by Paul Finch
Actually, the only time I've seen anything like their motion was one afternoon with Doug. He'd just had a real good time and I remember lying next to him afterwards, watching his testicles. Their languid motion was somewhat similar to my breasts. The sacs containing his balls were rolling gently backward and forward. It was mesmerizing to watch. Kind of endearing, too. Keeping the temperature A-OK, Doug told me proudly, when he caught me checking him out. Keeping the sperm nice and cool.
Fine. But what am I keeping cool?
Travelling down my torso, my monthly exam reveals thighs that are muscular, taut. No idea why. I never exercise. Between them is a forest. I shave regularly, but it's never enough. Doug closes his eyes and pretends not to notice. But look up again, skyward from my sprouting thighs, and you'll find my arms waving down at you. Until recently both looked fairly normal. My right arm still does. It's my best feature, folks! The left looks like it could heft a tank across Russia.
What my foster mum Annette cutely calls my little problem began this winter. Initially it was just a recurring discomfort in my left wrist. A whole host of tests followed. Glandular checks. Bone scans. MRIs. Even a chromosome screen "to rule out any genetic abnormalities." That sounded scary enough, but the results were more so. The x-rays showed that the main bones in my left arm are all growing at an alarming rate. "Not only is the resulting bone density extremely hard," the consultant told us, "but based on the rate of growth we're worried that the surrounding ligaments and joints might rupture under the pressure."
You can imagine how frightening it was to hear that. Annette did a double-take, so panicked that on the same day she gave the medics carte blanche to do more or less any tests they wanted on me. Since then, every time I trundle up to King's hospital, a whole team of specialists arrive to prod, scan me and draw endless quantities of blood.
I have to admit, looking back, that it was mildly exciting the first couple of times I turned up to see the doctors. After all, the tests showed I was unique. My left arm wasn't too big back then, either. I could have my uniqueness and still cover it up. With the right clothes, I could almost make-believe it wasn't a problem at all.
Not any longer, darlings. Counsellor Borthwick cringed when he saw it. I don't blame him. Everyone does these days. My arm's hideous. The growth has been accelerating recently as well. At night I can feel the skin expanding. The medics haven't a clue what's causing it. Fluid retention? Muscle hardening? Bloated sebaceous glands? All I know is that it's really, really frightening. And yesterday I received news that it's not just my arm. The latest test results show the swelling spreading to the rest of my body. Bones are wider than they were. Ligaments are stretching. My thyroid readings are apparently unheard of. Hormonally, across almost every index the medics can measure, I'm off the scale.
"What the fuck's wrong with you, anyway?" Doug complained yesterday, as if he'd only just noticed the change. "Your fingernails feel like friggin' knives."
Which, if you ask me, is an incautious comment to make when those knives are working overtime fingering your arse the way you asked for it only five friggin' minutes ago.
"Sorry," I said contritely, digging a little deeper. Enough to make his eyes water.
March 3rd . Arm much bigger. Head no smaller. Everything still swelling like rampant peaches in the sun.
I haven't been into college for a couple of days. Can't bear the stares. Instead I'm spending most of my time gazing from my bedroom window. It's a good way to avoid looking at my arm. I can feel it dragging towards the floor. What the hell's going on? It's vast now. I reckon a midget family could all sit quite comfortably on its length. There'd even be room for a picnic.
The medics just give me doleful, scared looks these days, but Annette's been great. She keeps making me my favourite meals and stuff. I don't know what I'd do without her. I wish she'd stop trying to get me out of the house to go on shopping trips with her, though. "It's that... that... thing... holding you back. Oh, Susie, you mustn't let it," she keeps saying, and I know she's right, but I don't want to be spotted by any of my friends. I'm trying to see the funny side, however. Keeping my spirits up, as Counsellor Borthwick advises. I didn't even react much when one of Doug's mates, Micko, offered me a crumb of sympathy last week. "So what's wrong, then?" he grunted. "You all miserable 'cos of your massive arm, yeah?" He pointed at my elbow. "Nah, what's the problem? It don't look too bad."
This was honestly the best he could do. This, for Micko, was deep empathy. We were in Starbucks at the time, and I sipped my frappuccino, hoping he'd get the hint that I had no desire to talk about the subject. But of course he didn't. Instead he leaned over the table, eager to ogle what was poking out of my shirtsleeve.
"I'm thinking of entering javelin competitions," I told him. "One of the college sports coaches thinks I'd be really good. He thinks I might even have an outside chance of making the Olympic squad."
"What?" Micko grunted. "What you on about?"
"You want to touch it?" I asked.
That shut him up. "No," he said, quick as a flash. "It's... all right."
"Oh, go on," I urged. "Like you said, it's not so bad. Give it a good tug. Be brave. It won't bite."
And to encourage him I sort of lifted his hand and placed it-very delicately-on top of my bulging forearm.
Poor Micko-his recoiling fingers couldn't get away fast enough.
Doug and his dim friends aren't the only ones recoiling, however. The fact that my arm now rests like a big cylinder against my side, heavy, broad and rock hard, tends to dominate everyone's attention. Doug even took it upon himself to christen it recently. Did it in front of the whole history class. Deciding that my arm deserved some recognition for the sheer extent of its girth, he gave it a name. Clarissa. Someone shouted him down, but the name stuck. Clarissa: my ever-enlarging arm. I've even started calling it that myself. It seems to fit in some horrible way.
March 28th. A month has gone by and the tests are still officially 'indeterminate.' I'm growing every which way, but all the consultants can do is hope it stops before something bursts. I've been in my room for weeks now, hardly going anywhere. I'm so tired of being stuck inside. I'm sick of worrying about it all as well. Sick of being in this room. Sick of everything. This afternoon I found myself whispering to Clarissa. I'm talking to my fucking arm! I've got to get out of the house...
April 1st. My friend Sarah Archer took it upon herself to arrange a blind date for me yesterday. "Something to make you feel better," she promised, looking all emotional and misty eyed when she saw the state of me.
Actually, there's a bit more to the date than just sympathy. It's the challenge she relished. Could she get anyone to date me?
Well, miraculously, she did. A night out with Henry Duke. I couldn't believe it. Henry's a modest, smart boy, one of the funniest kids in my Ancient Greek history class. Actually, he's really sweet, a boy I've always fancied, so though I was flustered by having the date dropped on me, and knew he was probably only coming out of pity, or because pretty Sarah asked him, I gave myself a pep-talk on the night. Life has to go on, and all that , and he might not mind too much etc etc. That sort of got me as far as my closet, where I found something to half-shroud my upper body. Then I combed my hair as best I could over my face, covered up Clarissa with a jacket the size of a tarpaulin, and shuffled my scared little way to the town centre to meet him.
The first hour went okay. I kept Clarissa out of sight. I was even managing to enjoy myself until we took our seats at Stan's Bar. That's when Henry made his great move. I knew he was going to do it. From little shufflings of his bum it was obvious what he was up to-edging closer, calculating distances, daring himself. And when he actually found the guts to spread that thin freckled arm of his around Clarissa, and swing in for a swift half-kiss on my bony cheek, I must admit that part of me felt pleased and almost pathetically happy.
But then Henry went and spoiled things. I guess he couldn't help himself. "God, I bet you could do some damage with
that arm," he muttered.
I couldn't believe how crass the comment was. But I didn't overreact. No, I forgave him. I figured my life was going to be filled with comments like that from now on, so I'd better toughen up. And I was rewarded. Because later, when we were at the movies, at a point when the screen action was particularly noisy, and he thought he could sneak it in, Henry reached yet again with that normal arm of his towards mine and held Clarissa ever so close. It was an incredibly intimate moment. If he'd touched my breasts it wouldn't have been anything like so powerful. And while I was mortified that it was obviously such a big deal to him, I shivered with relief and nearly swooned with gratitude.
I felt so grateful, in fact, that I kind of leaned into him. Not a good move. Henry, propped against my right side, wasn't quite ready yet for that level of intimacy with Clarissa. He actually screamed when she jabbed him-a stifled scream, but if Henry had been alone, and not protecting his reputation, I think it would have been a right howler.
I don't remember much about the rest of the evening. Let's just say we were both very absorbed in the movie. Henry, though, shocked me by giving me one more chance to kiss him. The moment came just before we left. Even now I'm filled with gratitude, because I could see he was trying to make up for his scream earlier. As he bent toward me he looked so timid, so unsure of himself, but he had the guts to do it anyway. Good old Henry.
Our lips didn't quite meet up, though. I pulled away. A cold feeling just swept over me. Ludicrously, instead of sharing a melting kiss, all I'd wanted to do in that moment was chew on his lower lip. Bite hard and take a lump out. Not exactly the easiest thing to tell a boy just as he's about to give you his best move.
In the end, we agreed to meet next week, so at least he hasn't dumped me yet. Tomorrow I've got some eye tests. Yes, folks, another problem that's become the talk of the town! My bitty-batty pupils won't stop fucking rocking and rolling in their sockets.
April 4th Okay, I've had the eye-tests, and I think I successfully managed to terrify the examiner, a Chinese consultant called Zio-Min. My eyes have been fretfully on the move for weeks-roiling, rolling in their sockets, generally scaring people to death (though I see okay, he checked: better than 20/20 vision).
Anyway, Zio-Min bombarded my eyes with low intensity lights to check that my peripheral vision was okay. It was more than okay. It was perfect. Then he moved me across to another machine called a slit-lamp microscope. His face was so close to me that I could smell his cheap aftershave and a trace of curry-filled sweat.
A strong beam of light struck my eye. The next moment Zio-Min grunted "zhòu!" and jumped away from the machine, backing towards the wall.
"That," he whispered, "is not a normal red-eye reflex."
He was afraid to approach the microscope again. "Tell me what you're seeing," I coaxed, using the same soothing bedside manner I'd seen from George Clooney on ER.
"Nocturnal hunting animals," he stuttered. "When you shine a light at their eye it looks... almost white."
"That's what you've just seen?"
"Yes."
"Go on."
He shook his head. "It's only with creatures like cats and dogs. Their eyes have... a different structure. Our eyes are built for daylight. Evolutionarily speaking, we hunt by day. It's one of the reasons we see colours well and our depth perception is so good. But dogs and cats, well... they hunt by night as well as by day-or in twilight anyhow." He licked his lips. "That means their sensitivity to light has to be five or six times as good as ours. A cat can't see where there's no light at all, but it has a layer of cells behind its retina called a tapetum. This effectively acts as a mirror, re-reflecting light back to the retina, enabling it to see better than us."
"Are you saying I've got a tapetum?"
"Yes. No, of course not. It's impossible."
"So how do you explain it?"
"I can't." Zio-Min looked genuinely shaken. "I've never seen anything like this. Short of dissecting your eye, there's no way I can find out what it is." He looked as if he wouldn't have minded doing exactly that. "The equipment must be faulty."
I stood up and switched off all the lights in the room. A sliver of light seeping under the door was enough for me to pick out all the pockmarked hollows of Zio-Min's face. His anxious eyes blinked pointlessly at me in the darkness. For all practical purposes, in this environment, he was blind. But why wasn't I?
Snatching a light pen out of his jacket pocket, I walked across to a small mirror. Facing it, I shone the torch a centimetre or two from my eye.
The light reflected back was a dazzling, pure white.
April 16th . My last few weeks have been filled with a kind of exultant terror. A tapetum! Crazy! But I'm gradually starting to feel calmer. A lot clearer as well. I think I'm crossing some kind of threshold. I feel on the cusp of extraordinary revelations. To prepare for it, I've decided to shut myself in my room. No more dates with Henry for a while. I've switched my mobile off too. The only person who can reach me now is Annette. She keeps trying to get me to leave my bedroom-or at least come downstairs. She's right to insist. I'd spend all my time upstairs otherwise. What's happening to me?
April 18th . The results of the psychological tests arranged by Counsellor Borthwick are due soon. For some reason, instead of dreading them, I find I'm looking forward to discovering what they reveal.
Until the results arrive, I've got everything I need in the house. I'm hibernating. We've got food and drink aplenty. I don't need anything else. I'm happy just gazing from my room. I like my window. I've placed a chair beside it. I perch there most of the day, remaining as still as a model being painted. The only thing that bothers me is the thought of someone outside seeing my face. I'm sure I've gotten uglier since the start of this week. Annette says that's nonsense, but I notice she's taken all the mirrors down in the house.
April 20th . I think it's Thursday. It's deeply peaceful here in the dry stale air of my room. I have been sitting upright next to my window since dawn. I stay here, quietly gazing out, while inside me.... alterations occur.
The view outside is tame. Rural fields. Green hedges. The edge of a wood. There aren't any other houses or people. Nothing to spoil the view. Well, the occasional walker on a trail. As they pass by I follow their footsteps like an eager child peering from the mouth of a cave.
Clarissa is ever expanding. Growth is happening in other regions of my body as well. Many other regions.
April 21st . Annette is increasingly worried about me. I guess she's right to be. At night I've begun to hear voices. They're quite sibilant. I swear my hair is whispering to me. And not only the hair on my head.
April 22nd . I can't even remember any longer when this ceaseless vigil at my bedroom window began. All I know is that I never want to leave my room any more. I'm content to just wait here and let the transformation, whatever it is, complete itself. And this is a transformation. I'm sure of that now. But into what? Maybe I'll start spinning a cocoon soon, and emerge weeks from now as something winged and stunningly, achingly beautiful. Somehow I doubt it. But I couldn't get any uglier, could I?
April 23rd It's late. A warm night. I just tried screaming from my bedroom window. I was curious how the scream would sound. Still high-pitched, like a girl's? No, it was more clogged-up than that. Not surprising, as I've been coughing up some sort of syrupy yellow bile for days. Annette is feeding me cough sweets, but-guess what folks?-they don't help!
Deep in my throat I hear faint rustlings. My vocal cords sound like they've been lacerated. They're murdering every sound that comes out. The human voice runs at between 80 hz and 1100 hz. I've been reading all about it on the Internet. The notes I'm making are heavier, rooted in some antediluvian scale.
"Annette!" I keep yelling, "Annette!"-and the vowels emerge in muffled detonations, like velveted bombs. What tender traps are being set down there in my throat? The consonants lack all sharpness, the vowels slide out caked in fur. Interestingly Annette came up immediately, though. Sh
e fairly ran up those stairs. Couldn't have done it faster.
April 24th . Overnight, naughty Clarissa's been growing without my permission again. If I stretch her out, fully unfurl her like a flag, she now reaches from one end of the room to the other. She's thick enough to be a foundation of our house. That's intriguing, isn't it? A platform to build upon, anyway.
Annette doesn't quite see matters the same way. She's getting all vehement and huffy downstairs. She insists I leave my room. She won't bring my food up any more. She's trying to starve me out. She keeps crying and shouting up the stairs as well, begging me to answer. I understand that. The shouting, I mean. I have an urge to do some pretty loud roaring of my own.
I wonder what Doug's up to today?
April 25th . Last night I sat in my chair by the window. I must have drifted off to sleep. When I woke up again, I took a sip of water, breathing heavily, and a word exploded from my throat. And it was so wonderful to hear it, such a blessed relief! It's a word I've had a desire to say for a while. To utter, as it were. To announce. A statement of intent.
Monster .
Enthralling what happened afterwards as well. Clarissa tensed. Flinched. As soon as the second syllable flowed off my tongue, she rose like some glorious warrior to the level of my neck and hovered there, as if seeking out my enemies. I'm not afraid of her anymore.