by Brain S
I calculated the number of hours I had endured this time. I calculated the number of hours I had left. The number of minutes. The number of seconds.
I double checked my math.
Thirty days.
Twenty nine.
Twenty eight.
Amelia got moved to a different shift, and I got a surly old crone who talked to the equipment more than me, and even then, only to curse at it.
Seventeen.
Sixteen.
An old man down the hall from me died in the middle of the night. His heart gave out, according to the nurses. I envy him. I spend the next several days trying to stress my heart out, trying to make it crash.
Eleven.
Ten.
Nine.
The priest who comes by to read to us has gotten to revelations. It’s a very visual book. I can practically see it, as he’s reading. For a few seconds, I can almost forget the things crawling around inside of me.
Then one of them takes a bite.
Three.
Two.
One.
They come for me again. I know what’s coming, the cutting, the agony, but it’s a price I’ll willingly pay to get these things out of me.
Through the hall, down the elevator, into the morgue. I’m eager, this time, looking forward to the pain.
They cut me open, and I almost black out. The eggs that were in me have hatched, or molted, or something. The things they pull out of me look more like spiders, but with extra legs.
The doctor and his assistant handle them carefully. Lovingly. They move them off of me and into something nearby. One of the dead bodies, I think. I hear a crunching sound as the creatures begin to eat their new host with reckless abandon.
I want to throw up.
The doctor and his assistant pause, looking down at me.
I wish they’d get on with it. The sewing isn’t pleasant, but once it’s over I’m back to plain old ordinary misery again. I look forward to that.
“He won’t be able to handle another batch.” The doctor says.
I’m surprised. They never talk.
“He might be able to handle three.” The assistant argues.
“No.” The doctor shakes his head and pokes at something inside of me. “He’s done.”
Done? Am I done? Will they finally let me die?
The assistant nods and moves out of my view.
The doctor leans in, pulling a pen light which he uses to check my eyes. “Time for your miracle cure, Mr. Wilson.”
Cure? I stare at him, confused. He can’t cure me. With everything I know, with everything they’ve done to me, he can’t risk me living. He can’t . . .
The assistant steps back into view. There’s something on his shoulder. It looks like the things they’ve pulled out of me, but larger. A giant spider with many limbs. But they aren’t limbs, not like a humans. Not even like a spider. They’re tentacles. Long, thin things.
The creature slithers down the assistant’s arm and into the gaping hole in me.
The corruption I’ve felt before, the tainted feeling at having the young creatures in me is nothing next to this. Even paralyzed I can feel my body reacting, twitching, trying to reject the thing.
To no avail.
It climbs into me, and its tentacles stretch out, slithering throughout my body, everywhere, out to my limbs, to my head. I feel things cracking inside of me, bones breaking, muscle tearing, as this thing, this creature, makes room for itself. The last tentacle, the slowest of the bunch, slithers along my spine, along the inside. It climbs up, and up. My body spasms as it climbs through my spine, and into my brain.
The two men watch, faces expressionless. Finally the doctor reaches down, pulling my skin back into place and begins sewing me back together.
As he does, I move. My hand raises up in front of me, and my head turns to look at it. My fingers curl into a fist, then uncurl.
But it isn’t me moving them.
It isn’t me.
I sit up. No. Not me. It sits up, the thing wearing me sits up, and looks around.
“Do you know who you are?” The Doctor asks.
The thing wearing me opens my mouth, then closes it. I can feel something happening in my brain. Not physically, the brain doesn’t have any nerves, but I can feel . . . something.
The thing wearing me opens my mouth again, using me like a puppet, its slimy tentacles manipulating my body from the inside in a way that makes me feel ill.
“Wilson.” The thing says.
“Good.” The doctor pats his shoulder. “Lay back down. We need to take you back to your room. Tomorrow night we’ll practice more.”
The thing wearing me lies back down and closes its eyes.
I scream in my mind. I howl, and grind my teeth, I weep. In my mind.
The thing wearing me takes no notice.
The thing wearing me.
It can’t do this to me. It can’t. It can’t use my body while I’m still in it.
I’m not dead!