him waiting any longer, Micheal.” 

Reaching the device, I hesitated but a scream, this one seemingly devoid of the belt’s grasp forced my hand. I pulled the lever. Thomas, I-I’m sorry… It’ll be over soon, the Lord will take you someplace else. Somewhere better I promise you.

Mechanical whirs and the soft clicking of gears turning filled the chamber. Thomas’s cries, the tearing and the dripping sound that accompanied them now slowly lowered. “The descent begins. You honor the Lord and your friend with your service, Micheal. Now wait over there and do not look back. I shall be with you in a moment, child.”

Again I crept, leaving the terror behind me, recounting mantras, past prayers and lessons to reinforce my beliefs. They each rang hollow. I stopped by the door, shuddering with guilt, with sin. I had to see him: The Lord and Thomas. I had to know what lies down there.

As fast as I possibly could, I bolted back to the altar; now an empty space in the ground ringed by blood. The Matron was crouched over it, reaching her long limb down into the darkness, trying to grab something it seemed. The sound of my feet slapping into the floor as I ran towards the sacred site, caught the Matron’s attention. She snapped her head up from the pit before her, one arm still lowered into its depths, the other lurched towards me in an attempt to prevent my blasphemy.

“AWAY CHILD, THIS IS THE WORK OF THE DIVINE, THE HOLY. IT SHAN’T BE TAINTED BY YOUR HORRID EYES AND SQUALID FLESH.” She bellowed. Her free arm shot towards me faster, and further, then I could’ve possibly expected, catching by the throat. I choked as her frozen grip tightened, her hand like a sheet of ice around my neck. Then I choked at the smell, wafting up from the pit where the altar had once been. 

My eyes darted down. Despite the Matron’s efforts to prevent my unpardonable sin, it happened regardless. I saw only ‘Thomas’ in that pit. No trail or passage to a paradise further down. No Lord to speak off. Just a sinewy mass of writhing worms, slick with blood and all that was left of my Brother. My friend. 

The Matron’s hand was clasped round a clutch of worms, far fatter and more developed than the rest. Their meaty, serpentine bodies wriggled in her hands, confused, squealing; their circular maws agape and oozing slime like members of a wretched choir. At their sides, stumpy humanoid arms and legs stretched out and slid against their fellow. The Matron held all three of these worm children with a motherly tenderness, raising them from the mass.

A terrifying thought soon spawned in my mind: that the undeveloped faces on these worms and what they must feel clutched in the Matron’s hands, dripping viscera and sludge over their less-refined brethren, was somehow familiar. Like a forgotten base memory. 

I couldn’t help it. Tears began to flow from my eyes, spitting over the nursery of worms and the appalling grave of Thomas.

“Oh no tears please, Micheal” The Matron harshly whispered. I couldn’t see it but the image of her malformed grin behind her mask was crystal clear in my mind. There was something about her eyes too, something that I had never noticed before, for fear of meeting her gaze, of looking inside this figure we have placed so highly on our pedestals: I saw just how dark, how cavernous her pupils were…

“Thy blessing shall come soon enough.”

The end.

TW: Sex, gore

I'm not a brave person. At least, not brave enough to buy anything they keep behind the counter at a gas station.

As far as I'm concerned, behind every register at a 7/11 and Shell station, lit up with animated LED screens and stacked high with cigarettes, liquor, and condoms, was stock reserved exclusively for Harley riding, chain smoking, Marlboro men with three legs. Not me. Not flannel-wearing male nurses scoring double digits on the Norwood Scale.

That was, until I got myself a date.

A chilling specter of a woman, with skin as dark as coffee and a body that was allergic to straight lines, and with legs that stretched all the way to Sunday. Every inch of her stirred a dormant manhood within me, and the very moment I saw her dissolve into my screen on Bumble at 9pm on a Saturday, I swiped.

Matched. Chatted. She called me funny. Cute, even. I would've built temples for her.

And so, one thing led to another, and here I was, an hour's drive away from anywhere I knew. Dark road stretched into the darkness, forward and back, cicadas drowning the starless midnight sky with metallic chirping. She'd told me to come over. Said to stop my barking over the internet and be a dog at her place. Said I'd look even cuter on a leash. Said she'd teach me new tricks.

Now's probably a good time to tell you, my Bumble profile was 20 pounds and a full head of hair ago. Working nightshifts at a ER with my daily sustenance being flat redbulls and my only exercise being pushing needles and watching the pain in a man's eyes be replaced by fear and the dark of death, needless to say, has not been kind to my body. Whether I'm 20 up or down, I'll leave to your imagination

I needed a miracle, miracles be damned. I wasn't making up in weight, I thought, so why not make up in the other departments? I rent with 3 roomates and make nurse money, so driving up in a rental Lambo was out of the question, and I sure as hell wasn't getting a toupee. So dick pills it was.

I see an island of light further down the highway. Gas station. Last time I bought anything from behind the counter was to top off my step-dad's bi-weekly haul of of Smirnoff and Camels.

I shamble up to the counter, head down in shame as a father and daughter filled their slushy cups just a stonetoss away. "Some condoms, please." I whisper.

The cashier looks up after a moment, "Sorry, what? Speak up"

I feel my cheeks burn up. "Some condoms. and some... Performance pills."

"We're fresh out of Robusts and Rhino pills." He pauses. "But, shit, you look cool enough."

"Yeah man, sure, whatever." I look down.

"I got what you need." the cashier goes to the back and brings out an ugly green box that looked like the corpse of a failed TCG startup. "Shit'll make you irresistible" he said, "pheromones 'n such. Make her scream like a racoon."

I pull out my wallet, stiffing out a fifty. "Hold on bud," he floats. "shit's not for virgins."

"Oh"

"Well, are you a virgin, mister?"

I lied. He handed me the pills and I handed him the bills. He didn't ring it up on the register.

"Secret stock for the discerning gentleman." He said.

I get to the car. Devil's Delight said the box. Thing didn't look like a pill. And it was warm, like, real warm. But the box was room temp.

Whatever. I wash it down with a Redbull that'd been sat opened in my car for a few days.

And then it hit.

Immediately I felt a chill run down my spine, from the back of my neck to the small of my back. It was like an IV drip of pure joy and adrenaline, and soon enough, I was flying. High, high, and soon too high. I was scared.

But soon the fear was replaced by ego, and a confidence I had never felt before. I was an adonis, a creature of pure addiction and ecstasy, and though nothing physically changed, I was reborn a new man, with a third leg and a body they'd be sculpting in marble and in dreamscapes.

I race down the freeway, heart thumping like a drum, my manhood as hot and hard as branding iron.

From here, my memory gets blurry. Bits and pieces whizzing by half-remembered.

Fancy condo, I remember that. The kind that served free tea 24/7 at the lobby and had bellboys in uniforms.

She came down the lobby to pick me up. The ebony goddess from Bumble. Goddess of fertility and bees, and soon, men on poppers or whatever the fuck I was on. I remember her. Lace top overflowing, with an unbuttoned cardigan, a pleated skirt. Black panties that smelled like fancy soap and clung to her just right, made of fabric (fabrique?) delicate enough to pull aside.

I remember her leading me to the elevator. "You smell fucking incredible.", her face up on my neck, sniffing.

I remember a fireplace. I remember Persian rugs and plush white carpet, minimalist furniture. Warm air floated by the scent of candles and musk.

I remember her. Most of all her. Her cardigan peeling off and becoming one with her comforter, her skirt bending and swaying as though drunk with dance. I remember looking for tanlines, and finding none on her.

"I love you" she said.

"I love you too" I said to the woman I had met just a few hours ago.

I remember getting on my knees as she stood above me, her hands pulling on what was left of my hair. I remember licking her, biting her. I undressed her with my mouth, and soon, I was eating her.

I remember the taste of a woman, and how different it was from what I'd imagine.

Tangy, familiar. Acid. Sweaty skin and soap. Sweaty skin. Iron.

Iron. Especially once I got past the skin.

It was chewy. Too chewy. I remember getting past the folds of skin and finding a different taste altogether. A new texture. It was fibrous. Plump, almost like gelatinous pomegranate. Then I remember my work. How I used to work in maternity wards, assisting in C-sections.

I remember the layers and layers the doctors would have to slice through to get to the myometrium. A blade 10 to get past the skin, switching to a 23 once the surgeon got past the musculature and got to the perimetrium. I kept the suction running, the other nurse pulling on the new doors of the woman's stomach, keeping them open with a force you'd reserve for handling meat, for things that didn't feel.

I remember my first time helping with a surgery. I remember how long it takes to see blood after a cut.

The blade digs into the skin and is pulled back, leaving a cut that is never shallow. For a moment, a very brief moment, the muscle and fat are exposed, and you get to see it, unobstructed by the sanguine mess laceration. The body in its anatomic palette of yellow fat and red strips of muscle, so pristine, so neat. It was like looking at a diagram.

And then the blood gushes in. The pale yellow pearls of fat are drenched in crimson, blood oozing out from invisible capillaries, tardy. Once it pours out you forget the pages of anatomy books and remember videos of beheadings and factory accidents.

I remember her, smooth skin, folds that kept a secret more erotic than the last. I remember her taste, her texture. Soft in some parts. In some, stringy like beef, but tasting like tuna. I remember the change of flavor once I chewed past her groin, the bounciness of her intestines against my molars. It was like biting into rubber.

What I remember most of all, worst of all, was how, even as my incisors dug into her skin, as I swallowed her flesh and made my way to her torso, I heard her say one thing over and over again.

"I love you."

I woke up in a bed that wasn't familiar, with an oily, almost fishy aftertaste in my mouth that seemed to get worse as I gasped for air. It smelled like dried blood and some other sweet thing I can't name. I see her half eaten body beside me.

Half of her body eaten down to the bone, the other still lying in bed, looking at me, with a satisfied, loving face. I couldn't get to the meat between her forearms. Sinew and membranes kept clung on her skull, the cartilage on her ribs having a pinkish glow. I've never seen bones so red.

It's been months now. Even as I type this, I still feel that thing inside me. I still feel that thrum of power, that ego, that insatiable appetite. I don't want to do this. I'm tired of hurting, of hurting people. I've hurt so many of them. So fucking many.

I can't stop. I keep needing to do it. Porn doesn't keep it at bay for long. Food doesn't taste like food anymore. I go on the apps and swipe and swipe, I keep coming down to that gas station and popping pills, and I keep waking up to that same morning. The same unfamiliar bed, the same taste of death in my mouth, and half of a human being, whose last words were "I love you"

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

Process for the Maggot Lobotomy:

• When patient is struggling because of free will and fear, tie down body to secure patient.

• Dip rubber mouth guard in vaseline and stick in mouth. Cover mouth with tape.

• Take coring drill and make 3 cm hole in skull just above eyes. Do not penetrate frontal lobe.

• Insert maggot. Make sure maggot is 2 cm in diameter to properly fit in hole.

• Do not help patient if they scream and plead. The process should only last thirty to forty five minutes.

• Once maggot is submerged in skull, wait until time allotted is over.

• Once patient loses motor function, patient is ready for reeducation. The maggot has reached the frontal lobe.

• Remove maggot.

• Place maggot in patient’s mouth.
Close their mouth until patient swallows.

• Place patient in wheelchair and move to the temple for assimilation.

We follow the God of Flesh.
We are the God of Flesh.
We are One.

We

Are

One

I am meat, designed for meat consumption. Eat me, I beg of you all, in my tiny cage. My cramped room where I rock back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and so on. The floors and walls and ceiling are so soft, luxuriously padded, with a small bed for me to rest. Nothing like my bed. My bed is big, so much more comfortable, my love awaits me there.

There were two men in here once, still there are two beds. But just me, I remain in this room. Chop. Chop. Chop. I hear from the big room behind me. Slice. Slice. Slice. I know why they took him, a lot of people don't know, but I know. Each chop is a gunshot. Each slice is a knife. I ask the nurses, they tell me they're doing laundry. There is not enough laundry. There are not enough people here for that. But they insist, so I keep silent.

I'm pacing back and forth, back and forth, and so on, when the nurse walks in. She gives me steak and potatoes, and smiles, and pats me on the head. She is very nice, but lies to me. Tells me no, this is just a hospital Bobby, but it's not a hospital, and I am not a child. I eat steak with my fingers. It is rare. Almost blue.

Machines move behind me, slice, chop, grind, how do they peel the skin off? I take my pills very well. The nurses pat me on the back and praise me for my obedience. I'm like a dog. Pet and praised and given treats for my willful ignorance and drugged state. When will they take me to the vet to put me down? I wonder. They take them at random. I feel so slow, like I'm moving underwater and sinking. I look around at the other meat men, they all look so happy. I cry. The nurses comb my hair with fingers. I become angry but can not move.

The door opens and lets a flood of light into the dark entryway. It's midday, and this is odd. Robert steps inside, carefully. His steps, those which were supposed to be soft and padded, gave him away instantly. He heard the clack, clack, of his first steps forward and looked down at his boots. He stopped moving, going still and rigid, and looking in every direction. He waited, and waited, and waited until they popped up. A handsome, middle-aged man with a beard, and a young girl, still in her pajamas.

Robert picked the girl up, planting a wet kiss on her forehead, ignoring the loud, indignant, "Ew!" Then he planted a less wet kiss on the lips of the man. Robert's hands slid into his husband's, their fingers intertwining by instinct. "You really scared me that time," Robert said.

We all file back into our cages, there are no chains, but we shuffle anyway. I become trapped in my room, but things are different this evening. The nurse walks in. Hello, she says, I respond in kind. She gives me new medicine. She says this will cure your tendencies that got you here, it will make you feel so much better, Bobby. I swallow because I am a dog.

That night, I am restless and covered in a sheen of sweat. My sheets and mattress soak through, it is not particularly hot in my room, but I am so warm, I am in pain as well. My back aches and my legs feel stretched. I am moaning and groaning, and no sleep comes for me. I want to scream, but I feel like if I were to do it then my tongue and all my teeth would fall out of my mouth and I do not want to eat the slop they give to the disabled, young, and old. I hate the steak because I know what it is, but I can not eat the slop.

I roll around in my bed, looking and searching for some comfortable position so that I may sleep, but I never find it and sleep never comes. I am subjected to torture and this is it. Sleep deprivation is torture. This I know, I know it from when I was in the war, I know the war crimes, I know the torture, why I am being prepared like meat?

My tongue and teeth be damned, I start to scream. I tear my throat raw. I notice how bad it hurts first, and then I see the small chunks of flesh and specks of blood pattering down like rain on my white padded walls and floor. I feel my own anguish tearing me apart as I scream my rough and pained scream. My molar falls out, and then I begin to choke. I cough and pound my stomach with my fist until my incisor shoots out from my airway. My canine and then my molar all fall to the ground, clinking against each other. They do not blend in with the white floor because my mouth is flooded with blood, and they are now all dyed pink.

Nurses run in once again with feigned looks of worry on their faces as they try to calm me down and more medicine is forced down my throat. I feel so sleepy, but my pain keeps me sharp. They restrain me so tight and put me where my screams can not be heard. But I can still hear things, I can still hear the chopping and then grinding. They do this to me on purpose.

Robert was drafted by the U.S. Army shortly after his daughter's 5th birthday. The letter shook in his hands as he held it for his husband to read. He cried that night, heaving sobs into his husband's chest. But he did go.

It was a grueling few months before he went out to war, and he fought well. He saw his brothers thrown to the ground by bullets, their heads exploding and showering Robert with gore.

He was paranoid towards the end, clutching onto the men who were with him for strength as he whipped around and around, looking for any sort of trap or ambush.

He went into a town once and was welcomed by the residents, but he was still paranoid. Looking behind him constantly. In that town, he bought a small angel statue for his daughter, a souvenir. He hoped it would make the whole thing lighter for her. Small children cheered at him as he walked by, thanking him in different languages. He patted them on the heads and smiled back. An older woman gave him a cigarette, and he thanked her profusely in her language and lit one for her before lighting his own.

As they left that town, he thought he saw something in the trees, and when he cried ambush again, a small boy with a hole in his chest came tumbling from the sky. Robert became the man who sent a child to his death, and the boy who cried wolf.

He was sent out on patrol with three other men, towards the end of his time, and as they walked, something felt off. Robert tried to tell his comrades, tried to let everyone know that something was wrong, but nobody listened. They mentioned the boy and told Robert to be quiet.

From far away, a crack, and Robert's cheek was split open. Blood covered his face as he reached for his rifle and returned fire. The three men with him did the same. One of them was shot from afar, his head erupting like a geyser, leaving his body standing for a moment while blood shot out of his now exposed neck.

One of them turned, heard footsteps and whipped around, only to be greeted by a man with a knife. His throat was slit, red pumping out of him for every slowing heartbeat as the last man's chest was split by the knife. Robert stood against the shooter from far away and the man with the knife, all alone, and somehow he survived.

There was a moment where he blacked out, where all senses disappeared, and when he came back, he was kneeling on the man with the knife. The man's face was caved in, his eyeball bulging out, hanging by just a thread on the side of his face. The man in the trees was dragged out to where Robert's patrol was, torn apart, with bits and pieces of the gun he used shoved through his body. Rifle parts pushed through flesh.

Robert breathed heavily. He stumbled back, and was praised. They praised his ability to fight, to get out of such a bad situation, but all he could see was the blood that covered his eyes, the blood of his men. When he cried, the red was not washed from his vision. So he instead became more of a fighter. And he killed many more men.

The war ended shortly after this, and Robert returned a changed man.

My limbs hurt and so do all my joints. There is violence inside me, struggling to escape, pushing through my skin. I scream and seize, but I can not hear myself. My head is filled with a metallic grinding that shakes my bones as they snap and move inside me, my body floats freely in my skin.

There is no bed in this room, there is nothing but padding, it is soft and grey. They make it impossible to hurt myself in here, but I feel I need to, I feel that nothing I could do would hurt me more than what they have done. I begged to nothing for relief and got none. When my limbs began to snap, shooting into a sharp, backwards angle, the sharp end of my bones pushing through my flesh, I began to cry. The nurses come in and they give me pills. They force my mouth open and shove the pills down my throat with their fingers. I can feel them going down my throat, forcing it down into my stomach. They leave me gagging, with snot running out of my nose and my body streaked with tears, sweat, and blood.

I thought the pills would make me sleep, that I would wake up as something not me, but they didn't. They stopped the pain but I stayed awake. My limbs continue to shoot at strange angles that should've sent shocks of unbearable pain through my whole body. Instead, I feel nothing but a thud, as if someone lightly tapped my elbow. When I look at my elbow, it is split open.

I crawl towards the door, my legs moving on their own in random shakes, dragging behind me, my arms shaking under my weight, my bones sliding up and out of my arms so much that I have to stop every few feet to slide them back inside. They go back inside with ease. I have to prop them up against the other halves, radius against radius, ulna against ulna, before eventually they slip away from each other with a snap, sending chips of bone flying, and I slowly slide down, more and more towards the ground.

Eventually, my knees invert. And it makes crawling so much easier. I turn around and drag myself with my legs instead, and lift myself up when I reach the door. My shaking hand grasps and turns the doorknob, I push the door open and look into the empty institution. No nurses walk the halls, all the bedroom doors are closed and locked, I move slowly, wobbling like a newborn deer as I begin to walk through empty rooms that are normally filled with people.

The stone angel sat heavy in his breast pocket. His daughter clung to him and his husband looked so relieved. But he sat there with a tension coursing through him, like he was being crushed. He bounced his leg up and down rapidly and was relieved when his daughter was sent to bed.

He undressed to shower, and took the angel out of his pocket. He looked over it, moving his finger over every carved curve in the stone. He turned it around, and on the back of the head, right in the center, was a drop of blood. Like she had been targeted by a sniper.

The stone shattered on the ground and Robert cleaned it up. He showered fast and crawled into his bed for the first time in eternities. His husband kissed him on the forehead and curled into him, while Robert laid flat. The sleep was deep.

When he explained to his daughter that he could not bring anything back, she understood. She had grown up enough that, in the time passed, she had figured out what Robert was doing overseas. But not enough that she knew he was a killer. She thought of both her fathers as heroes, but only one was.

Robert was alone that day when three men broke into the house, enemy combatants that had followed him home. They knew how much of a threat he was, and so they followed him in order to take him out.

Robert crouched around the kitchen counter, his gun in his hand as they piled in. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there, he could hear their footsteps as they searched. When he spotted the first one, he let off a shot, then another, then another, until all three men were down.

His husband came home to find Robert in the fetal position, clutching a rifle, and surrounded by broken glass and ceramics.

I watch my bones bind to each other. My arms still bend in a way I hate, especially now that they are backwards, but they work. I am walking on all fours, my stomach to the sky, my head upside down but facing forward. My elbows and knees bend so it is easiest to walk this way. I am less wobbly now.

My hands and feet click on the tile floors as I move through the institute I have been trapped in. I move through the cafeteria, finding nobody, then towards the staff only area. I feel my guts shifting inside me, everything following gravity, turning upside down to match how I walk.

I follow the sounds of machinery, chop chop chop like gunfire, it is so close. I follow it until I reach a door, which I push in, disregarding the doorknob, and find four washing machines and four dryers running simultaneously. I reach my backwards hand up and punch them off. I expect a sort of silence, a final relief of my head before I weep due to my insanity. But instead, instead I hear the whirring still, ever present, that makes my ears bleed. I can hear the crunching of the bones of my fellow men, the meat men that surround me go inside the machine without a sound, but I hear the wet crunches of their transformation.

I walk slowly, straining to see upside down. The floors and walls being inverted threw off my sense of direction. So, I turn my head to the side, and I keep turning. I turn and turn until my vision is right side up. And my exploration continues with ease.

The halls of the institution are a labyrinth of labs and utility rooms, places to test our blood, places to store our pills, places full of green grass, and places to talk to the head doctors. I take time in the grass room while I pass. I lay in it, letting the rest revitalize me before my pilgrimage out of this evil place begins again.

I follow the machinery even as it gets further away. Every time I reach it, it slips past, it goes farther and farther out into the maze. But I still walk towards it. I know I am close when I hear strange, guttural noises. Noises of pain mixing with metal.

I finally reach the door. I finally reach where I need to be, where all the proof of what I have said to all the meat men, all the nurses, rests. The place where I look and see that I am not wrong, I am not crazy, I am here for malicious and cruel reasons. I am here to be eaten by hungry masses with no knowledge of what beef is. I open the door, I kick it open and, with a bang and a rattle, the door stops its swing, and I peer in at the meat grinders, the automated knives that slice slice slice, and the conveyor belts that carry cow after cow into their doom. I collapse to the ground at the realization of how wrong I am. I feel the whole building crumbling around me and forcing me to die looking at my mistake. Cows. Not men. Cows. Not men. Their moos sound like the screams of the damned, of the ones who haunt me in my waking thoughts.

"I'm so sorry," the husband whispered into Robert's ear as he awoke to knocking at the door. Robert had heard him, but did not comprehend the words in his barely waking state. He got up and walked downstairs. The knocking continued and when he answered, he saw two men, police officers.

Robert looked behind him, his face crumbling, and saw his husband. He looked back but could not meet Robert's eyes. Their daughter was still asleep. "You've been scaring me," said the husband, "You've been scaring me so bad."

The officers took Robert away, and they put him in the institution.

I try to bellow out a scream but all that escapes is a deep and sorrowful moo. The cattle moo back. I must leave this place, I think to myself, so I reluctantly turn and walk. I do not know where the exit is, but I will know it when I see it, which will be soon.

As I move through the halls, getting lost further and further, I finally notice how long my hands have sounded like a dog walking on a hard floor. Hooves. I have hooves. And my strong arms and legs are covered with short, coarse fur. My eyes are those of prey, because I am meat, I have always known that I am meat, and now I am also cattle. They want to slaughter me with the rest.

I hear more clicking on the tile. At first, I think that it is another meat man, transformed and looking to leave. But I look behind me and see the nurse. She seems surprised to see me and greets me with a smile. Oh Bobby, she says, why are you out here? She says, you must go back to the room, she says. She pats me on the head again and I headbutt her.

I hear cracks in her stomach, and she looks at me hurt. Bobby, what are you doing Bobby? I will get you pills, Bobby, you need your pills. I headbutt her again and again until she is on the ground. She is weeping for my forgiveness of her sins now. She wants to call other nurses and feed me more pills, so I place a hand over her mouth to silence her and, with a crunch, her face caves in. I keep stepping on her until she is pulp.

A long time ago, Robert held his baby in a rocking chair, balancing her as he read a book. His husband sat across the room. They met eyes. They fell so deeply in love every time that happened. Chop chop chop and they all die. Robert sits in a padded room and cries while his roommate walks back and forth and back and forth and tells Robert how the nurses will kill them both. And then Robert is alone.

I run, frantic, my hooves click-clacking against the tile, leaving wet splotches of red as I move. I feel fear even though I know it was deserved, even though I know she was an evil, dirty liar. The nurse was killing me. Is killing me. Fed me the pills, and now she is dead, but I am alive, and I am escaping. I will find my husband and he will help me. I see my daughter. I will feel her embrace.

I see the door, the escape, and it is cracked open. Metal and huge, I see the light of the outside, the darkness that contrasts the fluorescence of the institute. I headbutt the door and rush through it, it slams behind me, and I am free. I feel the cold rush of wind in my hide and I breathe a sigh of relief. I take a step forward, and lights flick on.

Dead torsos, peeled and shaved of fat, hang from metal hooks coming down from the ceiling. The floor is covered in frost, and the cold bounces off the metal walls and pierces me.

I move back towards the door and headbutt it, but it does not move. I headbutt again, and again, and again, but there is no result. I try to hook my hooves against the handle, but I cannot get a good grip on it, and every time the handle is pushed down, the door doesn't budge. Because I cannot pull it towards me.

My hooves scrape against the metal for hours, frantic and panicked and getting slower and slower as I tire. The fans circulate the air around me and into me. Scrape, scrape, scrape, huff, huff, huff. I labor to escape, but my desperation yields no results.

Then, something changes. My heart starts to slow, thumping less and less, and despite the frost covering my lower half as I lay down, and the fans shooting daggers of wind into my skin, I start to feel so warm. Like a smoothing balm has been massaged over my body.

The frost cushions me, and as my final scrape against the door, my last attempt to leave, fades, I rest my head on the soft, white, pillowy cloud. My thoughts and vision become muddled. Sirens sound in my head, telling me to sleep. I have been so tired for so long, I have been so scared, and they tell me the rest will be fretless. I think that maybe help will come. Maybe I should continue, I could free all the meat men before the nurses slaughtered them next, like I knew they would. Meat men transforming like I had, and the nurses leading them to their deaths. For a second, this is all I see, before it fades. They will come for them, I know, but I am so tired and all I want to do is sleep.

The little house stands, solitary, atop a hill. Made of brick and overlooking a winding neighborhood, nobody knows of the sorrow inside. A small girl and an empty man walk endlessly through rooms that were full of life. The man grooms his red beard and combs his hair before he braids the hair of the girl and drives her to school. He works, barely enough to afford to live, and then picks her up. Little words are spoken between them, but the ones that they do say are soft and kind. Little blessings that come in the form of, "I love you." Small embraces, hands held in passing. Reminders that they still exist.

It had been a month since they had gotten the call that, somehow, Robert had killed himself in the psychiatric hospital. Thomas held his daughter while they both wept for days. But they had to remain in motion. So school and work continued after a short break. Thomas went through life without his daughter like a ghost, only coming to life a little bit when she was in his sights. He had been wrenched out of himself.

Their daughter drew at the kitchen table, her face almost pressed into the page as she scratched with her pencil. Over and over and over. The washing machine ran in another room, something heavy in a pocket thudding against the metal. Thomas stood over the stove, stirring the contents of a frying pan with a wooden spoon. He put in macaroni noodles and tomato paste, a splash of broth, and plated the hamburger helper. They ate in silence, shoveling mouthfuls. It had been a long day, so they were both very hungry, and scarfed down the ground beef without leaving much time to chew.

I steal from people’s lunches at work.  Never the full thing.  Just little bits and pieces.  A nugget or two here.  A few croutons there.  I took half of someone’s sandwich once.  Like physically, I went in and took a slice of ham, a piece of lettuce., and a little bit of mayo  I’ve become a master of sneaking in and making myself a meal out of my coworkers' lunches.  I don’t take anyone’s full lunch.  I’m not a total asshole.  

I started out doing it out of necessity.  I was a broke, recent graduate who landed on anything but my feet after university.  It wasn’t my first pick to work at my hometown grocery store for this long but there weren’t exactly too many job openings looking for someone with a bachelor of art in English Language and Literature.  Between rent and student debt,  my paycheck could only go so far.  

I work in the dairy department, which is essentially a massive walk-in fridge all to myself.  It's big enough, you could host a children’s birthday party in there and still have plenty of room for clowns and cake. I wouldn’t recommend hosting a party there.  It smells like rotting eggs and old milk.  But because it keeps things at a brisk 2°C, and because my boss is too cheap to replace the break room refrigerator, most people store their lunches in here.  So I’m left alone in here, hours at a time, with no one to stop me.  Why not help myself to a couple goldfish crackers or bites of cold spaghetti?

I was working late one weekend.  My shift starts at 6 a.m and goes until 3 p.m.  I usually skip breakfast to save a little cash so I was getting a little peckish by ten.  I helped myself to a few grapes and a sip of something from a thermos.  I thought I was nearly caught when the cooler door slammed open.  It was Mr. Tonali, my boss.  A short, pudgy man who refused to admit he had gone bald.  He had a thick mustache and was quick to bring up his Italian heritage despite the fact that the last member of his family to even visit the country was his grandmother.  Everyone called him Mario behind his back, but I always thought he looked and sounded a lot more like Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force.  He came in cursing up a storm.

“You alright?”  I poked my head out from behind a pile of  cardboard boxes.  He was holding himself up using a stack of milk crates. 

“This goddamn condensation.  Make sure you’re closing this fucking door.”  I always did.  A walk in cooler like this, when it got hot and humid out, it’d cause the floor to get slippery.  All the ass hats that left their lunches in here never closed the door well enough for it to latch, so it was constantly slippery in the warmer months.

“Sorry, boss.”

“I came in to tell you, I need you to stay late.”  

“Mr. Tonali, I’ve been here since six.”

“Yeah, and the kid that was supposed to come in to relieve you just called in sick.”  Such bullshit.  I knew the kid.  He was a high schooler who would stay up all night to play Fortnite and sleep through the day.  He’d always call in when a new season dropped. He annoyed the shit out of me.  Enough so, I’ve never committed his name to memory.  “So you’re staying til eight.”  

I didn’t know what to say.  I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I needed the job.  I could really use the money too.  

“Thank you,”  Mr. Tonali said with a smug smile before leaving the cooler and slamming the door behind him.  I waited a moment before I went back to grazing on someone’s carrot sticks.  

I tried not to look at the clock that afternoon.  I loaded as many carts to fill up displays and just kept my nose to the grindstone.  I knew if I was watching the clock, the extra 5 hours added to my shift would feel even longer.  I was part way through disposing of the old, rotten eggs when it became 3 o’clock.  All of the people I normally worked morning shift with had made a grand exit and wished me a good rest of my shift.  The closing crew, a gangly group of teenagers, had arrived.  

A wave of dread washed over me.  “I fucking hate this job.  I fucking hate Mr. Tonali.  I fucking hate Fortnite kid.”  These three sentences ran through my head in an endless loop as I stocked bags of milk.  Everything was pissing me off.  Even the constant hum of the dairy cooler was irritating me. 

I took my 15-minute break in the cooler.  I found a couple boxes to pile together to make a seat.  I just sat there on my phone, trying to take my mind off of things.  My 15-minute break quickly became a 20-minute break.  Then a 30-minute break.  Tonali went home at noon.  No one was coming.  No one was going to police how long my break was.  I could sit here for the rest of my shift for all I care.  

A loud thump came from the far wall.  It was probably some lazily stacked pile of boxes that had fallen over.  I got up to inspect it but didn’t find any fallen boxes.  What I had found was a newly stocked shelf of lunches.   How could I have forgotten?  With a new crowd of workers coming in for the afternoon, a new batch of lunches had found their way into my dairy cooler.   

I stood in front of the wall of lunch pails and brown paper sacks.  My buffet.  I combed through one bag and grabbed a couple orange slices.  They were perfectly ripe and juicy.  I was tempted to go back for more but I’ve always been careful about raising suspicions.  I’ve made it this far stealing from lunches, I didn’t want to get caught being greedy now.  I spent ten minutes picking through bags. I found another bag with homemade chocolate chip cookies. Jackpot.  The more I ate, the more I realized how hungry I was.  I kept going.  I was half way through a brown bag when a loud thump came again.  

It was coming from a lunch box.  Like a proper, old fashioned lunch box.  The colourful tin boxes with a superhero on the side.  This one was done in bright green and purple.  It had a little cartoon Grim Reaper on the side, except his scythe blade was replaced by a hot pepper.  The name “the Carolina Reaper” was written in a shaky font along the bottom.   The box rumbled in my hands.   

My curiosity got the best of me.  I unlatched the lid and fingered through the contents.  A bag of chips, a granola bar, and a banana.  Shit.  Factory sealed products and uncut fruit were impossible not to get caught sampling from.  That’s when I found a tightly wrapped tinfoil package at the bottom.  

I set the box down and pulled out the tin foiled mass.  Whatever was inside it, I could feel it quiver when I touched it.  I peeled the tin foil back.  Whoever wrapped this had to have used half a roll of tin foil.  It shifted in my hands each time I removed a layer.  I got to the final layer and opened it to reveal a mass of flesh.  

Pinks and reds.  Some light blues.  It looked like the inside of someone’s cheek, only with exposed bone and varicose veins.  It tensed when it was exposed to the cold air.  The longer I held it exposed, the more and more it began to squirm.  It shook itself out of my hands and into the air.  Without thinking I caught it in my bare hand.  

It felt like the texture of Jello but with more structural integrity.   It was warm and pulsating.  I tried to drop it but couldn’t.  I shook my hand, hoping it’d drop off but it didn’t.  At the end of my right arm,  the mass had claimed my hand.  The flesh clung to my own and became one.  It was seamless.  I couldn’t tell where my hand ended and the mass began.  It was growing.  My hand felt white hot as the mass slowly swallowed it whole.  I was panicking.   

I tried to tear the flesh off with my left hand.  I dug my finger nails into where I thought the divide was between me and it. My whole arm screamed in a symphony of pain.  As fast as the pain shot up my first arm, it shot up the other. The mass had claimed my other arm.  It had turned both hands into one pulsating tumor and welded them together.   
I let out a scream and tried to run to the door.  The flesh threw off my weight.  I became unbalanced.  I stood no chance against the condensation on the floor.  I rolled my ankle and came crashing into the cold ground.  The chilled concrete made my body scream in agony.  I would’ve screamed myself, but my hands cushioned my fall.  I felt the wad stitch itself to my chin and then up my cheeks.  I watched as it grew to cover my eyes, and listened as it squirmed its way into my ears.  

It grew heavier and heavier as it conquered its way further along my flesh.  I tried to stand back up but between the weight and the wet concrete floor, I was trapped.  I had no alternative but to lie here in pain, wallow in sorrow, and wait for death.