The Tumours Made Me Interesting

by Matthew Revert

  We closed and bolted the attic door behind us. A long string connected to the light dangled in the bleak illumination that spilled through the window. I gave it a hopeful tug. A sizeable section of the roof fell in response followed by dead owl after dead owl. They bounced off the refuse, their bodies stiff and morbid. Through the newly developed skylight, a canvas of purple stars glimmered overhead.

  I scurried for the window, eager to see what we were dealing with. Just below us, surrounding my mother’s house, were police officers pulling up on motorised ladders. The ladders scrapped down the road, one following the other. Each ladder carried three officers donning protective xylophones on their chests. They struck the xylophones with county-issued mallets, communicating with each other in unnerving, beautiful music. I sucked on another cigarette.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t do that, honey,” said my mother.

  I widened my eyes in response and sucked even harder. The sirens were disengaged, but the swirls of light remained, churning silently. The three of us were completely trapped. I considered trying to escape through the hole in the ceiling, but I’d have been a sitting duck and, most likely, have fallen.

  “Where’s the cranberry gun, mum?” I asked, my eyes still glued to the officers.

  “In the medicine chest near where you’re standing I think. I haven’t been up here for so long… I can’t be sure it even works anymore.”

  I glanced to my right and saw the ornate, wooden chest she was talking about. I made my way toward it and forced the rigid lid open. Several slips of paper flew out and churned around my body before floating away. Each slip of paper had ‘IOU dramatic bats’ written on it. The chest was full of toys from childhood. Each had been confiscated after causing either my brother or I an injury. There was my knife ball, my brother’s exploding cod piece and my first amateur operation set. Nestled amongst these nostalgic trinkets was my father’s rusted cranberry gun. Memories of my father using this to hunt down errant mailmen unfurled in my mind. I picked it up, cocked the trigger and watched as it liquefied into a brown soup.

  “We won’t be using the gun,” I said.

  I cast my attention back to the drama outside. The screeching sound of car tyres punctuated the xylophone resonance of the encroaching officers. The car rolled onto its side and from it emerged Fiona, Arthur, Vince and Belinda’s mother. They wore matching skirts and decorative Native American headgear. Belinda shuffled in beside me, absorbing the spectacle below.

  “I don’t really like mummy anymore,” she said. “She was better before she died.”

  “Don’t say that about your mother,” I replied.

  “She was helping Fiona find you. She wants to help cut you open. It’s why I ran away to warn you.”

  I placed my arm over Belinda’s shoulder. She snuggled into me and sobbed. The warmth of her distress made me hold her even tighter. She pulled away and looked up at me with enormous eyes.

  “I don’t want you to die, Bruce. I like you too much and I want someone to buy me a lizard.”

  I patted her head, unsure how to respond. Police officers were swarming around the entrance to the house and moving a battering ram into position. The absence of a door clearly confused and confronted them. One pulled out a megaphone that played Indian ragas whenever the trigger was depressed.

  “Bruce Miles,” said the amplified voice accentuated by a droning sitar. “Why is there no door attached to this domicile?”

  I scurried across the attic floor and retrieved a dead owl, which I hurled through the window. The window shattered as it sailed the ground outside with a thump.

  “Is that an owl?” asked the voice.

  I scurried back to the window.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Why did you throw an owl at us? That could very easily be construed as assault.”

  “I needed to break the window so I could talk to you.”

  The officers huddled together and muttered amongst themselves, nodding their heads in furious discussion. The officer with the megaphone pulled away from the huddle.

  “We’ve decided to accept that response. Now… please explain to us why there is no door attached to this domicile.”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It was like that when I got here.”

  “It makes it very difficult to knock a door down when one doesn’t exist. Do you have any idea how much this battering ram costs? We hardly ever get to use it and it’s the most enjoyable aspect of our job.”

  “I don’t know how to respond to that,” I yelled.

  Once more, the officers huddled and conversed amongst themselves. Once again, the officer with the raga megaphone broke away to address me.

  “Do you mind if we build a door so we can knock it down?”

  I stared toward my mother who merely stared back with as much confusion painted on her face as me.

  “Yeah… I guess,” I replied.

  The officer’s high-fived each other and started kicking the tree in the front yard. Across the road, Fiona and my roommates stared on in disbelief. The frustration this ridiculous delay was causing her flooded me with glee. They weren’t prepared to fish us out themselves, so they had to rely upon these amusing men of the law to do it for them.

  “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” said my mother. “We should have all legged it. We’ve trapped ourselves up here.”

  “We’ll be okay,” I said without the slightest conviction.

  Belinda pressed her ear against my stomach and started giggling.

  “They’re so loud,” she said. “Why don’t you ask them for help?”

  I chewed on the knuckles of my good hand considering Belinda’s suggestion. I had no idea what help my tumours could provide, but it was the only suggestion that made any sense.

  “What do you think, mum?” I asked.

  The frenzied sound of sawing and hammering wafted in from outside.

  “I don’t like what those things have done to you,” she replied. “In my opinion they owe you. I think you should ask them for help.”

  I crawled away from Belinda and laid flat on my back. The stars overhead were dancing. I rubbed at my stomach.

  “Do you think you could help us out?” I asked my tumours.

  I felt the familiar hive of activity inside me die down.

  Of course we can help you, Bruce, but it will take our combined strength. There’s a fair few of them out there… it looks like a battle.

  I thought about my body devoid of the only thing that made me interesting. It was a thought I couldn’t stand. The police officer commenced talking on his raga megaphone.

  “The door is nearly finished. We’ll be inside soon. At this point, I am obliged to inform you that you may come out willingly. However, please keep in mind that this course of action will prevent us from ramming down your door. This course of action will result in a lot of very angry police officers.”

  “Is anything happening?” asked my mother.

  I could feel them lining up inside me, so eager to leave. I clenched my muscles, reluctant to allow their exit.

  What are you waiting for? asked the tumours.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” I whispered.

  The battering ram began striking the newly constructed door, sending tremors throughout of the foundation of the house.

  “Hurry, Bruce!” implored my mother.

  I rolled onto my stomach, copping a nose-full of aging attic floor. I focused on my breathing. The battering ram struck again, trying to derail my concentration. I heard something splinter. I raised my arse and clenched my good fist.

  “We will be inside shortly, Mr. Miles,” said the police officer. “I think we made the door a bit too strong. The battering ram is falling apart.”

  My stomach began to inflate and tear through my shirt. I could see my blackened insides through the stretched translucence of my skin. My internal organs looked like a decrepit town and dripped with decay. I squeezed my eyes shut while the tumours marched
toward the opening. Their foot steps were synchronous hammers pounding against me.

  “Don’t look,” I moaned to Belinda and my mother. “You don’t need to see this.”

  I heard the front door break away as the first tumour flew out of me. Belinda ran toward it, keen for a closer look, but my mother intervened. Another tumour vacated, followed by another and another. They landed with a wet thump on the attic floor. My arse yawned open as more and more tumours joined the first three. With each evacuation, I felt less pain. I felt lighter and more alive.

  My mother ran toward the attic door and pressed her ear firmly against it.

  “They’re inside!” she screamed. “Do something!”

  As more tumours departed, I lost count. I just listened to them land and scurry into formation. I was powerless to control my babies. They were leaving home.

  “There’s so many of them,” commented Belinda. “I wanna play with one.”

  “No you don’t,” scolded my mother. “You need to go and hide in the corner, sweetie. This isn’t a game.”

  My body fell limp and for a moment I had no idea where I was. I felt so different. I sat up, taking deep breaths and orienting myself. My mother was covering Belinda in a paint-smeared sheet. Belinda was wriggling and giggling like a child reluctant to go to bed. I heard the sound of a bugle playing “Last Post” and turned to face it. There they were… my tumours.

  There must have been at least twenty of them, all lined up and ready for war. They were wearing flak jackets and peaked cabassets. One tumour, slightly larger than the others, barked cadences that the others repeated with gusto. The bark was so guttural that it sounded like death metal vocals. This tumour looked familiar to me. This was the guardian Fiona had filmed during my first endoscopy. I recognized its cold, black eye.

  The door to the attic started to shake as police officers pounded their fists against it.

  “Are those things going to do anything?” asked my mother who pushed hard against the door with her giant hand.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  Half the tumours began marching toward the door and the other half formed a semi-circle of protection around me.

  “Open up!” called one of the officers. “We’re only here for the tumours. Surrender them to us and you will not be harmed.”

  “Just give them the bloody tumours, Bruce,” said my mother.

  “These tumours have done nothing wrong!” I yelled.

  My mother left her guard of the door and wriggled toward me. So much rage boiled within her that steam spat though her pores. With the back of her head pressed into the floor, she lifted her whole arm and gave me a hard slap across the face. I tumbled over and stared at my mother in horror.

  “You’re just like your father!” said my mother. “Those things have done everything wrong and you’re too bloody stubborn to realise it!”

  Before the harsh observation had a chance to fully register, the attic door splintered apart. Police officers flooded through, each brandishing rubber bands, stretched between their fingers poised to fire. I felt a rubber band slap into my forehead.

  “Ouch!” I cried. “Mum… get out of the way.”

  She squealed as rubber bands bounced off her arm. More rubber bands flew toward me. Some I managed to dodge, most I did not. The tumours quickly consumed each rubber band as it fell to the ground, ensuring they couldn’t be used again. My mother cowered and whimpered beneath the rubber fusillade.

  “Leave her alone!” I implored. “She’s innocent.”

  “There’s no such thing as innocent,” said one of the officers.

  Tumours began bouncing with great speed around the attic.

  “Stay completely still,” said one of the tumours by my foot.

  Their speed accelerated to the point where all I could make out were blurs. Suddenly one of the officers fell. Blood pumped from his jugular, staining the ground around him.

  “Mum… Belinda… Don’t fucking move.”

  The officers swatted at the blurs to no avail. With each pass, more fell in explosions of gore. I watched the way their hapless bodies distorted as my tumours tore through them. I marveled as their insides became outsides and that which remains hidden by the fragility of our flesh was now exposed. I reflected upon my own body and how intimately associated with its occult functions I had become. I truly knew what was inside me, maybe better than what resided on the surface. The body narrates its decline to the owner. Our bodies are always narrating their condition. Most of the time we just never listen to them – why would we? I certainly didn’t. Who knows how long I’d been growing my tumours? What signals had my body given me that I ignored? The first time my stomach ached, was that the genesis of my disease? The first time my bowel movements started to resemble French mustard… was this significant? I began to mentally tick off possible demarcation points as the violence continued before me, distancing myself emotionally from the chaos. While I clutched onto this mentality, lives weren’t being lost – they were merely exposing themselves and becoming something new. I could hear my mother sobbing somewhere in the distance. The sound had forged deep cognitive roots, ensuring that whenever I heard it, I became more hopeless. My mother’s sobbing was its own language – a language that penetrated deeper than words and spoke louder than teens at a roller disco. It was a language that, whenever absorbed, reinforced the inescapable nature of my obligation to her. I’ve been responsible for each tear.

  I was left standing in the sticky remnants of the police officers. Belinda and my mother were huddled in the corner, afraid to speak lest their words reanimated the intruders. They looked to me for guidance and I looked to them for the same.

  My tumours were strewn about the attic, breathing heavily and laughing. They were laughing because they’d earned their freedom. I wanted to scoop them up and swallow them back down into the depths of my body. My stomach made the sound of crying orphans, which I tried to soothe with the gentle movement of my hand. And as the sound of my stomach began to abate, it hit me… hunger. I was ravenous. Thoughts of food swelled like an orchestra, drowning out everything.

  “Does anyone have any food?” I asked with breathless desperation.

  Having broken the silence, Belinda and my mother edged toward me. Belinda foraged about in her pockets and pulled out a ball of lint the size of a softball. She held it up toward me. Through my fog of hunger, I convinced myself it was a culinary delight. In her hands the lint ball became rich plum pudding, dripping with custard. Salivation poured from my mouth and reached out for the lint with thin, wet arms. Belinda passed the lint to my waiting hands. Imaginary custard leaked through my fingers. I rushed it toward my gaping mouth, not wanting to waste any. My teeth tore through the lint. I forced each mouthful down, coughing up moth limbs with each swallow.

  “You should eat something a little less ridiculous than that,” said my mother.

  I paid her advice no heed and gorged myself until the last of the lint ball was travelling toward my empty stomach.

  “I can’t believe you actually ate that,” said Belinda, trying her best not to giggle.

  “I was hungry,” I replied, slightly embarrassed.

  Although they both chastised me, I could sense how grateful they both were. While they assailed me with tandem mock, they were achieving the fortitude required to face the fact they had witnessed slaughter. Most of the tumours were on their feet now and sharing their own tales of battle. The three of us cast our attention their way. These fleshy balls of disease had prevented a rubber band massacre… our skin was less irritated thanks to their efforts and, more importantly, Fiona had been kept at bay. She was still a problem though and she wasn’t about to give up. As far as she was concerned, my body was still stuffed with her babies and she was going to find a way to get at them. I walked toward the window, nearly slipping over in a smear of former officer. I peeked around the window frame trying to minimise my visibility as best I could. Fiona was there alright, flanked by Arthur,
Vince and Belinda’s mother. Fiona’s brow was furrowed in frustration to such an extent that her eyes were no longer visible. Arthur was sipping at a cup of tea, which Fiona swatted away. I watched the cup fly away with a tail of earl grey tea in its wake. Its trajectory was interrupted by a helicopter, which spiraled toward the ground, bouncing to a stop without explosion. The pilots clambered out in a daze, scratching at their confused heads and walking aimlessly up a side street, leaving their helicopter in the middle of the road. Fiona’s face was flushed red with anger and her cheeks were engorged as if she were playing an invisible trumpet. Vince started walking toward the fallen helicopter, but a leash around his neck cut his walk short. He fell to the ground and barked.

  “What’s happening out there?” asked my mother.

  “They look pissed,” I replied. “They’re not going anywhere unless I’m with them.”

  Belinda scuttled toward me and embraced my leg. “I don’t want you to go with them,” she said.

  “Neither do I… we have to think of something.”

  “All she wants are those bloody tumours,” said my mother. “Just let her have them and we can forget this ever happened.”

  I glanced over at my tumours. Even if I agreed to give them to Fiona, there’s no way they’d go and they possessed the moxy to ensure it wouldn’t happen. Besides… if they weren’t going to be with me, they deserved their freedom.

  “No,” I eventually said. “We have to find another way. I’m not letting her have them. I can’t allow it.”

  “Well what do you proposed we do, Bruce?” implored my mother.

  “We’re not going to do anything.” I gesticulated to the gore painting the attic floor. “Look what’s happened… this could get even worse and there’s no fucking way I’m going to put you through that. The two of you are staying here and I’m going to lead Fiona away. She isn’t interested in you, mum. Besides… you’re a fucking arm… you’ll slow me down.”