THE NIGHTMARE SEQUENCE

NB: These are based on a set of recurring dreams experienced over the last ten years. 

FIRST SEQUENCE (PURGATORY)

The first sequence unfolds in a mist veiled field at dusk. The field is endless, I can’t see the gates clearly but I know they’re there. This place isn’t meant to be breached unless it opens itself up to you. Huge swirls of crows circle above, some tiny, some gigantic like dragons. The giants are heavily scarred and disfigured in ways that tell whispered tales about battles ripped open across time. Jagged and grotesque beaks cracked with gaping holes, some lost entirely and perhaps buried in the eye-socket of a particularly vicious opponent. Colossal wingspans that cause tremors when beat at full strength, torn and frayed but no less terrifying or effective. Barbarously keen talons buried on the end of gargantuan metatarsals decorated with wounds, old and new. The ones without the means to feed themselves are waited on by the smaller male birds, bringing the elders pieces of carrion as they roar across the field demanding to be satiated. They are not left to die, rather they are revered as titans. The tiny ones know they will find the same fate after millennia of shepherding lives over the edge as they rend them apart in battle to feed the elders.

The first time I saw that grisly picture through the mists, as impossible as it might seem, I felt like I’d been standing there forever. I thought I’d see myself torn apart as an offering for a giant, but that’s not what happens. Not even close. The mountainous one eyed behemoth that sits amongst the rest tilts her head at me as if to tell me to begin. She is the biggest one of them all, sage and ageless like she was there before the beginning of time. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t need to. Even the lower ranking elders do things for her, shredding prime carrion with their talons to make it easier for her to swallow. She is not defenceless, but she is a Queen. Queens do not tend to themselves.

Hundreds of tiny females flit around her feathers, picking away that which ought not to be there. One of her feathers alone would span the entire wing of the largest elder. She is a titan amongst titans, undefeatable, but will eventually crumble away to dust after her existence spans several aeons and she grows tired. When she fades, a brutal war will tear the female elders apart to determine who will replace her. She is nameless, the gravity of her presence infinitely more powerful than any name she could be given.  

Males are underlings here, regardless of their size they bow to the Matriarchs. Any dissent amongst the male ranks is met with ferocity, usually resulting in the offending male being feasted upon by the females. The Queen watches me intently when I appear, the roaring of the others dying down to silence before the slaughter begins. The mist sits thickly in the air, yet I can see through it perfectly. They’re all motionless, glassy corvid eyes watching my every move.   

I’m wearing layers of heavy black woollen robes with a hood that obscures most of my face, yet I can see clearly. My feet are swathed with the same wool over leather. The wool feels like I’m wearing lead, but I can move freely as if I’m wearing a paper robe. My physical strength seems fathomless here, yet I’m aware under normal circumstances I would buckle under the weight of the robes alone. Tattered trails of wool drag over the earth, collecting soil and the dampness from the air.

A platoon of heavily armed men appear through the mist, headed in my direction. They’re all clad in protective riot gear so I can’t see their faces, not that it matters, they’ll all be ripped to shreds soon. They don’t seem to acknowledge the crows, even the titans. I wonder if they can see them, or if they’re only for me to look upon. They loom closer, and I lift the impossible weapon I’m armed with. It’s impossible because I know I wouldn’t be able to carry it, let alone fire it in the waking world. It’s a freehand Gatling, and it feels like I’m carrying a kitten. It’s blemished and dented in places, but it’s fully loaded and primed for use. As the men edge closer with their rifles, I raise it and brace myself for the onslaught, but they don’t even get the chance, they don’t STAND a chance.  

I’m positioned in the very centre of the field, standing at the shattered and splintered door of a flat roofed dilapidated four storey building. It’s burned out with glassless window frames, and crumbling stone. Any shards of glass that remain are tinted with blood from the previous manifestation of this sequence. The men are closing in on me, and I start to fire the Gatling I know I wouldn’t be able to handle. A handful of them manage to return fire, but tiny male crows swoop down and catch the bullets and crush them to dust. I mow the men down like paper dolls, watching their flesh and bone pulverised in detail. Red mist sprays through the air as my bullets tear into them, shreds of flesh and riot gear flying around in a flurry of violence and diving crows. Their agony reaches a crescendo of deafening levels, the roar of the elders blasting a crushing bassline as if they’re wholly entertained by this frenzied display.  

The combination of screaming and roaring reaches supernova, creating an earth shattering shock-wave, blasting me into the building. I can’t hear a thing, everything is in slow motion as I blink and try to regain my composure. Another shock-wave cracks through, speeding everything up as I’m thrown against a wall, but I don’t feel any pain. I pick myself up and focus. I feel a syrupy warmth seeping through my robes, and realise I’m standing in around two feet of blood, the air thick with the scent of copper.

The interior is as grim as the outside. The walls are cracked and crumbling, painted crimson and trickling with decaying mould. The building shakes with aftershocks of the earlier blasts, leaving pockets of dust floating to settle wherever it wants, but I don’t lose my footing. Annihilated pieces of furniture float atop the blood, with once beautiful paintings splintered and torn, hanging askew. What remains of oxblood leather furniture is tipped over, ragged and utterly destroyed by fire and projectiles. It’s a fucking mess, but much worse waits in each room beyond.

I can hear the men screaming in agony as I wade through their blood. They’re crunched over and huddled in various states of fucked up. Mangled flesh torn open by jagged and splintered bones, glistening with blood amongst cartilage and shredded muscle. Organs spilling out over what’s left of their bodies, splayed and tattered beyond all repair, almost as if they’d already been put through an organ grinder. Partially bulging and dangling eyes stare at me, some blankly, some filled with pain, their contorted faces wanting it to end because as much as they should be dead, they are not. A murder of crows at various sizes filter in, cawing in a fevered attack to start eating them alive. Several men are dragged back into the field by the horde, only for a few of the titans to carry them off in their talons before dropping them from a great height. That’s how it ends for the lucky ones. For the rest, they are ripped and picked apart in a feeding frenzy.

Another flash puts me back out in the field, and all I can do is watch the ruthless onslaught before the Queen tilts her head at me once again. The elders roar across the field louder than ever before, and the ground fractures beneath me in reverberation. My legs fail me, and I fall endlessly into cracked earth.    

SECOND SEQUENCE (LIMBO)
My descent through cracked earth reaches its climax; I’m in the same field and building structure, except everything is serene, intact, and brilliant white. It’s in perfect condition; everything inside it is white, even the pictures are squares and rectangles of white in white frames. The windows are open and framed with softly billowing curtains that flow through the floors as I move through them. I foolishly thought this was a place of safety during my first visit here, a place of benign intent.

I’m dressed once again in layers of shrouded wool, except that this too is white, I’m not carrying a Gatling, and nothing is frayed or torn anywhere. I am aware of pain throughout my body, the same kind of pain you get when you’ve hit the gym too hard, and everything hurts the next day. I try to shrug it off, and assume it’s due to the weight of my shroud.

I drift around endlessly, climbing seemingly unending staircases and eventually wandering into whichever room sits at the top, but once I enter, each door closes behind me and melts into the wall. The pain in my body climbs slowly, leaving me breathless and clutching at the rails. Whilst I was strong and invulnerable in the previous sequence, I am sluggish and I can’t ever go back the way I came. I can only move forward, wandering through corridors that go on forever, and climbing staircases that make me think my legs will fall beneath me before I hit the last step, only for me to find myself at the next door. I become increasingly fatigued and a heavy ache reaches around my body, building in intensity the further I walk.

I get little respite in each room once the doors melt away. Some rooms are larger than others. When I’m afforded one the size of a ballroom, I know I can slip down to the floor and catch my breath as the surroundings shift and slide around me. The walls move inward, the items inside with me pushed ever closer, gradually robbing me of any space. It’s a slow process, and in a ballroom sized area I can have a few hours of rest. When the door behind me melts away, I see a new one open at the opposite end, the room around me closing and pushing me closer to it with every shift. When I am pushed out into another corridor, I am physically unable to keep from walking, even if my body feels like it’s on fire and heavy like lead. I sometimes wonder what would happen if my bones were to break, or I were to collapse, but I’ve never found out because I can’t stop, even though it’s exceptionally painful.

When I feel at my most exhausted, and the pain levels are excruciating, that is when the rooms are so small that I can reach out and touch each wall without needing to move. There is no blood, there are no screams of agony, there are no roaring crows, and there is no brutality; there is only silence, even as the building moves. Even without the savage landscape of the previous sequence, that does not make this limbo any less terrifying. I don’t know how long I am in there, and I have never been able to find my way down to the entrance. I am caught in a white web, almost like a toy at someone, or something else’s behest. I don’t know who or what that is, I’ve never seen anything to address my suspicions, but then this is limbo in every sense of the word. It is not meant for me to know. I exist here for a time, that’s all. I never know how I end up escaping this place, I simply blink and find myself in the next sequence.

THIRD SEQUENCE (APOCATASTASIS)

Blink.

I’m in an old airport, the kind you find in small cities with decor from the seventies that’s never been updated. Normally bright white displays holding flight information with rotating letters and digits have yellowed over time, clacking noisily as they revolve. Staff are present, but they’re not sentient; they have bodies but their faces are entirely blank and gaze at you as if they actually had eyes to see you at all. They’re dressed in the same era clothing as the airport projects, old seventies gear complete with appropriate hairstyles and accessories, draped over their blank faces. Their staring is continuous, it’s gone from casual gazing to halting their work with blatant ogling.

We don’t belong here. We’re all wearing modern clothing. By we, I mean the twenty children surrounding me. The faceless tilt their heads to one side as if they’re oddly curious, slowly edging closer as if we are some manner of freak-show.

The children range in ages from three to twelve years old. They’re all trying to cling to me, terrified and unsure of what’s going on. I’m dressed in plain clothes, there are no shrouded cloaks or firearms, and there are no crows or a mysterious building. I’m trying to touch the children in a reassuring manner to let them know that things are going to be okay, but it’s hard to give a part of yourself to twenty children all at once.

Two faceless security guards approach us, although they are unarmed. They don’t speak, but motion towards a tunnel hammered out in a wall, as if recently punched through by construction workers. They funnel us down a dark corridor lined with steaming pipes, and the kind of dim orange-yellow lights you find in bomb shelters. We are escorted to an old giant cargo plane that has been battered by weather with years of overuse. It looks like it might collapse at any moment, and yet their blank faces and body language insist we climb aboard. The children are crying now and I’m doing my best to keep them calm, but you know how it goes when a huddle of children get scared; it’s contagious. I start singing to them softly to try and set them at ease, but it only works for a little while before their cries escalate again. We all get situated, but because we are all individually strapped in, they start to scream loudly because they can’t touch me for comfort. I try and unbuckle my safety belt, but it won’t budge. I look down to see what I can do, but the metal is clamped shut and fuses completely before my eyes. The children claw at their own belts, but it’s futile; we are all trapped. The older ones appear terrified into silence, as if they know there’s nothing they can do. The babies are shrieking, and although I try to sing to them again, it is drowned out and nobody can hear me.

I feel the plane rumble into movement, loud, heavy, and rattling. I am amazed as we actually take off and make it off the ground, the pandaemonium not letting up for a second as we lift. I can hardly hear the children over the deep rumbling of the plane’s engines, but I can see every single one of their contorted faces, fighting to break free of the restraints albeit ineffectively. A vicious storm brews ominously through the skies. It’s so dark, and regular flashes of lightning show me that we are flying over a body of water as I crane my head around to look through the scratched window beside me. I might not be able to undo my restraints, but I have a little wiggle room. We navigate the storm with major turbulence, some of the babies passed out and exhausted from screaming for so long. The older ones are still wide awake and staring into nothing, their eyes glassy and faces streaked red and blotchy with tears. I wave my arms to try and shift their attention, but it’s like they don’t even see me. All I can hear is the shaking rumble of the gargantuan engines struggling through the storm, rippling through the entire plane. I keep trying to get them to focus on me, but it’s not working. The storm intensifies as we are hit by lightning, and we begin to plummet down into the angry body of water.

I watch their faces. It starts with the older ones. They close their eyes, and I am forced to see them sealing shut. Their noses seem to ripple and refocus, the shape still there but their nostrils are not. The last thing to go are their mouths. They simply close, and their lips fuse and disappear. I can’t see their ears, but I can only imagine they’re similarly blocked. All evidence of facial features begin to fade and flatten out, leaving blank canvases with nothing behind them. My hands fly up to my own face, expecting to meet the same fate, but I remain entirely intact. All I can do is watch them sit perfectly still, silent and upright like mannequins as we drop faster and faster.

There is nothing I can do, we’re going down into the water and I begin to fade out. I feel the impact crack through us, rending the plane apart like it was wet cardboard. I see metal bend and rip itself apart in slow motion, the body rupturing as it is torn into several parts, spiralling down into the dark. The seats holding what used to be the children seem to remain in place, nothing touching them at all. The door to the cockpit opens and I see one of the faceless nod at me before I black out.   

What seems like moments later, I wake up in the midst of the wreckage, except it’s filled with soft sunlight filtering in through broken windows. The water is calm, and I’m bobbing up and down in it along with plane debris, and the occasional flash of a beacon that went off as soon as we hit the water.

It’s warm and reassuring, except I’m the only one there. All the children have gone, and I don’t know where they are. It’s just me floating around the wreckage in the sun.

I wake from the sequence soon after that point, breathless and disorientated. My mind feels murky and heavy, and I’m hopelessly lost.

Text Me When You’re Dead

The first message came through at 00:42. I wasn’t one of those people who put their phone on silent or vibrate only at night. I was so accustomed to the various chimes and notifications that I could sleep through the majority of them. Most of the time folks used stuff like Signal or Telegram to reach me, or that fucking awful Facebook messenger with the annoying games and complete lack of privacy. Nobody really used SMS aside from my mother, and so when the default SMS notification shrieked off around an hour after I fell asleep, it cut straight through and startled me. I’d assumed the worst through bleary eyed panic, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes with one hand whilst unlocking the phone with the other.

 

It wasn’t my mother.

 

There was no number attached to the message, and it simply read “I NEED HELP PLEASE RESPOND.”

 

I was confused, but fired off a “WHO IS THIS?” in return. Before I’d even had chance to blink, another message pinged through. Rather than explain each message, you can see the conversation for yourself:

 

HER: IT’S DARK AND I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM. I NEED HELP PLEASE. I’M PREGNANT.

ME: WHO ARE YOU?

HER: I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM AND YOUR NUMBER IS THE ONLY ONE IN THIS PHONE.

ME: WHO ARE YOU? WHO’S PHONE?

HER: HELP ME!

 

Given the way that people scam and extort people via the internet and smart-phones now, my mind SCREAMED at me to ignore the situation as someone fucking about, turn my phone off and go back to sleep, but I didn’t, because that would make for a shit story, and you’re not here for a shit story.

 

ME: CAN YOU MOVE?

HER: YES I CAN MOVE BUT I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING.

ME: I CAN’T HELP YOU UNLESS I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE. HOW DO I KNOW THIS ISN’T A STUNT BY SOME TWISTED PRICK WITH AN OFFENSIVE WEAPON?

 

No I wasn’t fucking stupid, of course I called the police, for all the good that did. When I mentioned weird text messages asking for help from a hidden number after midnight? Block and ignore was all they gave me. How the fuck do you block a hidden number? They told me if they really needed help they’d have called the cops themselves. Fuck the police. I guess they were having a worse than usual night, but still, fuck the police.

 

It continued.

 

HER:  HELLO ARE YOU STILL THERE?

ME: YES I’M STILL HERE. I CALLED THE POLICE.

HER: IT’S TOO LATE FOR THAT. THEY WON’T HELP YOU.

ME: YOU’RE THE ONE WHO NEEDS HELP HERE NOT ME. FEEL AROUND, FIND A LIGHT SWITCH, ANYTHING?

HER: IT’S SO COLD. I CAN’T FEEL MY FEET.

ME: STICK WITH ME, FIND A WALL AND START FEELING AROUND FOR A LIGHT SOURCE.

 

I stumbled around in the dark to pull clothes on like some madwoman, as if I was actually prepared to go out looking for this person. It wasn’t my finest moment, fuck I wish I hadn’t.

 

HER: I FOUND A SWITCH BUT IT’S ONLY A TINY LIGHT IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM AND THERE IS A BROKEN WINDOW, AND EVERYTHING IS BRICK WALLS AND COLD CONCRETE.

ME: IS THERE A DOOR?

HER: YES BUT IT’S LOCKED. I TRIED IT.

ME: LOOK OUT THE BROKEN WINDOW AND TELL ME WHAT YOU CAN SEE.

HER: IT’S TOO DARK TO SEE MUCH AND THE LIGHT IN THE ROOM IS MAKING IT HARD TO FOCUS BEYOND THE GLASS. I’M TURNING IT OFF FOR A SECOND. IT’S SO COLD AND EVERYTHING IS DEAD SILENT.

 

Curiosity killed the cat, right?

 

ME: I NEED YOU TO LOOK FOR LIGHTS. CAN YOU CALL ME?

HER: NO

ME: WHAT’S YOUR NUMBER I COULD CALL YOU?

HER: YOU CAN’T CALL ME.

ME: WHY?

HER: HE MIGHT HEAR US.

ME: HE?

HER: YES. HE’S NOT FAR.

ME: HAS HE HURT YOU?

HER: NOT YET.

ME: OKAY. LOOK OUT OF THE WINDOW. TELL ME IF YOU CAN SEE ANY LIGHTS, STREET LIGHTS, ANYTHING. WHAT SHOULD I CALL YOU?

 

She responded all too quickly for someone who should have spent a few minutes looking for any lights that might tell me where she was.

 

HER: I THINK I CAN SEE A CLOCK TOWER LIGHT. TWO STREET LIGHTS NEXT TO IT.

ME: IS THE WINDOW BIG ENOUGH TO CLIMB OUT OF IF YOU BROKE IT SOME MORE?

HER: NO. REMEMBER I’M PREGNANT I DON’T WANT TO RISK MY BABY.

ME: TURN THE LIGHT BACK ON AND TELL ME WHAT’S IN THE ROOM. I WANT TO KNOW IF THERE’S ANY WAY YOU CAN BREAK THE DOOR OPEN. I’M GETTING IN MY CAR NOW.

HER: PLEASE HURRY.

 

I was fairly certain she could see the clock tower light in the town square, surrounded by four shorter lights, seeing only two from her position. I could drive out to the clock tower without any problem, I mean the area was well lit and if I could find out where she was from there, maybe I could get the police to listen to me this time. As it turned out, she WAS local and yeah, I’m the idiot who went out in the small hours of the morning on her own with a half charged phone and a couple of maglites, but that’s because the police weren’t going to do a damned thing, and I wasn’t about to leave someone to freeze to death overnight when they needed help. It took me ten minutes to drive to the town square. I used voice to text to respond to her so she knew I was still there.

 

ME: I’M IN THE CAR. I KNOW YOU CAN SEE THE CLOCK TOWER, SO I’M GOING TO DRIVE THERE AND THEN SEE IF I CAN FIND YOU ON FOOT.

HER: PLEASE HURRY I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS. IT’S SO COLD. THE LIGHT IS DIMMING, AND I’M SO TIRED.

ME: I’M COMING. HOLD ON.

 

You’re not supposed to park in the square, hell you’re not supposed to drive anywhere close to it, but this was a scenario I wasn’t fucking about with. I launched the car onto the cobbles and screeched to a halt by the lamp-posts. Everything was silent save for the occasional screech of an owl from the town’s edge. I stupidly lost my footing on the wet cobbles from the untied laces on my boots, managing to land flat on the palms of my hands saving myself from broken teeth, but felt that horrible jarring sensation ricochet through my body with the impact. The heels of my hands were grazed with tiny pricks of oozing blood, but they weren’t that bad.

 

HER: HURRY. I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS. I’M SO COLD.

ME: I NEED YOU TO LOOK OUT OF THE WINDOW AGAIN.

HER: I’M STRUGGLING

ME: I’M GOING TO PUT MY LOADING LIGHTS ON AND I WANT YOU TO TELL ME IF YOU CAN SEE THEM FLASHING FROM THE WINDOW. I NEED TO KNOW WHICH DIRECTION YOU’RE IN.

 

I knew there were a couple of fields in either direction on the edges of town. If she was in a building in one of those, I could easily find her and get help. Sure my car lights might piss off some of the townsfolk, but if anyone came out to complain it would be extra sets of hands right? If only.

 

No fucker came out.

 

I let my lights flash in pulse, and I texted her again.

 

ME: CAN YOU SEE THE FLASHING?

HER: I THINK SO.

ME: WHICH DIRECTION ARE YOU SEEING THIS FROM?

HER: I’M LOOKING OUT OF MY WINDOW AND THE CLOCK TOWER IS TO MY LEFT. PLEASE HURRY.

 

Her left. My right.

 

ME: I THINK YOU’RE IN ONE OF THE FIELDS ON THE EDGE OF TOWN.

HER: PLEASE GET HERE SOON, I CAN’T STAND UP FOR MUCH LONGER, IT’S SO COLD. I CAN’T FEEL MY FACE NOW. PLEASE..

ME: I’M COMING.

 

I kept some emergency gear in my car, so I yanked open the boot and pulled out my tool box and the axe I kept underneath it. Yes I kept a fucking axe in the boot of my car, sometimes a knife isn’t going to cut it, not that the axe really cut it this time. I didn’t drag the entire toolbox with me, it was heavy as fuck but it had stuff inside it that I could use to get past a locked door if needs be, so I took some of that stuff with me. I might have been an idiot who went out on her own like that, but I was a moderately prepared idiot.

 

ME: TRY TO KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN, I’M CARRYING MAGLITES AND THEY’RE BRIGHT. YOU SHOULD SEE ME COMING THE CLOSER TO YOU I GET OVER THE FIELD.

HER: DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME

 

My ankle screamed at me with every step, pain shooting up my leg to my knee as I limped as fast I could go over the road, and towards the stile at the field gates. As my memory served me correctly, one of the fields had a small brick shed at the far end, and the other had a metal box enclosure. She mentioned seeing bricks earlier on, but I couldn’t recall which building was in which field, I was tired and in pain, and it was COLD, wind biting, hair whipping in your face kind of cold. I stopped for a moment to text her again, expecting to hear her call out or something, but there was nothing.

 

ME: ARE YOU STILL WITH ME

 

Nothing.

 

ME: CAN YOU SHOUT SOMETHING TO ME SO I CAN HEAR YOU.

 

Nothing.

 

My immediate worry was that she’d passed out and that she was in danger of not waking up again, so I crammed the phone in my pocket and moved as fast my burning ankle would let me, the pain ripping further and further up my leg to my hips to make me think I’d done something worse than twist it. I remember my hands being so cold that it made it hard to keep hold of the axe and my other gear, but I had to keep going, and I did until I saw a flash of red brick through the beam of my biggest maglite, and an open metal door.

 

The door was open. She said it was locked, she said she couldn’t open it. Where was she? Other questions flew around in my head, ones she’d never answered even when prompted. That was when a thick rancid stench pricked at my nostrils, making me fall back and retch violently. I grabbed the door-frame to steady myself, clamping my sleeve over my mouth and nose with my other hand, my larger maglite clattering to the floor in the process. The beam shone into the corner, where a maggot riddled decomposing bloated corpse was sprawled on its side. I lost my stomach then, heaving gobs of bile all over my boots until all that came was dry rasping and sobbing. I stooped to grab the maglite, edging closer to look at the corpse’s face, mangled and puffed up beyond recognition. Its head was almost completely severed from the neck, the spine visibly cut in a clean fashion. There were no hands or feet on the corpse, only burned stumps where they used to sit. One of its eyes was missing, the other one puffed up and swollen like the rest of its body. I couldn’t look away, it was putrid and foul, but I couldn’t look away. Getting in closer despite being overwhelmed by the stink, I could see its lips were gone, and its mouth was a mass of toothless rotting pulp.

 

When you’re clawing around for your phone in your pocket and can’t quite grasp it, you start to panic and THEN you start breathing heavily, but that rotting pile in the corner made me feel so physically ill that I couldn’t concentrate. All I could do was retch and claw, needing to breathe but not being able to because of the stench. I changed tack and looked for the light switch but the bulb was long since blown. I was shaking horribly, turning around on myself, pointing with my maglite wildly until something else caught my eye. I’d finally been able to get a hold on my OWN phone, but there was another one right there on the floor.

 

I tried to slide MY phone back in my pocket, but it didn’t connect and it tumbled to the floor, the screen cracking despite the supposedly protective case. Shining the light on the second phone, showed me it was identical to mine down to the same high gloss black case. The screen was cracked in the same way, and I turned it over to find the N7 logo in the centre. God, my head was REELING, everything was swimming with confusion, fear and revulsion. Of course I bloody tried to switch it on, why wouldn’t I? It was dead, OBVIOUSLY it was dead, why would it still work now? I wasn’t thinking straight remember? NOTHING about me was calm OR composed.

 

I groped around for my newly cracked phone, pressing the home button to try and bring it to life, but the screen only lit up and wouldn’t respond. I wished I still had my old fucking Blackberry with an ACTUAL keyboard so I might have stood a chance, but I didn’t because fuck my love of tech and a need for a touch-screen smart-phone. Even after turning back outside into the cold air, the rot still hung around me. I’d dropped all my gear outside the door before going in, which really wasn’t very clever in hindsight. I remember the way the damp ground felt when it seeped through the fabric of my cargo pants as I sank to my knees. I was doubled over, sobbing and not caring about the searing pain in my ankle.

 

It was cold, So fucking COLD.

 

I was so consumed with grief and fear that I didn’t hear him coming. The field was soft and damp you see, even despite the chilled air. He was slow and careful with the way he moved,  and naturally I didn’t hear him over the sound of my own wailing. If you’ve ever wondered what it might take to separate someone’s head from their spine, it would be as simple as a modified bolt cutter to the back of the neck. I think that’s how he did it anyway. He cut the life out of me, and left me to rot in the corner of that building in the field, with the cracked window and the locked metal door.

 

I’ve been watching myself decompose slowly over the last week or so. It’s weird seeing your own body bloat and change over time. Sometimes my touch-screen lights up and even lets me send texts, but only to one person. I’ve been reaching out for help, but all that happens is I watch myself come to find what’s left of me and the baby inside me. I have to watch as he brutalises me all over again. The way he cut my hands and feet from my body and took them away, and seared the stumps. The way he bit the lips from my face and spat them into a bag. The way he used pliers on my teeth to wrench them out one at a time, bagging them along with my lips, and the way he took one of my eyes, and swallowed it whole.  

 

Maybe eventually someone else will find me here, and do something with my bones. I didn’t realise I was pregnant until I died. I wonder if he knew. I wonder how long it took for that life to fade away inside me after I died.

 

It’s so cold. I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel anything, I can only text with my missing fingers and broken phone, and watch.  

WAKE UP

I was perfectly capable of waking up, it’s just I didn’t want to. I was laid there in a hospital bed listening to them all suffer and really enjoyed it. The best thing about all of it, was that I was somehow able to plant horrible little ideas in their heads, to play them off against one another. Fucked if I know how it worked, but I milked it for all it was worth.

Here’s the backstory; I was hospitalised after – ironically – being hit with a piece of masonry whilst on my way to the hospital to find out if I was a viable option to donate a kidney to my biological father.  Sounds like the kind of thing family does, right? Not in my case. This is where it gets complicated.

My ‘father’ left us when I was merely two years old, and my brother a baby. He’d been having an affair with another woman behind my mother’s back, and he decided not only to leave, but to have absolutely nothing to do with us from then on. The next time I saw him was at my grandfather’s funeral when I was twenty-one years old. He stood there a little ways in front of us with his wife, and two other kids. Yep, two more kids that he loved and doted on, whilst we and my mother grew up in poverty because he didn’t want to pay his way, or even acknowledge us.  He never once looked at us the whole time we were there, it was like we didn’t exist. My glare must have burned into the back of his head the entire time, but he didn’t feel it. God I wished he’d felt it, I wanted him to know how much pain we all felt.

He was also a cop. Apparently he could ‘compartmentalise’, according to my mother, as in compartmentalise us all away.  There he was, an upstanding pillar of the community, a cop, nice house, two kids and a loving wife. Shame about the ones he left behind. His parents, despite their son being a completely absent father wanted very much to be part of our lives. It was very strange growing up seeing them, knowing their son was our father, with him not wanting anything to do with us. We never talked about him with them, it was one of those unspoken rules. Our grandparents doted on us regardless, and gave us many wonderful childhood memories despite his absence.

They had both since passed, which is why I didn’t feel bad about doing what I did.

When I was twenty-five years old, fed up of not knowing why our father didn’t want to talk to us, I tracked down his address and wrote him a letter. I simply asked him if he would be kind enough to talk to me because I felt like I should at least know why he didn’t want to be part of our lives. I put my email address and mobile phone number in the letter so it made it easier for him to respond; I wanted to give him every opportunity to do this. A few days later, I got a one line email stating that I should go away because ‘they’ didn’t think interaction at this point was wise. I assumed he meant his family, so I sat there, jarred and feeling like I’d been hit with a twenty pound lump hammer to the gut.

How do you honestly tell your first born child to go away? Why would you do that? Why would you leave in the first place, go off and create a whole new family, disposing of the first one you made like it was worthless? I knew then I’d never get the answers to those questions, and knowing he didn’t want to maintain any kind of dialogue, I kept my dignity and left well alone.

…right up until the point where I got an email fifteen years later asking me for help. It didn’t come from him. It was from his wife. The email was lengthy and filled with obsequious fawning, like I was suddenly their only hope.

“I know I have no right to ask this of you, but your father is very sick and if he doesn’t get a viable kidney, he’s going to die.”

That was the sentence that stood out from all the grovelling. Between offers of money, which I know they had plenty of, transplant waiting lists, a chance to be welcomed into his life, How much he regretted not being a presence in our lives sooner; you get the gist. It couldn’t be any more cliché in terms of begging if it tried.

I sat on it for a few days. My mind refused to stand still, even for a moment. When you’ve spent most of your life wondering where someone important in your life was, and everything about that situation, knowing that there was a chance to find answers to all your questions was quite intoxicating.

“Please, please write back. Here is my phone number. He is too sick to write.”

Too sick to write, or too ashamed? That was quite harsh of me, I know. When someone is sick and on their deathbed, writing is possibly the last thing on their mind, but I felt like I had the right to be a complete and utter shit at this juncture. There’s a little more to this backstory too, and I’m sorry if this is boring you, but it’s essential that you know why I started messing with their heads before I got my retribution.

Before my grandmother passed, I started to get worried about how I’d find out WHEN she passed. Growing older and moving away meant it was hard to get to see her, and outside of phone calls and sending gifts and reminders of affection, our relationship slowed down a bit. I will readily admit that when I did see her, walking into her home and seeing photos of my father, his other kids and subsequent grandkids was HARD, especially when there were no photos of my brother or I in sight. Not even one. I don’t know if that was her choice or not, but because she was a dutiful housewife and obviously loyal to her son, I suppose it put her in a difficult position. I never once asked her about it, the idea made me feel sick. I’m sure folks might think, oh for fuck’s sake, just fucking ASK HER – but when this stuff messes with your head, you’re not always able to do simple things like that. You carry a lot of guilt, and a desire not to cause anyone any upset. It’s true, I’ve only ever heard my grandmother cry twice in my life, and that was the day my grandfather passed, and the day of his funeral as she fell against my father in grief.

I would never want to be the cause of that, because despite her terrible son, I loved her dearly.

So back to why I was worried about her passing. See, my ‘father’ aside from abandoning us, was actually a pretty shitty person. He was homophobic for one, petty, and had to have better things than everyone else otherwise tantrums would ensue. I learned these things from my mother as she told me various stories after I pressed her a little. She also never once tried to poison me against him, she didn’t raise these things unless I specifically asked her about them, and I did because curiosity got the best of me.  Aside from his having to appear better than everyone else, being employed in a position of power as a cop, his bigotry in its various forms, he stole something small but significant away from us.

The names my mother wanted to give us were both vetoed by my father on account of them sounding too ‘gay.’ Yay homophobia, you’re a fucking shit-ball, dad.  We were given different names that met with his approval, and I didn’t find this out until I was much older. Thing is, I really liked the name my mother had picked for me originally, and I decided to take it back a couple of years ago. That’s not all there is to it however, because of COURSE it isn’t.

When my father had his two new kids, he did something really, really fucking petty.  When folks say to you, ‘why you gotta be so extra?’, my father somehow managed to blow that out of the water and into the middle of the fucking street. His third born son, of whom I’ve never met was given the name my little brother was supposed to have. His new daughter? Her middle name was the name my mother wanted for me. I’m deliberately not using their names because it’s not actually their fault their doting father is a horrible person. My mother was trimming my hair at the time when she told me about this, and I remember that cold anger creeping over my skin, to hiss hotly through my veins afterward. I say again, WHO THE FUCK DOES THAT?

I know I’m drawing this out, and again I’m sorry. It’s complicated and painful and I don’t want to leave anything out. You might be wondering how this all ties in with the passing of my grandmother. Well you see, since my father is such a shit, he is EXACTLY the kind of person who wouldn’t let us know if our grandmother had died. He’s the kind of person who would just put an obituary in the paper, and let us find out that way. He really is THAT awful. I didn’t want that to be the way we found out, the idea of that just made me feel so fucking sick. AGAIN, I could have spoken to my grandmother directly, but you don’t know how much this destroyed me mentally. It left me unable to think clearly or make rational decisions because of the heartbreak and emotion I felt over it, plus, who the fuck goes and asks their grandparent about letting us know when they die? It’s not the easiest conversation to have, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I as per fucking usual, didn’t say a thing.

Fast forward to Christmas eve and me being a little bit drunk. Not overly drunk, just enough to make my head a bit floaty and perhaps give me some courage. I did that really stupid thing where you look someone up on Facebook which is NEVER A GOOD IDEA. I looked for my half-brother. I knew what he looked like from photos at my grandmother’s, and he wasn’t hard to find given that the family name on my father’s side isn’t common, in fact it’s quite rare. In my mildly drunk state, I wrote him a short note telling him who I was and also that I hoped to be able to talk to him at some point. Since my name was different now, I had to explain myself and my presence in his inbox first. I hit send, and hoped that maybe even a simple acknowledgement would come through just to let me know he understood me. The ‘read’ notification appeared onscreen, so I know he saw it.

He didn’t respond. I waited days. I gave it weeks, and realised that again, I wasn’t going to get the response I wanted. I get it, someone appears on Facebook saying they’re your older sister, wanting to strike up a dialogue and it must seem huge and weird. But to not say anything at all? My heart broke again, because why wouldn’t it? I realised that I was never going to get any kind of response from them, not now, not ever. I didn’t have the guts to try and contact my half-sister, because I knew my heart couldn’t take another rejection. I gave up.

My grandmother lived a very private life, she never talked about who her friends were, and we didn’t know much about her side of the family outside of my father and his other children. The day of her passing came, and to our relief, we received a phone call from someone who we’d never spoken to before, and they weren’t family. The message was simply that they’d been asked to deliver the news, and that they were sorry for our loss.

I couldn’t tell you how my mother and brother felt, but I felt numb for a while. The last person from that side of the family who cared, of whom I actively cared about, had gone. Of course I’d spent time with her before she went, I made the effort despite how walking into her home made me feel, and how listening to her talk about the nice things her other grandkids had, made me feel. How they got to go to university, had a good upbringing, stable family relationships and children of their own. Sitting there listening to that when your own life experiences have been so different, and filled with trauma is a really hard thing to swallow, but I did it because she was still my grandmother.

Numb. No feelings, no outward emotion, no expectations, nothing.  Then, we got a funeral notification. I was going to be standing with my brother and my mother in the same area as my father and his other family again. The idea of that absolutely slayed me internally. It didn’t take long for it to manifest externally either, I would cry almost constantly, not sobbing or wailing or the like, but just silent tears slipping down my face night and day, leaving my eyes red and puffy and my skin sore to the touch. I couldn’t stop them, so I didn’t even try. I ended up dehydrated and existed on water because I really didn’t feel like eating anything.

The day of the funeral came and we stood back from the others, tucked away like we always had been from everyone else. I gazed at him again, wanting that same blazing glare to fire out of me and into his skull, but it didn’t come. It was just tremendous sadness, defeat and resignation at the futility of it all. She was gone, and so any link to them was probably going to be gone forever, at least it was until I got the email.

“Please, please write back. Here is my phone number. He is too sick to write.”

That line crept around my mind constantly, not letting me sleep, eat, concentrate, or much of anything else. That evening, coupled with a bottle of red wine and a pizza the size of the Millennium Falcon, I penned a response that was as clinical as I could make it. I didn’t want to show any emotion at all, I didn’t want her to feel like I had anything left inside me for him. I asked about the nature of his illness and she came back almost instantly, almost like she’d been staring at her screen for me to answer. It was again, filled with the same banal appeals that even the coldest person would have winced at. He was down to one kidney, polycystic kidney disease having robbed him of one, and now finally ravaging the other.

horrible chuckle escaped my lips when she told me neither she, or her children were viable matches for him. He was on a waiting list, but his time was running out. Was I a terrible person for laughing? Perhaps. It came from a very dark place. It tasted delicious in my mind, the irony now that my father needed ME, or perhaps my brother for help was exciting. I was an even bigger shit for saying I’d mention it to them to see if they wanted to help, but I had absolutely no intention. I mean why the fuck should I?

I think the masonry landing on the crux of my shoulder and neck was my instant karma for being so cold about it all, but perhaps not. I mean don’t get me wrong, it fucking HURT, but the power I had to mess with them, was something else. It was completely and utterly worth it. That trauma I mentioned in comparison to his second set of children’s lives? I planted that in his head, every last bit of it. The internal revulsion I felt at my first recollected memory being of him, and not something else.  Listening to other kids in the playground laugh at me because I got free school meals because I didn’t have a daddy anymore. Further humiliation because none of them wanted to play with me, and I’d spend break-time walking around the school grounds alone, every. Single. Day. Horrendous bullying all the way through school because I was quiet and bookish, and further bullying when I went insane at the age of fifteen because of a string of abuses from my step-father.  Yeah there was another father figure in my life, but he wasn’t a good one. I really wasn’t doing very well in terms of father figures.

It didn’t end there though. I showed him details of the abuses I’d suffered from boyfriends, how they turned me into a hate-filled cynic, and how I wished I’d had someone positive to compare men to, but further realising he probably wasn’t the best person to compare anyone to with his disgusting attitude. I showed him how my brother and I hated one another for a while, engineered by my step-father and kept under wraps from my mother because he was a sly bastard who knew how to manipulate. I showed him how one evening, he walked into the room where my mother was sitting with us, and how he said plainly in front of us that my mother had to make a choice, move to a place in the country with him and abandon us whilst we were teenagers, or they would divorce.

Were we about to be abandoned by our other biological parent? Fortunately not. My mother, despite also being horribly manipulated by my step-father would never have abandoned us, and we didn’t have to survive alone. I showed him that, I showed him what it was like to stand by your kids, even when everything was going to shit. I made sure he felt the same sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that we did. The way cold fear washed over us until we couldn’t breathe. I showed him how prior to this, we were forbidden by our step-father to sit with he and our mother during the evening, and instead were hidden away in a TV room out of sight because who wants to raise someone else’s children? I showed him how my brother went off the rails and turned to drugs to deal with the trauma. I showed him how I retreated further and further into myself until I lost sight of myself entirely. The victim of repeated bullying, physical and psychological abuse, sexual abuse, suicidal state, and my eventual complete loss of identity. I made sure he saw my face the evening his email came through with his basic premise for me to go away inside it. I drove that sense of abandonment so deep inside him that he went downhill so fast that even the doctors couldn’t explain it. After I felt he was hanging on by the tiniest sliver of a thread, I started messing with their heads too.

I started with his wife, my voice dripping poison into her mind around the clock with no reprieve.

“You knew he had children, YOUNG children, one was just a baby, why would you involve yourself with someone knowing they were just babies? Do you look at your own children and wonder how it would feel if someone came and did that to you? When you were with him, did you even spare us a moment’s thought? What did it FEEL like when you discovered your two angels were unable help him? Did the bottom fall out of your world?  My mother was and continues to be way more beautiful than you will EVER be, you revolting dried up HAG.”

I tapped away like that inside her head, savouring the taste of her despair, letting it roll around my tongue slowly. I felt it creep around my entire body, making me feel stronger with each stab to her mind.

The beauty of it was that I would hear her own mind fighting to block me out, but she was failing. I wouldn’t stop–couldn’t stop, I was relentless. She and her two now adult children were in my hospital room, watching me like a hawk just in case I died. I even heard her ask about the kidney assuming it was viable if I died, or maybe even if they could remove it whilst I was in this coma? That was when I knew she wasn’t even remotely genuine with any of her previous fawning. She was legitimately asking if they could just take a kidney from me to give to him. I laughed inside my own head, knowing that’s not how things work.  She even offered them money, and staff just walked away from her with a look of disgust.

I hadn’t even consented to being tested to see if I was a match, never mind saying I’d be happy to be a donor. I was absolutely willing to be a donor for someone, but my desires for him were quite different. I also knew that if I succumbed to my injuries, my organs would go to those at the top of the waiting lists, and not my father.  He wasn’t at the top of the list, which is why they needed me.

That thought alone made it all the more exhilarating.  If that was my last action before death, denying him something he needed? I would have been okay with that. This is the kind of loathing that festers inside you over the years when it’s left unanswered. It grows inside you like a cancer, it gets bigger and eats you up leaving you with nothing but hatred and a desire for revenge. Perhaps the parts of me that were enjoying this were my father’s parts of me, his pettiness and desire to one up people and be in a position of power. Maybe I wasn’t so different from him at all.

I corrected myself because I realised this was not my usual form of behaviour. I wasn’t like him, I simply had an ingrained need to destroy him, and why shouldn’t I?  When she and her precious angels weren’t splitting their time between me and our father, my own mother and brother sat there, fraught as you would imagine them to be. I could get inside their heads too, but I didn’t give them anything but love. The doctors told them I was getting stronger, it was just a matter of time before I woke up, that we just had to be patient. Yes I know, it was shit of me not to wake up for them, but I WAS going to wake up eventually, and I was going to see this through. I planted a seed in my mother’s mind to at least allow staff to test my blood to see if I was a compatible donor for my father, because if it meant I wasn’t then I could be left alone to recover, and hopefully never have to deal with the others ever again.

If you thought I wasn’t hoping to be a match, you’d be wrong. Of COURSE I was hoping to be a match, how else do you think this would be so satisfying? I mean sure, I could be completely unsuitable, and then gone on my merry way in the knowledge that I’d caused a fair amount of upset but I was greedy. I WANTED MORE, this was addictive.

“She’s a compatible donor.”

FUCKING YES. That was exactly what I said in my head, complete with imagined jumping up and down on the spot like a horrible goblin. My father’s time was running out, they didn’t think he’d make it past a week, and he would need to be operated on as soon as possible, otherwise he might not survive regardless.

That night saw his wife and children pacing around like caged animals. Pleas of, “can’t you give her something to wake up so we can ASK her?!” came from their camp, whereas my mother went into rabidly defensive mode and told them to back the fuck off or else the imminent death of my father wouldn’t be the only thing to worry about.

“You think you get to decide what’s going on here? You and he have already crucified our lives as it is, and if you think I’m going to let you so much as breathe near my daughter, I will END YOU RIGHT HERE.”

You don’t really fuck with my mother now. It’s a bad idea. She banned them from my room and told staff to keep them the hell away from me no matter what happened to my father. He was incredibly frail, and that night I had my last round of ‘fun’ with them before I decided to open my eyes.  It was my half-brother’s turn.

“I wrote to you on Christmas eve, and you ignored me, I know you saw what I wrote. Why did you do that? Now that you see me, laid up and asleep the only option for our father, how do you feel? Do you care about what happens to me as a person, surrounding the kidney you hope I will give? Or will you be like your father and disappear?”

I pressed harder, really needling the soft underbelly of his fears, feeling the guilt flow out of him and into my core.

“He’s probably going to die, you know that right? And he was close, so close to getting a viable kidney but I haven’t woken up yet. I’m in the same building, but you’re not allowed in anymore. So close but so far. You should have answered me. You should have.”

I let those thousands of little paper-cuts slice into his sanity, so many of them all at once that I could feel his ego deflating and bleeding out into my own. It tasted so good. He was silently crying, completely unable to see and he felt sick and disgusted. He stood up, and went to leave the room, his own mother asking him where he was going.

“I can’t look at him anymore.” He spat.  “I can’t be here knowing we’re asking one of the people he fucking abandoned for help, knowing he discarded them like trash. I can’t. Even if she doesn’t wake up, even If he dies, what right did we have?”

I didn’t relent. I wanted him to see what our lives were like. I showed him everything I’d forced into my father’s head, including my brother’s trauma, and my self-loathing at having my first memory be my father. I made sure he knew the names they were given were stolen from us.  I made sure he watched my mother not eat, just so my brother and I could. I showed him his own father refusing to pay towards our survival, and I showed him his own mother hissing at him to have nothing to do with us. I wasn’t about to stop being cruel now.

He collapsed against the wall outside his father’s room. I left him there, knowing I’d shown him all he needed to see. He felt the same disgust for his father as I did. Maybe I wouldn’t have had a better life with him in it, maybe things would still have been traumatic. How would I know for sure? That’s the thing; not knowing is worse.

I crept into my half-sister’s head, softly. She was also a cop now, and I’d never tried to reach her before. I don’t know if she’d have ignored me because I didn’t give her the opportunity to try, but I knew that she was either her mother or father’s daughter, and neither one of them were good people. I didn’t play on her fears. I didn’t demolish her like I did the others. I simply showed her that my father was a deeply corrupt cop who was anything but a pillar of the community. I showed her this in the hope that she wouldn’t go the same way. I buried a shoot of loathing in her mind for her mother, making her move as far away from her as she could without leaving the room.  I didn’t need to give her that same loathing for our father, because it was already forming.

She shot her mother the same look of revulsion her brother had done moments before. The expression on her face when she looked down at our withering father was tear-filled and appalled.

“He told her to GO AWAY. She reached out to him, and he told her to go away. My BROTHER ignored her. Both of us come from a relationship that tore down THEIR lives and you had the gall to ask one of those broken lives for help? What the fuck is wrong with you? ”

She didn’t leave the room. Instead she stood at the window as far away from both of them as she could, and called her husband asking him to come and collect her. She left twenty minutes later, with a parting shot of, “I’m going to make sure my children are raised with better morals than either of you. You disgust me.”

Yes, I was gleeful. I’m sure some folks might say I surpassed any moral right to be this vicious, but I didn’t care, and I wanted them to know what real, LASTING emotional pain felt like. I heard her scream at her brother who was still outside the room in a mess of tears, “you fucking IGNORED HER, just like our father.”

Just like that, they were gone. The sense of satisfaction I got from that tasted better than anything else I’d squeezed from all of them combined. I relished it, feeling it wash over me like the first food someone might taste after being starved. It was GLORIOUS.

Aaaaand then I woke up.

It was the small hours of the morning, my mother there holding my hand. I moaned lightly and squeezed it, letting her know there was strength in me. Opening my eyes was weird, even though it was dark, it still hurt a little. I asked for water, and took a straw-full before she went to press the button for the nurse, but I grabbed her hand to stop. My grip was unexpectedly firm and she gasped. It didn’t hurt her, she just thought I’d be weaker than I was. The truth is, I’d never felt more alive. My shoulder and neck didn’t hurt one iota. I didn’t feel sick, no pain anywhere whatsoever. It was like I’d been reborn. She tried to keep me in bed, but I wasn’t having any of it. I pulled myself up, ripped out the various needles and equipment from my body, and stood up, my feet prickling against the cold floor.

“Call my brother.” I said, calmly.

I opened the door, a flood of light searing into my eyes and looks of astonishment coming from the staff as if they were amazed I was awake, never mind standing up and looking completely fine. Covering my eyes, I walked confidently down to my father’s room, and opened the door. I didn’t knock, of course I didn’t fucking knock. The look on his wife’s face was priceless. He was completely out of it, hadn’t been awake for days.

I held up a finger to my lips to motion for her to be quiet, because she was about to say something I really, really didn’t want to hear. I couldn’t cope with any more of her sucking up. Had I gotten my way, I’d have ripped her tongue clean out of her mouth.

“He can have a kidney.”

Then I turned around and left, walking back to my room to be faced with a doctor and a couple of nurses, and a still very confused but incredibly relieved mother. I told them the same thing, that he could have a kidney. This was met with “well we will need to see if you’re fit to operate on…” But I told them I was fairly sure I’d be more than up to it. I was right of course, after tests, prodding, and the like, I could be shuttled down to an operating theatre the following morning.

My brother protested of course, but I told him to back off and let me do this. He was pig-headed at times, but both he and my mother knew better than to try and talk me out of anything. There’s no reason to go into detail about the procedure itself, because it was entirely flawless and one of my kidneys was inside my father as fast as was humanly able.

People will often tell you that the right thing to do, is to forgive. It’s even encouraged nowadays, as if you’re a lesser person for not doing so, but FUCK THAT. Fuck that all the way into the sun. You don’t have to forgive anyone. If they wronged you, your upset and anger is valid, and you take that and you use it to keep yourself alive. Hold that grudge. Hold onto it so that it gives you purpose.

A week later, I was home. I was under the watchful eye of my mother, and my brother was visiting regularly to make sure I was doing okay despite his incredulity that I’d actually done this. I didn’t speak to my father’s wife aside from saying he could have the kidney, and I refused all contact from my half-brother and sister. I was waiting for something to happen, and it took approximately two weeks before that thing did indeed happen.

When trauma and poison builds up inside of you, so much so that it saturates every molecule inside you, dictates your actions and drives you, it means that at some point, it has to go somewhere. My body, every part of it was sodden with this pernicious hatred, and I was going through life in absolute agony on a daily basis. Some doctors will tell you that psychological trauma has a physical effect on the body, and it does. I took all of that pain, all of that trauma and I channelled it into that one lifesaving organ that my father needed so badly.  The doctors initially thought his body was rejecting it, that perhaps they’d made a mistake and my kidney wasn’t as viable as they’d thought, but it wasn’t anything as simple as that. I’d deliberately poisoned him.

I learned this from an email via my half-brother after I’d actually decided to answer their bleating. I wasn’t specifically asked to visit, but I went all the same. I practically dared them in my head to stop me from seeing my father, but I didn’t have to worry as none of them had the strength to deny me anything.

I stood there over him, watching him shrink away, rotting from the inside out. He couldn’t speak, and his eyes were barely open but he could see me. His heart rate started to rise at the sight of me and his wife tried to summon a nurse, but again as with my mother, I grabbed her arm to stop her, and I squeezed hard enough to leave her breathless.

“Nobody fucking press anything.” I snarled in a manner that made everyone freeze.

His skin was a horrible blueish grey, pallid and translucent. I could see the network of veins close to the surface, blackening like they were slowly dying. His breathing was wheezy and laboured, his lips cracked like he’d never had water in his life. Clumps of hair were falling out, the musculature of his body atrophying at an alarming rate. If you’ve ever wondered what a living zombie looked like, this would be it. The blueness of his eyes had faded to a dead grey, and the whites were yellowed and lined with red. He reeked of death. If you work as a healthcare professional and you know what cancerous wounds smell like, they had nothing on him. The moment you walked onto the ward, you could TASTE how disgusting he was.

A doctor came in, the entire room shifting to look him, everyone except me. I didn’t break the gaze I had on my father’s face for a second. I could hear the doctor telling his wife and children that it wasn’t a rejection in a typical sense, because they’d never seen anything like this before. I could tell my father was listening to the doctor, but I refused to let him break my hold over him. A small smile danced around my lips, visible only to him.

I leaned in, closer to his face, right next to his stinking, putrefying ear and whispered, “they SEE you now.”

It was then, even in his utterly destroyed state, that he must have realised I’d engineered this. This was my revenge, my beautiful, glorious revenge. His back arched in a hideously grotesque manner, and the machines shrieked as his body went into cardiac arrest. Everyone was pushed out of the room as the crash carts were brought in. They worked on him for thirty minutes, all the while I stood soundlessly watching through the gap in the door they hadn’t closed properly. His wife and her angels were clutched together in a huddle of shame and despair, waiting the longest thirty minutes of their lives for something positive to happen, but it never came.

The lead doctor pronounced him dead at 15:04PM on the date of my fortieth birthday. I could hear the wailing and screaming all the way down the corridor as the song to my exit. I didn’t look back at them, why would I want to do that?

I’m glad I never subscribed to that bullshit about how revenge won’t make you feel better. I’m not in pain anymore. I’m physically and mentally at my absolute BEST, and I feel fucking fantastic.

SNAILS II

Part one.

My brother went missing two months ago. I got a phone call from the hospital to tell me to come because he was in bad shape, but when I got there, he was gone. Nobody would tell me anything. I was heavied out of the hospital by security, and I have been trying to find him ever since. I’m sorry if any of this is disjointed, but I’m trying to make it as clear as I can until I get the footage cleaned up and online.

A woman came to our apartment and knocked relentlessly until I answered, handing me a small package with a scrawled note. She wouldn’t say who she was, refused to answer anything, and just ran away. Obviously fucking confused, I opened the thing. My sense of relief when I realised it was footage from Brooks’ phone was brief because it holds some seriously fucked up shit. I promise I’m going to upload the audio and video to streaming sites, but I’ve transcribed it just in case it gets taken down.

“I don’t know how long I have left, so I’m getting this out as fast as I am able so you know what happens if you can’t get the treatment you need. I’m not a wealthy person, I live hand to mouth and so there was no way I was ever going to be that fortunate.  Sorry, I’m probably not being clear. I used one of those shady Russian skincare products posing as high quality stuff from Korea.”

He goes on to describe his surroundings:

“I’m currently in a filthy room that looks like it’s been hollowed out of concrete, kind of like a makeshift underground shelter maybe?  What I’m seeing is gory as fuck, I’m terrified. Sorry for the audio quality, I hope it’s usable. I don’t have a signal at all. There’s a lot of screaming going on and other inhuman noises as the rest of the ‘people’ around me go through the metamorphosis into what I can only describe as…fuck I don’t know HOW to describe it. Ohgod there’s a girl next to me and she’s pretty far along and her EYES JUST PUSHED OUT OF THEIR SOCKETS AND ARE DANGLING THERE STILL ATTACHED TO HER OPTIC NERVES FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK SHE WON’T STOP SCREAMING”

“JesusSHITTINGFUCK I’m going to be si-”

He pukes at this point, he couldn’t even finish his sentence. When he talks again he’s sobbing and panicking, with more retching:

“Sorry, I just…ugh..my name is Brooks Marin, and I’m from Camden City, New Jersey, twenty-eight years old, if you find what’s left of me, tell my brother Ben, please find him.  I am, or wasa guy into skincare because fucking puberty ruined me with acne, and honestly I’ll try anything to rid myself of it. I heard snail slime has ‘magical’ properties that can calm the angriest of skin down, but because I’m broke and couldn’t afford decent stuff, I had to go with that I could find. I’d heard about the mask disaster on the Internet I mean who hasn’t but FUCK, but I didn’t use a mask, it was MOISTURISER. I was using the stuff twice a day for a MONTH, and sure my acne fucked off but then this…this horrible peeling and green brownish skin started surfacing, and the pain in my head was unbearable. The pain didn’t hit me until the skin on my face fell off in strips of bloody mess. It started as surface peeling like sunburn, and then it just got worse until it started to tear and fall off. Ohgod it hurts so much..”

He talks about what happened in hospital:

“When I gurgled for help into my phone before passing out, I remember blurred lights and medics trying to talk to me but I was in so much pain I couldn’t respond. Outside of this concrete shit-bunker, I don’t know where I am right now. They moved me somewhere before my brother could even get to me, and it’s so COLD. We have to be underground ’cause where would somewhere like this be above ground?  There’s maybe two working lights in here, kind of like street lights after dark, but that’s it.”

THEY WOULDN’T LET ME SEE HIM OR TELL ME WHERE HE WAS.

“My face is wrapped up in gauze and it’s sore as fuck and it itches and I’m taking it off because I can’t breathe and I-”

He can barely talk out of fright, it’s more sobbing and whimpering noises breaking into sobs and his screaming, fuck, his screaming.

“WHATEVER WAS LEFT OF MY FACE JUST CAME OFF WITH THE GAUZE OH MY GOD SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME…noNO please don’t hurt me please no NO NO-”

There’s another man in the audio, his tone utterly venomous yelling at him in Russian to shut the fuck up; there’s a lot of scuffling and then I have to listen as he brutally knocks my baby brother out. I am fucking ruined knowing this might be the last he saw of life. He later managed to take some video footage but it’s not very long because he wanted to preserve the battery on his phone.

“I don’t want to drain the battery too much, but I wanted you to see this – I can feel pressure building behind my eyes. My hair is rapidly falling out, my scalp pulsing slowly as if something is growing under my skin. The light in here is really shitty so I don’t know what you can see, but here, let me show you the others if you can see them, maybe someone can enhance this somehow? I’m so scared and asking for help gets you beaten, we’re all trapped and so fucked. I’m sorry for the sobbing but I’m so fucking scared, it’s hard to breathe and I don’t want to die.”

He switches back to audio, still terribly distressed as am I right now, I can’t believe this is real.

“I’m completely bald now. My scalp ruptured in several places and started coming off in chunks like my face did, but it’s weird and it doesn’t hurt and I don’t know why. Holding flaps of my own skin in my now discolouring hands is so fucked up, and the blood is almost jelly like. I can’t do video again but I’m taking selfies for you to look at, so you can see the fucking mess I’m in. I felt around my eyes and they’re already protruding more than they should be. My mollusc like skin is producing slime so they’re not drying out but fuck they are painful and sore. I don’t understand why they hurt and my scalp doesn’t, and I still have lips but they feel like fat chunks of slimy rubber. Ohgod..I just..”

There’s a bit of movement and muffled moaning here because he’s losing his teeth. The selfies he’s taken are brutal and grisly, but I have to look at them. We ALL need to look at them.

“Two of my teeth just fell out! My mouth is full of blood ohfuck fuck fuck fuck fuck don’t scream don’t scream don’t scream don’t scream..”

This is a little later after a break in the audio and he’s speaking so FAST it’s almost hard to understand him:

“My mouth is full of thickening blood and slime and every time I spit it out it comes back and my teeth are pushing out of my gums slowly and it feels like needles being forced through, and my hands, my FINGERS are shrinking and my nails are going black and…I just touched one and it slid off my finger..Oh my god. The girl who’s eyes flew out, she’s…she’s rubbing the rest of her skin against the concrete and it’s sloughing off with that jelly like blood, and the smell is… I can’t describe it. I know I said I wouldn’t video again but I have to for this you NEED to SEE IT!”

This footage is disgusting but I’ll do my best to describe it. It shows two previously unseen giant snail-like creatures, hideously deformed and oozing across the concrete to feed on the remnants of her skin. They have what remains of arms and legs but they are different sizes, shrinking into the body. Pulsing humps are growing on their backs, which presumably develop into shells later on maybe? The newly moulted female spits out the last of her bloodied teeth, falling forward onto her underbelly, her head and neck raised. She lets out a gurgled cry, and moves slowly over to the dim corner with the other giants.

I haven’t been able to find anyone trustworthy who can enhance this, if you think you can help me with that, PLEASE talk to me. I need help with this, I’m not very technologically minded. He goes back to audio again and then this:

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.”

The next recording doesn’t come up for over twelve hours. The last one was just him saying those three words and a lot of gut-wrenching sobbing. Do you have any idea what it’s like to listen to family go through the most horrific time of their life, scared and far away, crying for you and not being able to do anything about it? DO YOU?

What he describes next is unfathomable.  His speech is slurring but please, please listen:

“A…ohjesus.  If this is what we look like when we change I don’t want to be like this, I can’t be like this nononononono- it’s ghastly. It has to be at least six feet tall, its skin is dripping with blackened slime and chunks of dead human flesh, glistening under the orange light; its bloated gargantuan body rippling along the ground, as fat as it is tall. Its shell, is…transparent. I can see twisted and mangled organs in there, and pieces of human flesh, ohgod I can see body parts as if it feeds on..waitwait THERE’S AN ENTIRE PERSON IN THERE AND THEY’RE STILL ALIVE. It looks like they’re melting as if someone threw caustic soda all over them, their skin is red and bubbling and they’re trying to fight their way out but they’re clearly too weak fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

He vomits again but I really don’t know what he would have left in him.

“I think we feed on human flesh when we change, not just the skin but everything. Is that why we’re here? Are we food for those who have already mutated? Are we here to see if we survive the metamorphosis without being consumed? Oh my god there’s another one and it’s bigger, how can it be bigger pleaseno no no..”

He witnesses something truly hideous and it’s almost unintelligible but I’ll do my best to describe it because I’ve listened to it enough to figure out what he’s saying between the keening and retching. The two behemoth molluscs with their disgusting bloated forms appear to face off, one opening its mouth to let out a horrible kind of roaring, that blackened slime flying out of its mouth and into the face of the other. The smaller creature roars back and goes for the neck of the larger, clamping onto it somehow even though snails don’t have teeth right? It then sounds like the bigger one starts to thrash around, hurling the smaller one to smash it against the concrete like it was nothing. Their huge pulsating bodies writhe around one another until the larger one mounts the shell of the other and uses its underbelly to envelop and crush it, a mess of half digested organs and black slime spilling out onto the floor.  The now dying monster twitches and shudders to a repulsive death.

The alpha roars down at the fresh kill, slowly starting to gulp huge mouthfuls of flesh and decaying matter into its cavernous gullet, with revolting noises like a fat hog. It seems they have no issues with cannibalising themselves. One of the not-quite-fully-developed creatures from the corner slimes its way out, looking down at the mess on the floor. It turns away gradually towards the opposite wall, and starts to smash its own head off the cold concrete. It moans and gurgles until its gored head droops sideways, dripping black jelly having committed suicide.

DOES THIS MEAN THEY REMEMBER WHO THEY WERE?

His next words are desolate:

“My hands are sliming up, I don’t know how much longer I will be able to record because I won’t be able to use my phone because of the slime and everything hurts so much and I’m literally falling apart. So fucking tired I can’t…”

There is this sickening sound as one of his eyes finally pops out, and he can’t help but scream. I could hear those screams turn into bloodcurdling hoarse begging as I assume one of the heavily armed Russians stalks in and does something cruelly repulsive, because his voice turns to this slurred, broken, drooling version of his former self:

“He fed my eye to the others, he laughed and stomped on my hands, nails flying off everywhere. Don’t think I have many teeth left now, my other eye is going to come loose soon. Have writhed out of my clothes, won’t be needing them now. Skin is falling off me..”

The next part was the worst for me to hear because it’s just him coughing, retching, HOWLING in pain and begging me to come and find him, and I COULDN’T GET TO HIM AND I FUCKING TRIED. I TRIED.

“Tongue fell out…other eye dangling now..ohgodnononodon’t, no getawayfromme no NONOnoooo”

I think the alpha got close because I could hear the same slurping and hog-like groaning, but this time it sounded like it was in pain, like it hurt to do whatever it did.  Did it eat my brother, or is he still alive in that godforsaken state? I can’t believe this happened over a fucking MOISTURISER HOW THE FUCK DOES THIS EVEN HAPPEN, HOW?!

I’m sorry, I keep losing my fucking mind because I don’t know if he’s alive or not, and in what disposition, if he is. There was a letter with his phone. It wasn’t signed. The English is broken, but it’s not hard to understand. It reads:

“I am not like others here, I found his fone in his clothes and wanted to get word out. I not want to hurt people, am ashamed. Sorry. I travel far to bring this, please find brother. Sorry again. Tell everyone, no secrets.”

Whatever my brother is now, if he’s still alive? He’s not human. I need to put the footage online but it’s so dark and you know that people who are involved in this will just say it’s fake and will try and sweep it away. Maybe if I talk to the people who were lucky enough to get the right treatment, they’ll believe me, right?  My brother might be a giant-human eating-cannibalising fucking snail. Do they remember who they were? I mean, if he is still alive would he even remember me? The one that committed suicide makes me think they remember, and holyshittingfuck just WHY?

I called off work the last couple of days, sleeping isn’t happening ever again, and the idea of food makes me heave. It’s just after 03:00AM and the security door on the apartment block just slammed, and HARD. This building is flimsy as fuck and I can hear multiple people clomping their way up the stairs, with muffled male voices. They’re almost at my door and I think they’re here for me because why the fuck would they be in the building at this hour if they weren’t?

They’re pounding on the door now, and not even trying to be nice about it. They’re yelling at me in what I can only assume is Russian, and…ohfuckME they just shot someone. One of my neighbours I’m guessing because of course you’d open the fucking door if you heard this level of noise in your building, or maybe you wouldn’t? I don’t fucking know! There’s shrieking from other neighbours now, and they’re still braying on my door, I don’t think it will take much more because it’s so fucking flimsy.  They’re starting to punch through now, I don’t think I have long left before they get to me.

I’ve uploaded the unprocessed footage to Google Drive, and have sent the details to another person who I’m not going to name, because after seeing what I’ve seen, I KNEW this would happen. Look out for it online, and if you find it, please, please replicate it. Don’t let them censor it. Those gigantic snails aren’t the cute little things you see outside on leaves.

ADDICT

I don’t know exactly how long I’ve been out here.

He comes for me every night, waiting to feed from me like I imagine it does the others. It doesn’t matter where I hide, he finds me eventually. He told me we all have our own unique scent signature, he told me this as his foetid breath swirled out of his gullet, and filtered its way into my nostrils, making me wretch violently and bring up a slew of bile.

People walk past folks like me without acknowledging we exist. I used to be one of them.

As I grew older, I stopped noticing homeless people and addicts out on the streets, mostly out of revulsion and anger because I felt that if they just made some fucking effort, they could sort themselves out. I didn’t understand how hard it is to beat addiction, and what it does to people physically and mentally. I didn’t stop to consider the kind of trauma that can lead to addiction in the first place, or the fact that many addicts are people who live with chronic pain, and have previously exhausted all legal pharmaceutical means. Initially, I was the kind of shitbag that would hiss at them with ‘get a fucking job you waste of bloody organs’, and kick over whatever they were trying to collect funds in. Not noticing them at all was my natural progression because there’s only so many addicts you can abuse before it gets boring. Why would I give a fuck about trash like that?

I think he had been watching me for a while. He saw the anger and disgust in me, and sought to toy with me like one of those horribly mangled wooden dolls you find in a dead relative’s loft; I was now a hideously deformed flesh-bag, rotting over time until I was a husk of my former self. Catching sight of myself in the mirror of the stinking public toilets, was always a gut-wrenching event. My skin was yellowed in places, huge chunks of it drooping one way, others missing entirely leaving open sores in my face, oozing with this strange turquoise mucous, that crusted over until the skin broke, where it oozed all over again to repeat the cycle. No amount of washing away would rid me of it, it would bleed through the sores again within seconds, crusting over and leaving the profile of my face twisted and mouldy. The odour was impossible to describe, only that it was the same as the creature’s breath when it got too close.

That’s what he fed on.

I used to be an entirely functional person, in fact if you could imagine the stereotypical outward pillar of the community type, that would have been me. I was never cruel to vulnerable people whilst I was with anyone, I didn’t want anyone to think I was like that. As far as my friends and family were concerned, I was a middle aged bloke, fairly good looking with an equally stereotypical-well-enunciated-British-accent. Father to twin girls with another baby on the way, my wife and I were socialites doing the whole fundraising for an extra pony to assist developmentally challenged children learn how to ride. Like I said, stereotypical outward pillar of the community type, complete with a viciously two faced dark side. I wasn’t just cruel to the homeless, vulnerable, or people battling addiction. I’d book time with escorts, just so I could make them stand side by side, whilst I compared them to one another in terms of attractiveness, and decide who was the biggest slag. It always resulted in both of the women crying, but I found that hilarious. I never booked the same women twice, and I was wealthy enough to make it worth their while, although I always told them I just wanted two of them so we could have a threesome. The truth was that I didn’t get off on sexual contact with them, I simply wanted them to dress up to the nines, parade around and then slowly crumple into a sobbing mess as I slowly tore them down and figured out which one was the biggest whore.

Maybe he knew about that too. My abhorrent mistreatment of sex-workers who were absolutely deserving of the same respect and rights as every other human being, and the right to work without being subjected to misogynist abuse. Maybe he saw the way they went from looking perfect, to being snotty nosed disasters with rivers of ruined makeup trickling down their cheeks. I was a complete bastard, because I’d pay them half at the beginning of the sessions, and the rest at the end. Some of them would leave and not wait for the remainder of their money, but some stuck it out as they might have needed the money more. I was amazed so many of them let me split the payments, it’s common knowledge that escorts will only provide to clients who pay up front at the beginning of a session, and rightly so. It’s amazing what you can get away with when you’re waving £2000 a piece for an hour of their time, especially when you realise one of the escorts you hired is battling their own addiction.

I was a deeply unpleasant person.

It happened one evening, as I was leaving work and did my usual stride towards the coffee cart parked right outside it. The routine was to greet the aging man behind it with the usual small talk bullshit, and walk away with the same bevvy every night. Black coffee, two shots of hazelnut syrup. That evening he wasn’t there, it was a younger fellow, roughly the same height, but very mischievous looking. He grinned at me wildly, and asked me if I wanted my usual drink. I was initially taken aback, because how would he know what my usual was when we’d never met before? When he handed me a medium sized black coffee reeking of hazelnut syrup, I assumed he’d been given prior instructions or something. On asking him where the old man Charlie was, he simply replied that he was finding it difficult to work during the colder evenings, and that I’d be seeing him from now on, introducing himself as Hunter whilst extending a gloved hand. He said Charlie would still be around during the day, so I wouldn’t entirely lose my favourite hard working barista. I had a genuine fondness for old Charlie, because you could tell he’d worked hard his entire life, and he didn’t take nonsense from anyone.

Paying for my coffee, I thanked Hunter, and wandered off to the train station to make my commute home. I sat down, letting the hot cardboard coffee cup warm my hands, sipping it slowly until it was cool enough to drink in larger mouthfuls. I stopped for a moment, because it tasted slightly different, but not in an unpleasant way. It was still very much dark hazelnut syrupy heaven, but my head surmised that it was perhaps a different brand of syrup. Enjoying it nonetheless, I remember downing it in twenty minutes whilst scrolling through messages on my phone. I felt the afterglow of that pick me up coffee gives me when I drink it, but it seemed I felt more elated than usual. I’d had a good day at work, so I assumed my raised spirits were related to that. I didn’t notice anything odd until I woke up in the middle of the night, sweating profusely after having an incredibly strange nightmare.

I was a late sleeper. Anyone drinking coffee after work on their way home, is going to be up until the smaller hours. I tended fall into bed at around 02:00AM, and as usual my wife was already sleeping and unaware I’d even slipped in. A couple of hours later, I had one of those weird out of body experience dreams where you can see yourself, but you can’t move quickly enough to stop something unfortunate from happening. I saw old Charlie standing next to me by my bed, trying to shake me awake, pleading with me to wake up in a very hoarse keening tone that made me think he’d been crying. I remember not being able to move, and although it wasn’t the worst nightmare I’d ever had, it shook me pretty badly as I didn’t like seeing the old man upset, and because I couldn’t breathe for the duration. I eventually lurched bolt upright, fighting for breath, waking my wife in the process. I was dripping with sweat and it took me a while to be able to breathe again. That wasn’t the whole scenario though.

I could smell the coffee cart all around the bedroom, and I asked my wife if she could smell anything, but she told me no, looking quite confused. I had this craving for the coffee I’d had on my way home, in a way I’d never felt before. That feeling you have when you wake up when you NEED a strong coffee to kick-start your system? It was much, much stronger than that. This was a deep-rooted URGENCY for that coffee, so much so that I couldn’t think of anything else. I couldn’t get back to sleep. I got up, took a shower, paced around the house, unable to settle or spend more than thirty seconds focusing on any one thing. It was utterly bizarre.

06:00AM came and I flew out the door with my gear, forgetting even to kiss my wife and children goodbye, prompting an exasperated text-message asking if I was okay and why had I deviated from my usually incredibly structured morning routine. I couldn’t exactly tell my wife that I had an uncontrollable need for coffee, because I’d usually march out of the house armed with one from the kitchen, before grabbing another one from the cart outside the office building. It seemed incredibly ridiculous and so I apologised and told her I’d forgotten an early meeting, and after the weird night I needed to get moving.

The truth is, all I could think about was that bloody coffee cart.

My legs were restless for the entire commute into the city. I bit my nails, clenched my teeth, and practically started hyperventilating. My stomach was objecting to something, likely the lack of breakfast inside it, but I wasn’t hungry. All I wanted was that coffee. I pushed my way off the train, and almost sprinted to the coffee cart expecting to find old Charlie there, but it was Hunter again.

“Oh…hello. Charlie not around this morning then?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

“No, I’m afraid not” Hunter responded with a gentle but fretful expression. “I’m afraid he died in the night, around 04:00AM.”

I was stunned. Firstly, because the fact that old Charlie was dead actually made my stomach turn, and secondly, 04:00AM was about the time that I’d seen him in my nightmare standing over me, upset and trying to bring me round. Seeing my distress, Hunter handed my coffee over and kindly told me it was on the house that morning. As it wafted up my nose, the shock of old Charlie not being around anymore was pushed to the back of my mind, as I hungrily gulped the coffee down in one go. It was hot and it burned my mouth and throat, but I didn’t care. I needed it. I needed it in a way that I didn’t think was possible. Hunter didn’t take his eyes off me, he merely gave me another gentle smile, and wished me a good day. I asked for a second cup, explaining my unsettled night, and how I’d probably need another coffee the moment I went into the office, so I might as well have it from him. He obliged, again telling me it was free gratis. I clutched the cup, and went off towards the revolving office doors. Just off to one side of them, a very dishevelled looking man sat on the cold stone floor, and asked me meekly for change. I heard him, but I didn’t acknowledge him outside of shooting him an irritated glance. As I was moving around inside the doors, I noticed Hunter staring directly at me, with a very grim expression on his face. I assumed he’d seen something behind me, as that was not the gentle spoken man I’d talked to moments before.

I’d only been at my desk for five minutes before draining the coffee from that second cup. Again, it was too hot and it burned, but it came with that same feeling of elation. I ploughed through the next thirty minutes, feeling on top of the world; I answered every email that usually took me the best part of a day to work through, dealt with every difficult challenge, and even offered to take a partial workload off the permanently stressed bloke next to me. This kind of thing didn’t happen for the most part, and then it hit me.

I needed another coffee. My usual response to this was to head over to the kitchen in the office, and shove one of those fancy coffee pods in the machine until it gave me what I wanted. This time, I grabbed my wallet, and charged downstairs to run out to the coffee cart. It didn’t really register what I was doing until the cold air hit my chest through the thin shirt I was wearing. My blazer was on the back of my chair, and the hot coffee glow and elation had worn off entirely. If I didn’t have a coffee from Hunter, I felt like I was going to die. Sounds ridiculous now, but you don’t know how bad it got yet, you DON’T KNOW.

“Hello again, Damian.” Hunter said with a slightly stern expression, appearing to force a smile in the way people often have to do when they’re working in retail, so as not to upset their customers.
“Uhh..hello Hunter, wait..how did you know my name?” I asked, realising that I’d never actually given it to him.

He grinned at me genuinely this time, and told me old Charlie gave him information about his regulars when he’d made the decision to stop working during the evenings. I couldn’t really argue with that, and eyed Hunter intensely as he was putting my coffee together. It seemed like he was going too slowly some how, almost as if he wasn’t going fast enough. My gut made the most peculiar of noises, and although I’d only been away from my desk for five minutes, the urgency for this beverage was reaching critical point.

“Hunter, sorry but could I ask you to move a little faster please? I’ve got a conference call in five minutes, and I’ll be in ever so much trouble if I don’t start on time.” I pleaded with him.

Hunter stopped and held my gaze for a moment, grasping the coffee cup firmly in his hands, not moving. He turned around, and put it in one of those cardboard trays, and adding some extras like sugar sachets just in case. It was almost like he was taunting me, showing me that he had power over me with this. He finally turned back and gave me a bright smile, asking me for payment that was twice the usual price.

I didn’t even hesitate. I pushed a crumpled fiver into his hand, and pulled the coffee from the tray. Again, I poured it down my throat so fast that it burned, this time leaving actual noticeable burns on my tongue. His face was completely still, his hands clasped together as he watched me back away semi sheepishly, before hurtling back into the building, because I didn’t have time to ask for another.

This went on for days, getting out of hand because I couldn’t last long without another round of that coffee. Coffee pod coffee didn’t do it for me. The coffee my wife made for me also stopped hitting the spot. I couldn’t function without Hunter’s coffee, and it finally got to the point where I hadn’t slept properly for WEEKS, because all I could see was myself over and over again, with old Charlie standing next to me, crying. Every night.

I was running up and down the stairs at the office, to buy cup upon cup of Hunter’s coffee, spending more time down there than I was at my desk. As soon as I finished one, I needed another. I began buying multiple cups to have at my desk, littering the area with empty cups, almost spilling some on the keyboard to my computer. My boss couldn’t understand why I had to have THAT coffee, and the money I was spending on it, was getting out of hand. It’s just coffee right? How can anyone lose so much over coffee?

When I wasn’t away from my desk grabbing more of it, I was in the bathroom relieving myself, and looking at the sores in my mouth. God it was tender and so painful. Patches of red skin missing from my cheeks, my tongue scalded and ulcerated, and my lips swollen and cracked. I wasn’t eating, I didn’t WANT to eat, all I could think about was that fucking coffee. My weight dropped dramatically, and I became extremely ill from malnutrition and the infected sores in my mouth. It was right about that time that the weird turquoise ooze made its appearance.

Then, as you might imagine when your work suffers, I got fired. Inability to produce good enough results, poor personal hygiene, unkempt appearance, snappy and obnoxious behaviour, demands for people to bring me coffee around the clock, the list went on. I lost the company a substantial amount of money, and that was the final straw. I didn’t really remember leaving the office with a box of stuff, but I remembered sloping off to the coffee cart to get my fix from Hunter.

That’s when it hit me that I couldn’t tell my wife I’d been fired, because what would be my reason for travelling into to the city for an hour, just to get coffee? She wouldn’t UNDERSTAND.

It’s important to remember that I had two gorgeous twin daughters who loved their daddy very much, and a baby on the way. My wife and my children saw how dramatically I’d changed, how I’d be unbearable when I came home from work, and wondered why on earth I was bringing home twelve cups of coffee a night that were more precious than gold to me. They stopped even talking to me when I refused to go to bed, and thought I was a mad-man, when I raved about old Charlie at night, at the height of my delirium. I had to pretend that I was still working, I had to keep up the façade because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t get my coffee.

One day, my twins became very sick. My wife being heavily pregnant, couldn’t properly care for them, and it was down to me to be the active parent. I’d been entirely unreasonable and disengaged from them all, to the point where they told me they hated me on a daily basis. My wife, exhausted and ready to give birth very soon, didn’t have the strength to do anything, foolishly thinking I was still gainfully employed, despite my dramatic decline in health and appearance. I spent twenty four hours trying to nurse my babies, but I was horrible, cruel and didn’t want to be near them. All I wanted, was to go into the city and get my coffee. I couldn’t leave them, I shouldn’t have left them, but I did.

When I came back two hours later clutching a tray of my precious coffee, I found my wife sobbing on the floor on her knees, cradling one of the girls in her arms. The other one was standing next to her, her little face streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen. My wife had been taking a nap you see, and because one of the girls had stopped vomiting, I thought they were going to be okay, and that I could risk going to the coffee cart. The withdrawal I was feeling because I’d gone hours without my beloved drink, was excruciating. Severe head pain, extreme nausea, my stomach turning in on itself in the most painful cramps, dizziness, tremors, dry heaving, and anxiety so high it could have made anyone’s heart explode. I felt subhuman, and so I did something stupid. I left my babies unattended.

My beautiful Ruby had choked on her own vomit, and died. My wife, thinking I was watching over them, was sleeping deeply in the next room. Daisy, her sister was fast asleep after her vomiting stopped, exhaustion keeping her there so that she didn’t even hear her perfect sibling choking slowly to death. It wasn’t until Daisy stirred and saw Ruby laid on her back, eyes open and purple faced that she screamed. That high pitched scream woke their mother, who moving as fast as she was able for a heavily pregnant woman, found her limp little body.

She looked up at me, her eyes blazing with a hatred I’ve never seen in her before, her voice low and hissing whilst her body shook with heavy sobs. She tried to speak, but couldn’t. Daisy just stared at me, wordlessly. Sirens were coming down the street, telling me that one of them had already called for help, but it seems that wasn’t the only phone call that happened in my absence.

My boss had called the house, asking me when I was going to come and pick up the remainder of my things from the office, after my dismissal. Obviously my wife was now fully aware of the situation, and it was pointless me even trying to hide it anymore.

“I needed my coffee.” I said, without any remorse whatsoever.
“FUCK YOUR COFFEE!!” my wife screamed, the sound ringing around my aching head.

She threw the phone at me, clutching and rocking with our dead daughter as fresh sobs erupted from her throat. Daisy sank to the floor and sobbed just as hard.

People came into the house, whilst I stood there, drinking my coffee one after another, not paying attention to anyone, not listening to anyone, not acknowledging anyone asking me if I needed help. I just stared at the coffee, and realised I’d gotten through every last cup. One of the paramedics noticed the state of my mouth and asked to look at it, seeing the scalded flesh, the foul smelling odour that went with it, the mess of my skin, and how much of a walking dead man I looked. They wanted to take me in, but I refused.

Then, my wife’s waters broke. She wasn’t due for another fortnight, but the stress of losing our daughter made her go into labour. She was loaded into the ambulance along with the body of Ruby, and her still living sister Daisy.

“Sir, you need to come with us.” one of the paramedics said. “Your wife needs to go NOW.”
“I need more coffee.” I mumbled under my breath, still staring at the bright lights outside the house.

“Sir? Your wife is in LABOUR. We can get you coffee at the hospital.” the paramedic responded in disbelief.

When she realised I wasn’t moving, she swore at me and left the house. I stood there alone watching the lights fade off, and stayed in the dark motionless despite the terrible situation I was in.

“I need more coffee.” I whispered to myself under my breath.

My mouth was bleeding, a combination of blood and that disgusting turquoise ooze dripping from my lips, leaving a trail of stink so noxious it made me bring up what little bile was left inside me. I didn’t make it to the bathroom, I just puked right there on the carpet, in the spot where my dead daughter just was. I couldn’t even cry. On autopilot, I left the house and made my way to the train station, the withdrawal symptoms hitting me hard. You might be forgiven for thinking I was going to go to the hospital, except that if you knew the mechanism of addiction, you’d realise that it makes people do things that are completely inhuman. The addicted brain is an entirely different brain, and when a person is in the full throes of addictive behaviour, it tears their life to pieces.

I went to the ATM. I tried to draw out £100. It spat my card out, stating insufficient funds. I checked my balance, seeing all I could afford to draw out was £10. With Hunter’s price increase, I’d be lucky to get two cups with that. I got them nonetheless, because I NEEDED them. Hunter never once made a comment on the decline of my appearance over the time it took to hook me up. He simply kept handing me cup after precious cup, when I had the money for it.

All of our money was gone, being spent on life expenses for the family and incoming baby, and with my coffee addiction and lack of employment, it didn’t take long to drain our accounts.

Understandably, my wife had the locks changed. I discovered this when I tried to get inside, only to find my key wouldn’t work. I tried to call her, but she wouldn’t talk to me. She never wanted to see me again, and the police wanted to talk to me about child neglect. My Ruby died because of me. It drove me down into a despair that wanted to kill me, but truthfully the only thing I could think about, was my coffee. I sold my phone for £20 even though it was worth far more. I started to steal from shops, and mug people to yank away their handbags, or pull their wallets away. I sat in doorways, begging for money asking simply for the price of a cup of coffee. Some nice people tried to bring me coffee several times, but they were disgusted when I smashed it out of their hands because it wasn’t the right coffee. It wasn’t Hunter’s coffee.

I was arrested and tossed back out onto the streets repeatedly. My only focus, was to get money to drink my coffee. I hadn’t eaten for months. I didn’t and still don’t know how I’m still alive. I depend on the kindness of people who walk past that actually notice me, and my own growing skill at stealing. I’m banned from almost every shop around the coffee cart.

He comes at night, when I am at my worst. He said he made me like this, he took old Charlie and taught me a lesson for my cruelty and mistreatment of vulnerable people. He made me one of them. There are many like me, we are putrefying blood-sacks, trying to survive between hits of whatever we are addicted to. I don’t even get the elated feeling anymore. It’s about taking the edge off so the withdrawal won’t be so painful. He says that when I am at my most uncomfortable, when the withdrawal is causing me the most pain, that it’s when I am at my most delicious. The waves of vomit, the despair, the tears and the rivers of shit that leak from us because we are slowly rotting from the inside out? That’s what he feeds on. That turquoise crust that oozes out of us, is concentrated misery and hopelessness.

We all have our own signature scent. He preys on us, creeping up to envelop us, that obnoxious breath filtering slowly into our senses no matter how hard we try to block it out. We feel him ooze around under our skin, our bodies contorted in agony as he takes what he wants from us, and discards us like empty shells, tortured and grief stricken. He whispers to us in a horribly scratchy hiss, reminding us of how we got there, who we lost, how we let them down, and how much they still loathe us. We are sobbing shattered wrecks when he leaves us, night after night. We get no reprieve.

“DAMIAN. You were such a vicious little shitgoblin weren’t you?  How does it feel with me oozing around under your skin, my inky black tendrils driving holes in your shattered little mind and body? Does it hurt? You taste like it might hurt. Your wife LOATHES you so much. I watched your daughter stabbing holes where your face is in photos, screaming that she hates you for killing her sister. Your wife gave birth recently, but you’re NEVER GOING TO SEE THAT BABY EVER. Scream for me you wretched fucking swine.”

And I do. I scream until all that comes out of me is exhausted wheezing.

I asked him once, what would I have to do to make it all go away? He chuckled at me and told me there was nothing I could do.

“There is nothing you can do, you obnoxious little fool. This wouldn’t have happened if only you’d shown some compassion like a decent human being, instead of behaving like a heartless sadist. I can keep you alive for YEARS, your anguish is delicious. That turquoise stinking crust inside you, that stench that seeps out of you no matter what you do…it’s how I keep you in purgatory for so long. I tainted your precious coffee with my poison, and it permeates and grows inside you like creeping death. I could snap your neck anytime I wanted to, but I don’t want to. The more tortured you are, the more you secrete. My longest conquest is 200 years old.”

200 years old?! My broken mind exploded into shreds hearing that, how old was Hunter to be able to do that?!

“HOW OLD ARE YOU!!!” I wailed, wishing for a death I knew he wasn’t going to give me, sobbing and shaking like I was in the midst of a seizure.

“I am older than you can comprehend.” He hissed at me. “I was here before you were even born, and I’ll be here long after I let you die, IF I let you die.”

I could barely breathe, my body rigid with a level of agony he’d not subjected me to before. Panic coursed through me, my nose and ears pissing with blood with the pressure. I wet myself as a final sobbing degradation to my already humiliated body.  I asked him why it had to take old Charlie, and it said that old Charlie’s time was up regardless, and that he wasn’t always very nice either.

“Charlie looked like nice old man didn’t he? Well he wasn’t. I caught him laughing and pissing all over an elderly alcoholic, suffering with PTSD after years of domestic abuse. Charlie also beat his wife and locked her away from the world.  He told her family she had died, so she believed nobody would ever help her.  I only killed him because he was too OLD to have any fun with.”

When he finishes torturing me, I am left limp and barely lifeless as he shifts his way towards his next toy. Every night. I just want to die. I often wonder what would happen if I threw myself off a building, or tried to kill myself in some way, a way that he couldn’t bring me back from, but I can’t. I can’t, because when I get close to it, just when I think I can DO IT, something inside me stops me. I am not in control of myself, not in any way. Everything I do is driven by my addiction, and however long he chooses to keep me at his mercy.

I notice everyone now. All the vulnerable people on the streets, for whatever reason they’re there. I wish I’d paid more attention before. I wish I’d been more human. I’d have my family, my wealth, my job. I’d have my world back. He tells me that I will always know when I see another person who treated the vulnerable as harshly as I did. We all have that foul smelling stench from the turquoise crust. We are the only ones who see that crusty horror. Nobody else does. He only feeds on us. Once we become homeless, nobody sees us at night; we are invisible. It’s not because people don’t want to, it’s because he made us invisible on purpose, whilst he feeds. He doesn’t want everyone else to listen to our blood-curdling screams as he feasts on us. I could be screaming right next to your face, and you wouldn’t see or hear me. In the mornings, we are visible again, and we have to degrade ourselves over and over to survive our addictions. If only we’d been more compassionate.

Hunter still runs the coffee cart, but it’s not his only gig. He volunteers at soup kitchens to provide for those who have fallen on hard times. He attends to them with care, and always stops to talk to people asking for help on the streets. I often wonder when he sleeps. I don’t think he does. I mean, how would he have all that time at night to come for us, and feed on our misfortune?

Don’t end up like me. Don’t walk past people who need your help. Be kind. You won’t enjoy what happens when you’re not.

NewSkin

How many of us truly notice ads for new beauty products anymore? It seems that like toothpaste, a new and improved formula using an obscure substance is released every other week, with promises to revitalise youth and reduce wrinkles etc. My boyfriend, being the lovable but slightly-obsessed-with-his-appearance-fellow that he is, was messing about online and saw an ad from a skincare company. You might be thinking, seriously? This is an account of an incident surrounding a dodgy skincare product? Well yes it is, except this wasn’t really a product, which is why it’s terrifying.

They claimed to be able to fix all your skin problems in one go, acne, wrinkles, rosacea, enlarged pores, grey tired skin, you get the picture. Anthony went ballistic the moment he saw a slight red patch forming that might indicate a breakout, and would spend the evening hidden away in the bathroom covered in whatever-the-goop-of-the-now is, all over his face. It’s a good job we had a second bathroom, because I wasn’t allowed to disturb him during this palaver. The only mark on his face, was a half-penny sized circular mole above his left eyebrow, which we affectionately called his beauty spot. It didn’t mar his appearance one bit, if anything it added to his charm.

One evening a while ago whilst sitting across from him on the other sofa, I noticed his face light up and his eyes widen. He started going on about trying this new thing online, how they were looking for subjects for trials. I was kind of surprised, because trials mean anything could go wrong, but given the price they were planning to charge if everything was successful, he was absolutely up for it. Considering I just thought it would be another serum/cream/variation thereof, I simply rolled my eyes and went back to reading. A few days later, he got a text message from a hidden number asking if he was still interested in being part of the trials, one of those ‘TEXT YES OR NO’ to respond kind of messages, although I wasn’t sure how that would work with a hidden number. Of COURSE he immediately responded with YES, making this kind of happy chuckling noise, which was the first idea I got that he’d even received the message.

“What are you chuckling at?” I asked.

“The trial just asked if I still wanted to participate, and I said yes.” He said gleefully showing me the screen of his iPhone.

“Just be careful okay? It’s a TRIAL. You don’t know what this might do to you. You freak out over one tiny spot of redness, if they trash your skin, you’re not going to be happy.” I offered in response.

He rolled his eyes at me, and started texting furiously in the manner he did when he was excitedly talking about something skin related with his best mate, George. They were honestly like two old women texting back and forth about Gardener’s World or something, very endearing.  Of course George had perfect skin, and barely any breakouts. As much as they were best mates, Anthony would at times curse him for being so outwardly perfect.

The next few days came and went, and finally on the following Monday morning, Anthony was summoned to an appointment in a private estate in the middle of nowhere.

“That doesn’t strike you as odd love?” I asked curiously.

“No, I mean they’re protecting their stuff right? It makes sense to be cautious.” He said whilst filling his backpack for the day.

“Well where is it you’re going exactly?” I asked again, frowning somewhat.

“Heh. I’m not allowed to tell you. Secret and all.” he said sheepishly.

“Err..I am NOT okay with that, you either tell me, or I’m following you and I’ll be there anyway!” I responded, obviously concerned that my boyfriend was about to enter trial I knew nothing about.

He looked at me, horrified not because I said I’d follow him, but because he didn’t want me to ruin his chance at the trial.

“You can’t! If you turn up I don’t know what will happen, and I really want to do this.” he said with obvious worry on his face.

“Look, I don’t want to sound like the controlling girlfriend here, but if this was me, you’d be concerned too and you know it. So please tell me, it’s not like I’m going to go announcing it to anyone else. You clearly want to do this and I can’t stop you, but please just tell me where it is.” I said in a softer tone, touching his arm and stroking it softly.

“I just want to know where to find you if anything bad happens okay? I love you. I’ll worry all day otherwise.”

To my relief, he relented and sent me a screenshot of the place on Google maps so I could look it up later. I figured that was the best I was going to get, and settled for it. He kissed me on the nose, and went back to stuffing things in his bag. He left the house telling me everything would be fine, and that he’d see me later.

I did see him later, but he was a little strange. He was full of beans sure, but he seemed a little distracted. I asked him how the appointment went, and he told me they asked him what he wanted from his skin, and what problems he wanted to straighten out. He showed them a photo of his mate George, and basically told them he wanted to have skin as clear as his. There was some conversation about how attractive George was, and how his skin looked amazing, in fact it was the kind of conversation Anthony revelled in. Yes, my boyfriend was a total appearances guy, but he was sweet and attentive, and had never done anything wrong to me ever. He was there for me through my transition, even when my family ostracised me for being trans, so to say that he was the centre of my life, was a complete understatement. Not to sound sappy, but we were disgustingly in love.  His distracted behaviour worried me.

“So did they give you any treatment today, or was it more of a preliminary thing?” I asked, leaning into him a little.

He was staring into space somewhat, and I had to squeeze his arm gently to get his attention.

“Oh, no, uhh..I mean yes kind of.” he mumbled.

“Okay? What did they do?” I pushed further.

Silence again.

“Anthony?”  I quizzed.

His legs wouldn’t stay still, and he was bouncing them up and down as if he were incredibly anxious and wanted to be somewhere else.

“Anthony?!” I repeated firmly.

“Sorry! Yes they gave me an injection with something in it, they told me it would prepare me for admittance next week. It takes a few days to kick in, apparently.” He said softly, sounding really tired.

“What did they give you?” I asked with an arched brow.

“Oh..I uh..I don’t know. They didn’t say.” he responded with a yawn.

“Right so you let someone on a trial inject you with something you have no idea about and you’re okay with that?!”  I semi shrieked.

He didn’t respond. I knew he was particular about his appearance, but I didn’t think he would be that naïve.  I was really worried now, he wasn’t himself and he couldn’t really hold a proper conversation with me without being prompted. He then did something he doesn’t usually so, and fell asleep deeply on the sofa. I let him stay there for an hour whilst I mindlessly listened to a podcast, but when it came to me coaxing him to come to bed, he didn’t even stir. He wasn’t going anywhere. I admit I checked to see if he was still breathing, and he was, so I covered him over with one of the blankets, and settled myself down on the opposite sofa. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone, even if he was just sleeping.

I drifted off soon after, but my sleep was fitful.

When the alarm went off on my phone at 06:00AM, I jumped and almost slid off the sofa. He was awake, sitting bolt upright and just staring blankly into the television.

“Anthony?” I asked, moving over to sit beside him, waving my hand in front of his face.

Nothing. He didn’t even blink.

“ANTHONY!” I cried, stooping down in front of him and clutching his shoulders, squeezing them slightly.

He came round suddenly, his face splitting in half with that amazing smile that made me melt entirely too often.

“Heyyy babe.” He said, leaning forward and kissing me, even though my face was clearly filled with worry.

It was like someone had just flipped a switch in him, he’d been in standby mode and now he was awake and full of beans again. He stood up quickly, announced he was going to take a shower and then get ready to go to work. I remained crouched down on the floor for a moment, confused.

“Hey wait, babe? You have been acting really weird and I don’t think you should be going to work today. You weren’t yourself last night at all.” I said, my voice wavering a little.

“What are you talking about love? We sat and watched TV last night and talked about my great day at the clinic!” He said jovially.

Unless I was missing something, his version of events from the night before were very different from mine.

“Uh no sweetheart, we didn’t. We didn’t even switch the TV on last night, and our conversation about the clinic was forced because you were very confused.” My voice wavering even further.

“Don’t be silly, Izza. I remember it clearly. You fell asleep watching Q.I with me, and then I went up to bed, leaving you sleeping on the sofa covered in a throw.” He said, completely unfazed and convinced his version of the night before was genuine.

I froze. I was getting really scared now. I spent the next thirty minutes or so begging and pleading with him not to go to work, and to go to the doctor with me to find out what he’d been given, but he was firm. When he’d made up his mind, there was generally no changing it. He refused to stay at home and realistically, there was nothing I could do about it.  I asked him to at least stay in touch with me throughout the day via text and he obliged, except the texts he sent me didn’t seem like him at all. It might not seem like a big deal to you, but when you know the bones of someone and they’re acting completely differently, it’s legitimately terrifying.

He never used text-speak or emoji, he abhorred both. We always texted in full sentences with proper punctuation, so when I got “omg babe stop worrying I’m ok” with a thumbs up emoji, I flinched. He wouldn’t be messing with me like that, it’s not the kind of thing he would do even as a joke, as it was a pet peeve for us both.

I called him at work. He didn’t answer, someone else did. When I asked to speak to him, they told me he’d called in sick this morning, and wasn’t there. I forgot to breathe, and my head rushed with my heart pounding in my chest. What the fuck was going on?

I called his phone. I got a ‘this phone is switched off’ as a message, which I’ve NEVER heard before. He always keeps his phone on, the only time it’s off is when iOS updates, or he has to restart it for some reason. Panicking, I fired off another text, swearing at myself for not realising he wouldn’t get it if his phone was off.

I got something back immediately, again in text-speak with emoji. “Hi bb rlly busy @ work will call u l8r”, with a heart emoji on the end.  What the fuck? How was this happening when his phone wasn’t even switched on, and why would he use that horrible text-speak?  I did the next best thing to calling him, and tried to call George.

George also didn’t answer. I texted him, except nothing came back which was equally weird because he was surgically attached to his phone. George not being near his phone was like asking him to stop breathing. It was 15:03PM, and he absolutely would have been awake and quick to respond. Ten minutes later, I called again, I got voicemail and left an urgent message, along with another text. Yes I was aware I was probably sounding like a panicked lunatic, but I WAS in fact very panicked.

Thirty minutes later, still nothing from either one of them.

Frantic, I called his mother, who had also not heard anything from him. Of course now I had the added side effect of her losing her marbles over this, and so she started texting him and getting the same nonsense back even though his phone was switched off. Finally remembering that I had the map screenshot from the day he first went to that clinic, I revved up my laptop, and started exploring Google maps. It was my own fault for not pushing him more, but all I could see was a back-road name in the middle of nowhere. I’d have been fucked without the Internet, but then he wouldn’t have been in this position without the Internet either. It occurred to me that George might be with him, because they were like kids in a toy shop when they were together, but Anthony had been acting too strangely for me to think it was as simple as that.

My thanking the Internet was too premature in terms of location information. Nothing came up for the name of the back-road. I even upload the screenshot into an image search hoping something would come up, but what DID come up wasn’t at all helpful, because it was a fucking quarry in the middle of the Pennines. Either he’d given me fake information on purpose, or something more sinister was at work. I was fucked, I had no idea where he was, couldn’t reach George, and no way of contacting him whatsoever. I started searching around the house for anything, any little piece of information as to his whereabouts, and after turning his desk area upside down, and finding absolutely nothing, I was really close to losing it. I felt so sick that I bolted upstairs and into the bathroom, heaving my guts up into the toilet bowl, almost not having time to lift the lid first. After ridding myself of the contents of my stomach, I noticed the crumpled pile of his clothes on the floor. Pushing my hair behind my ears, I rummaged around in the pockets of his jeans, and the hoodie underneath them. Nothing in the jeans. Something in the pocket of the hoodie. Felt like paper. It was a small Post-it note, folded in half so the gum sealed it together. It simply said NewSkin on it. Nothing else. No number, no additional information, no nothing.

I rushed downstairs again to my laptop, and searched for the phrase, and a very simplistic but professional website came up, along with a couple of bizarre results that made no sense. They kept trying to redirect a site with a .onion tld, but I’m not very techy so I didn’t know what I was doing. I couldn’t open them despite my trying several times, and I was so frustrated that I almost threw the laptop across the floor, and then the door opened.

It was Anthony, but he looked different.  His hair was completely gone. Clean shaven to the point where there wasn’t even any shadow. The mole above his left eyebrow was also gone, and the brows were thinner. I couldn’t imagine he would have let them cut his hair willingly, as it was as important to him as his skin. Thick, almost black and cut neat and short into the nape of his neck and sides, but long on top. He didn’t even like anyone touching it, it was like trying to get near Fonzy, he’d freak out and tell you to back off. Seeing him like that startled me utterly. Hot tears slipped own my face and I ran towards him, wrapping my arms around his neck and sobbing hard into him. He stood completely motionless, and didn’t say a word to me. After a few minutes I pulled away, wiping my face to look at him and tearfully ask him where he’d been. His skin was peculiar and looked like it didn’t fit him. He looked at me really confused, as if he’d been out of it for a few days and didn’t know where he was. He was fully clothed in the same gear he left the house in earlier, but he had no recollection of the last few days.

Who are you? He asked me, looking terrified.

“Waitwhat? It’s me, Izza. Your girlfriend, you live here with me. Where have you been? I said in return.” Shaking violently.

“I don’t know who you are? I only knew to come here..I..” He trailed off, before collapsing to the floor.

I called an ambulance and tried to revive him myself, but he wasn’t coming round. His skin felt so different, not like the skin I’d felt under my fingers countless times. It didn’t feel as if it fit him properly either. I pulled his clothes back up over his belly and looked at him, not sure of what I was looking at. Parts of it were visibly shrinking as if it were trying to mould against him properly, and it was inching around and tightening in that way that elderly skin does when you pinch it.  Fresh tears trickled out of me, slipping down my nose to make tiny plicking sounds on his clothes as I tore them away from him to get a better look. I could see this unfamiliar skin shifting and tightening in different places, some of it completely different in shade, paler somehow but levelling out to match the rest of him. By the time the medics arrived, I was in shock and unable to speak coherently at all. Fortunately, being unconscious was enough for them to load him into the truck and haul us both away to hospital. His phone had skittered out of his pocket during my pulling his clothes from him, and whilst my mind was racing with all the worst thoughts you could possibly imagine, I yanked it out of my coat pocket and switched it on, unlocking it, because fortunately we both knew one another’s unlock codes. I went to his text messages, specifically the ones from me. I could see the ones I sent him, but there were no responses from his end. It was like I’d sent a barrage of texts with no replies.  Pulling my own phone out, I checked them again, and all the dreadful text-speak emoji ridden messages he’d sent earlier, were gone. I choked on my own breath, a sob escaping as the prelude to a complete breakdown in the back of the ambulance. I was losing my fucking mind.

Taking great heaving gobs of air between sobs, I checked messages between he and George. There was their usual excitable exchange right up until the time he went out earlier. The conversation took a sombre note as Anthony told George he really needed to see him because things weren’t okay and he needed help. Naturally as devoted as George was, he asked Anthony where to meet him, and Anthony simply told him to meet him outside work and they’d drive somewhere to talk. I mean that sounds fairly innocent as it goes right? If your best mate asks you to meet up because you need help, you fucking go, right?

I called Anthony’s mother as we hurtled through traffic. I told her to meet us at the hospital and that I had no idea what was going on. I asked her to check her text messages, and she blurted out that they’d all GONE. The texts she’d sent to his phone looked like mine, a barrage with no responses. I lost the ability to talk at that point.

The next few hours were a brightly lit and background noise filled blur after they rushed Anthony inside. Nobody was sure what they were seeing with his skin shifting around, or what on earth I was babbling on about when I said his skin didn’t look right. I tried to tell them how it didn’t feel like his, and where he’d been, but all it sounded like fragments splintered from a broken mind to the point where they were considering admitting me for being mentally incompetent. He was sedated in his own room, looking drained of colour and fragile. Hours later, the skin on his frame looked like it belonged there, settled against the contours of his body, albeit slightly paler than his usual tone. The skin was…flawless. Whatever it looked like as it was morphing and shifting to fit him so perfectly, it didn’t look that way anymore. It was almost translucent with soft downy hair in the right areas. All this had happened over the course of a day, a day that he knew nothing about, nor anyone else for that matter.

A low moan escaped his lips. Lips that were slightly cracked but fuller in a way that didn’t look like him. He was still beautiful, but those lips were not his. I leaned over and gently slid an ice chip over his mouth, letting him flick his tongue over them and take the ice inside. Moving around behind him, I helped him turn onto his side, conscious that I didn’t want him to choke on the chip.

The door opened and it was one of the doctors, looking incredulous, accompanied by a plain clothes police officer, and a uniform. Anthony’s mother rushed in and clutched her son’s hand, sobbing breathlessly.

“I don’t quite know how to say this with any tact, so I think the best way is just to say it. We think Anthony has been given a complete skin transplant, from head to toe.” The doctor said, quite baffled.

“Wh..what?” I said, more of a statement than a question.

“The skin on his body…it didn’t belong to him originally. We watched it move and tighten over his body like you saw, but we don’t know HOW. He’s got some pretty weird drugs in his system right now, combinations we’ve not seen before, which might account for his memory loss and out of character behaviour.”

Silence.

“Are you telling me the skin on his body doesn’t belong to him, doctor?” I breathed, reeling at the thought.

“Yes, I am.” He said, still incredulous.

Anthony tried to speak, but his throat was dry and he sounded raspy and inhuman. His mother whispered at him not to try, and he fell silent again, drifting in and out of consciousness. The plain clothes police officer started talking about taking fingerprints from Anthony to see if anything was in their system. My head was still reeling and I wasn’t really listening, until it dawned on me that whoever’s skin he was wearing would have to be in the criminal database for that to work. The doctor said they would keep him sedated until he was recovered and all the foreign drugs had been flushed out of his system. I brushed my finger over his lips again, and spent the entire night at his bedside along with his mother. We both remained in chairs and slept in shifts to watch over him. It was the longest night of my life.

The following morning, Anthony was wide awake and bright as a button. He knew who I was, didn’t feel confused, and all traces of those drugs were out of his system. The only problem he had, was no memory of the last couple of days. He wondered why he was even in hospital at all. He reached up to scratch his head, and that’s when the shrieking started. With no hair up there, he demanded to know what had been done to him and why he was there.

“Anthony..” I asked him gently, amidst his outrage

“Why am I fucking here Izza what’s going on?!” He spat from between lips that weren’t his.

“..do you remember NewSkin? Does that phrase bring any thoughts to mind?” I continued, reaching out to comfort him.

He pulled away from me, as if I’d done this to him.

“You went to start a trial for a new skin product, and went completely off the grid. You came home and you were acting SO strangely, like you weren’t you at all. It’s like you were on something that made you zone out, and you passed out hard and I couldn’t wake you. Please, you HAVE to try and remember, we need to know who did this to you and where they are!” I pleaded desperately.

Our conversation was halted abruptly as the doctor and plain clothed policeman stormed through the door, the doctor pleading with the policeman to stop for a moment and remember that Anthony was still in recovery.

“Doctor, if you think I’m going to leave him here unattended after what I’ve just seen, you’re a fucking cretin. There will be an officer on the door from now on until he’s cleared for coming down to the station. He is officially on lock-down.” He hissed, snapping a cuff around one of Anthony’s wrists and connecting it to the sidebars on the hospital bed.

I stared at the officer in a panic, asking what the fuck he thought he was doing by cuffing my boyfriend to the hospital bed. The colour drained from my face like liquid from a broken glass as we all listened,

“There’s CCTV footage of him meeting his supposed friend, George outside his place of work and leading him away roughly by the arm. It times very closely with the texts they exchanged in the afternoon, and they were seen again on the outskirts of town, Anthony still gripping George in a way that suggested he was under duress. A car with Anthony’s registration plates was found abandoned on the motorway about half a mile away from farmland. The farm? It’s not actually a bloody farm, it’s some weird underground facility using the farm as a cover.  There was blood trailing across the field and our ground team found a skinless corpse abandoned in the middle of it, like it was fucking garbage. We had to identify it from dental records, and it’s George Barber.”

The room was deathly silent. Anthony went whiter than he already was and looked down at the skin on his body, that perfect, flawless skin that he always coveted so much. I couldn’t hear a fucking thing. The bottom had just dropped out of my world.

Muffled voices between the doctor and the plain clothed policeman mentally pulled me back into the room, and I demanded to know how someone with no fucking memory of the last couple of days could possibly have done ANY of that.  The doctor looked at me with an expression of sorrow, and explained that the drugs in Anthony’s system had been a concoction of hallucinogens and psychotics.  He could have been manipulated to do anything, given the right suggestion.

Anthony’s mother had fainted and was being carted from the room by a pair of nurses. Anthony was dumbstruck, and turned his head to look at me, his face dripping with tears.

“I didn’t, I..I don’t remember, I couldn’t have..please Izza I DIDN’T, please I didn’t do this, How could I, I can’t remember!”

He was sobbing now, this was not the face of someone who just killed his best friend and skinned him alive to wear him like he was his own to keep.

I looked at him, his beautiful face blurred through my own tears, huge sobs choking out of my body like I was going to vomit at any moment. I was dragged out of the room by the police officers on the door, I wasn’t even allowed to stay with him. I was being hauled off for questioning down at the station, and I had no idea what I was supposed to fucking do.

They kept me there at the station all night.  I was interrogated until I was completely non verbal and shaking like a terrified child. I remember telling them how I found the piece of paper with NewSkin written on it, and how I searched for it online, finding a site referencing that weird .onion tld website that wouldn’t load.

It turns out there’s this layer of the Internet called the Dark Web, but you can’t access it without using something called Tor. You can buy pretty much anything you’d like on it, from illegal drugs, hit-men, and services you really didn’t think existed outside of a twisted thriller. NewSkin offers a service to people who need to change their appearance because they can’t look like themselves anymore, for whatever reason, no questions asked. George wasn’t the first skinless corpse the police had found. They think the doctors and scientists working in the facility were using unsuspecting members of the public as experiments to perfect the procedure, under the guise of a skincare trial. They think people pay them to make them disappear, but mostly, it’s rich people who are dissatisfied with the skin they’re in, and they want a change. They don’t care about everyday folks like us.  Why replace only parts of your skin, when you can have a complete do-over?

Devastated by the possibility that he murdered his best friend for his skin, and at the loss of his platonic soulmate, Anthony took his own life a week later. He’d been left unattended in his hospital room for ten minutes whilst the officer with him went to use the bathroom.  He figured him being cuffed to the bed meant he could risk it.  The stupid bastard had left a pen behind as he got up from the chair next to the bed. Anthony managed to reach it using his toes, and stabbed himself repeatedly with it in the neck with his free hand until he bled out and died. Blood was still pulsing from his neck when the officer returned with the nurse, but it was too late. The plain clothed police officer came to the house and told me himself. He looked ashen.

By the time they got search warrants for the facility at the farm, it had been gutted and deserted. There was absolutely no trace, even with forensics spending weeks there. There was nothing they could do, it was a dead lead. When I asked about tracing the strange text messages, I was told it’s easy to manipulate modern technology to do such things now. It would all have been part of the set-up, and likely wouldn’t have returned anything useful. It was like they’d just given up.

I was numb with loss. I stopped caring about what happened to me, stopped leaving the house. I know more about the Internet now that before. I became obsessed with knowing about the kinds of people who would sell things like this online. NewSkin still exists on the Dark Web, but the site has been pulled from the surface web, pending police investigation.  The things they offer are disgusting, and it’s all done like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A few days ago, a new site appeared offering trials to select members of the public for free, if they satisfied a few prerequisites. It’s called NuSkin.  That was the day when I finally ventured out to see my doctor.  I was halfway into town when I saw Anthony’s mother in front of a man who made me stop and forget to breathe. When he turned around, it was Anthony’s face, as clear as day, right down to the mole above his left eyebrow.

PARASITE: Taliones

Link to part one.

PUBLIC HEALTH REPORT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

JUNE 2nd 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

Studies continue to be informative, if not uhh..explosive. Thankfully we have our subjects contained inside pods, to minimise any resulting fallout. We haven’t been at a loss for willing subjects, it’s amazing what the threat of an incredibly painful death can do for motivation. Of course we have announced via various mediums that we’re always on the lookout for subjects who can help us conduct research in the hopes of reducing mortality rate. If they think there’s a chance they might come out of it ALIVE..then they’re more willing to come forward.

We are still battling against the aforementioned mortality rate in those who commit sexual assault. It’s interesting to see what people constitute as sexual assault, and what they don’t. One subject did the same thing as the man in our Primary Case did. He’d been removing condoms during sex with women on one night stands. He’d gotten away with a few times of course, but he screwed up and was caught when he clearly got too cocky from his lack of discovery in previous endeavours. When his latest ‘conquest’ became pregnant, he panicked and came forward after he started spewing worms and shitting himself into oblivion. When pressed on the subject of sexual assault by the police beforehand, he said he hadn’t done anything of the sort. Rather foolishly, he blurted out that the worst thing he’d ever done was to slyly remove condoms on one night stands. The detective on duty flew across the table at him, and spat back that deceptively removing a condom without consent during sexual intercourse, was in fact very much sexual assault.

Of course when he learned his victim was pregnant, he lost his mind entirely and started screaming and demanding help. Just like everyone else, he’d been watching various news reports on the current parasitic epidemic facing the country, and was quite terrified. His sorry self was handed over to us the same night.

Subjects have committed varying degrees of sexual assault before they end up with us, some far too horrific to document. In cases where a victim has survived gang rape, every rapist has succumbed to the parasite.

Cases where subjects have attempted to commit suicide by various methods, have also been gruesomely fascinating. The subject in my last report who developed gills during his attempt to drown, was the first instance we learned of. One man threw himself off a ten storey building, only to survive. His body was outwardly smashed to pieces of course, but he survived up until the parasites erupted. We wanted to see if his body would reset itself in order to nourish the parasite, however his pain levels were so excruciating that we had to put him in a medically induced coma, mainly because of the screaming that upset the other subjects. Nobody wants to witness what might happen to them.  You might expect a person’s head to be smashed open if they fell from a great height, but bizarrely, his head injuries were superficial, almost like his head was temporarily immune to serious injury. His internal organs were entirely intact, only his musculoskeletal system was annihilated.

Our most horrific subject ‘preservation’ after attempted suicide, was a man who self immolated. He was absolutely stinking drunk, and had doused himself in petrol. He burned for a good while, but the burns didn’t quite make it to his internal organs. His skin was blackened and cracked, horribly blistered and pulsing with larvae. We sedated him initially, but he was contingent in our research that deduced that the parasite can indeed preserve its host through fire, right up until they hatch and devour the corpse. That one was not for anyone with a weak stomach.

 

PUBLIC HEALTH REPORT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

JUNE 30th 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

We appear to have at least one mutation, with another possible one in tow. Whilst previously a victim would have to fall pregnant before infestation took place, it now seems that it is enough for an antagonist’s semen to enter the body in order for it to manifest an infestation. This means semen on an abuser’s fingers or elsewhere (body part) is enough to kick start the process. Swallowing semen seems to have the same result. Pregnancy is now no longer a pre-requisite for infestation.

We believe that levels of stress exhibited in the body when it is under attack, are the catalyst for infestation. We can only estimate at this point that a victim’s body secretes something that combines with an antagonist’s semen to produce the parasite. We have our best endocrinologists examining women who have come forward after their parasite removal procedures were successful. Do we have a new hormone here? How does it interact, and what is the catalyst in the male species? We know it is carried in semen, but is it simply semen, or has that itself mutated?

The other potential mutation is with regard to barrier method contraception. It seems that condoms are no longer sufficient to protect against infestation. We believe that whatever the victim secretes, is now corrosive and breaks down any protective methods.  Men attempting to protect themselves from infestation by using condoms during their attacks, might find themselves infested regardless. Studies continue.

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

July 4th 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Transcribed).

Reports of penetrative sexual crime against women have dropped significantly throughout the country in the last month. Whatever this parasite is, it’s terrifying enough of the male populace into decreasing certain behaviours, but encouraging others. From the information we have received from Public Health, the parasite only infests if semen enters the victim’s body. Semen has to be deposited within the victim somehow for it to manifest. Penetration with any body part covered in semen, will result in parasitic infestation in both parties.

Whilst certain crimes have dropped significantly, non sexual violent crimes seem to be on the rise. Since sexually violent men seem to have no safe way to violate women unless they keep from ejaculating, they are taking it out on them in other ways. Additionally, reports of attacks on trans women have increased, and as we know, they are already significantly high. Sexworkers report that enquiries from usually aggressive clients have also dropped significantly, especially given the recent possible mutation where victims potentially secrete a corrosive substance known to melt barrier methods such as condoms.  However, sexworkers also report that they are increasingly afraid of being immobilised by men who want to take their frustrations out on them with non sexual violence. It is common knowledge between law enforcement and sexworkers that they are often the target of non sexual violence, and right now is no exception. We owe it to our working girls to provide them with the protection they deserve, especially our trans sexworkers.

Our phones have been ringing off the hook with reports from women who have had personal property destroyed by frustrated domestically violent partners. Not only has non sexual physical violence increased, but reports of increased emotional and psychological abuses are coming in. As an example, one lady reported to coming home from work to discover her car had been mangled beyond recognition. All the windows were smashed, the tyres were slashed to pieces, and it looked like someone had taken a lump hammer to every panel and light on it. When she got into her flat, she discovered all her clothes had been burned on the kitchen floor, her home comforts entirely destroyed, her carpets ruined with bleach, and every piece of crockery smashed and thrown around. In the midst of all that mess, she found a note written in her ex partner’s handwriting:

“I might not be able to ruin you anymore, but I can fuck up your stuff. You’re mine you nasty little cunt, never forget that.”

The woman had been in a long suffering relationship with a deeply sexually and domestically violent man who was in and out of prison for a multitude of crimes. Despite them no longer being in a relationship, he frequently visited and inflicted himself on her over and over again.  She had always been too intimidated to do anything about his violent behaviour until now.  If this parasite is an evolutionary method of minimising male sexual violence, then we can only hope it evolves further to halt male violence entirely.

PUBLIC HEALTH REPORT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

July 10th 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

We can now confirm that the catalyst for the parasite is a new hormonal secretion, and that it is indeed corrosive to barrier method contraception. We had to resort to some fairly unorthodox experiments to properly arrive at that conclusion, but I feel they were entirely necessary. We’re calling it LT1 for now, until we analyse it completely. We can also confirm that if a victim is unconscious due to inebriation or the like, the body still knows it is under attack, and secretes LT1 accordingly.

Test subjects were funneled in from several high security prisons, both male and female populations. We drafted in the most violent of offenders, ones that were never going to see freedom ever again. I make no apologies for doing what we had to. I made the call, this is my facility. I’ve served my country for forty years and made sacrifices that many are not capable of making.

Our experiments gave us the evidence we needed, what is secreted, from where, the effect it has on barrier methods, and how it interacts with semen in which to manifest an infestation:

  • LT1 is produced alongside oestrogen in the ovaries.
  • During an attack, it is secreted throughout the body, where it locates the point of seminal ejaculation. It then simultaneously bonds with sperm, and absorbs into the body of both the antagonist, and his victim.
  • It contains an enzyme which is responsible for the corrosion of barrier method contraception, tests reveal all current varieties of condoms are vulnerable.

With regard to the Primary Case, accounts from medical personnel that state the parasite did not show up on imaging or indeed to the naked eye until its developmental process neared completion, are being evaluated thoroughly. All cases in our lab have shown up on various imagery, and test sampling. We can only surmise that in the initial manifestations of the parasite, it remained undetectable until it mutated further.

We currently have no way of removing the parasite from male biology, even in its early stages of development. Once the parasite infests its host, its primary areas of infection are the blood and skin. Complete blood transfusions and dialysis have no effect, as subcutaneous parasites reabsorb into the blood stream.  We further experimented with shock therapy in order to see how the parasite might react, to no effect. Our next trials will involve both chemotherapy and radiotherapy, although we do not hold out much hope given what we have learned thus far, with this parasitic penchant for survival. If it continues to mutate in order to endure, we could be dealing with a potentially catastrophic event.

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

July 25th 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Transcribed).

Alarming reports are emerging from the labs at Public Health. A reporter from The Guardian has a contact on the inside, who has come forward with some deeply disturbing and potentially incriminating information.  There are rumours that the lead scientist at the facility Dr. John Milton, has been using inmates from high security prisons as subjects for their experiments studying the parasite.

The reports are shocking. Subjects have allegedly been kept in isolation pods and subjected to tests involving drowning, and immolation.  Both male and female inmates from the aforementioned high security prisons have been antagonised and coupled together in order to recreate a violent sexual assault, for purposes of investigating the mechanism of infestation. There is rumour that a new hormone has surfaced, which Public Health are now referring to as LT1, which the female body secretes during a violent sexual attack. This is supposedly the catalyst when combined with semen internally. The details are a little convoluted because we don’t understand the details very well, however we have our best team analysing the reports.

The contact also leaked a short video of a subject enduring the ‘immolation phase’, which is horrific to say the least. We are cautious at this point given the advanced capability of video special effects, however every effort is being made to verify its authenticity.  Whilst the apparent attack on violence against women seems to be the core purpose of this parasite, we cannot condone the utilisation of non consenting human beings, even in the face of a biological catastrophe. Our investigations continue.

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

July 29th 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Transcribed).

We have received even more disturbing footage from the informant at Public Health. The informant has expressly forbidden publication of this information in the press for the time being, until they can be sure of providing enough incriminating evidence, along with an immunity deal.

The provided footage shows naked female subjects in glass isolation chambers, presumably women taken from our high security prisons. Male prisoners are then introduced and locked away, and left to do as they please. Given the violent nature of these men, it is not hard to deduce what happens in those chambers. Some of these assaults are more violent than others. Sometimes more than one male prisoner is put into the chambers, from what we can see up to six at a time. We have evidence that at least two female prisoners lost their lives during the onslaughts, whereafter a lot of yelling could be heard from the recording scientists, followed by security guards immobilising the prisoners with the use of what appeared to be cattle prods.

We can only assume that the female prisoners were to be kept alive, and on several occasions, the male prisoners went too far and killed them. I have seen some vile footage in my time, but this was beyond anything human. There was a great deal of blood, vomit, and every bodily fluid known to man. I came away from it feeling sickened and extremely shaken. When they finished with one round of prisoners, they simply hosed down the cells, and started again.

What information does Dr. Milton glean from this? I should like to pull him in for questioning, but doing this too quickly could jeopardise the safety of our informant. It is too valuable an asset to compromise at this point.

 

PUBLIC HEALTH REPORT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

August 2nd 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

We have collected a good number of parasites from the various experiments we have had the honour of performing here. As much this parasite is having a devastating effect on us, it is intensely fascinating to be able to study it up close. There are several differences between parasites that infest male and female biology. Parasites infesting male biology are inferior to their female counterparts. They are smaller, and have only basic anatomy. They are a translucent white in colour, and at full size measure roughly nine inches in length, with varying degrees of fatness. In male infestations, whole bundles of these things form, entwined with one another, feeding off the host. They appear quite mollusc like, producing a thin yellow slime that presumably aids their movement around the abdominal cavity of its host. We are unsure of why the host expels tinier versions of the parasite in vomit and faecal matter, and can only surmise that perhaps underdeveloped parasites are unnecessary and subtract from the nourishment of the more developed. Parasites appearing in sores and boils might also be prone to expulsion for much the same reason.

Male host parasites are very plain in appearance from the outside, with a small red ‘sucker’ at one end, and a bundle of pink tendrils at the other. Under observation, parasites link together inside their host to share nutrients, sucker to tendril. The tinier superfluous worms which face expulsion, have neither sucker nor tendrils.  Internally, these creatures are simplistic and serve to produce their yellow lubrication, and absorb nutrients.  The hissing noise they emit seems to induce explosive vomiting and head pain to anyone in close proximity.

Female host parasites are singular. It is almost like the a colony forms between the antagonist, and his victim, except they’re maintained separately. The ‘Queen’ resides in the female victim and absorbs nutrients as a human pregnancy would, even mimicking its life-cycle, along with causing morning sickness, unusual cravings, hormonal breakouts, lactation, and of course steady growth. We believe the Queen lays eggs towards the end of her gestation, which flow out of her and hatch inside the inky noxious fluid that breaks in a similar manner to waters breaking in a pregnant woman. We believe those eggs hatch to produce temporary guardians for the oncoming ‘birth’ which we haven’t actually witnessed yet. We don’t know if there is actually an event similar to traditional human birth, or if the Queens burst their way out in the same manner they do from male hosts. We only know that they explode violently if removed from the female host prematurely. We will therefore begin trials to see what happens when they’re carried to term.

Since we don’t possess an intact female host parasite yet, we cannot describe its physiology. We suspect they might be significantly superior to male host parasites, studies will continue.  We need to pin down an actual gestational period, along with developmental stages and such. We believe the Primary Case as seen in Emma and Dan, will be quite dissimilar to new findings given the rate at which these parasites are adapting.

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

August 15th 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Transcribed).

Our informant has now provided us with solid photographic evidence that our forensic team is processing, in addition to the clips and in-facility CCTV footage previously passed along. There are…women that we believe are prisoners, kept sedated in large pods. They appear to be heavily pregnant, hooked up to gods only know how many drips for whatever reason. Some of them are visibly scarred and bruised from what we think are the violent onslaughts we saw in previous footage from the cells. Two of the women look familiar from that footage, although we have still yet to identify them from prison records.

Aside from their predicament and previous scarring from prolonged sexual assault, they look healthy. Some of them appear more pregnant than others, they are clearly at different stages of parasitic development. Given that previous victims have survived by undergoing surgery at a crucial point during infestation, we are not sure what the purpose of this sedated pod party is. Previous accounts from the surgeon who saved Emma’s life during surgery in the Primary Case, said that the parasite exploded when it was removed, so what are they trying to achieve with this?

Unless..oh. Ohgod. What if they are trying to see what happens when a parasite is allowed to carry full term? That’s..sickening. I mean, I know they need to study a female host organism, but the idea of using those women as gestational units for experimental purposes is..abhorrent.  We need more information. Fuck. Shit, sorry I know this is official stuff but, this is getting creepier and I’m beginning to lose my ability to be entirely cool about this. Get it together Valentina. You need to get into that facility somehow.

PUBLIC HEALTH REPORT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

September 20th 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

We were right.

A full gestational period for a female host parasite, equates to one calendar month.  What we weren’t expecting, is what happens when full development occurs. Hosts go through a labour of sorts, but it is not one that produces offspring. As in the Primary Case, the same inky vile fluid gushes from the vagina, producing the newly hatched ‘guardian’ parasites which emit the vomit inducing hissing sound. That hissing serves as a preventative so the Queen can properly merge with her host, undisturbed.  The Queen, once full developed, undergoes a metamorphosis of sorts, which from what we have seen so far, spans roughly twelve hours from start to finish, some a little less, but nothing more. This is…excruciatingly painful for the host, so the fact that we sedated our subjects was for the best.

Their bloated abdomens could be seen convulsing and contorting at varied speeds throughout the ‘merge’, gradually diminishing in size down to their former un-infested state. On completion of the merge, the guardian parasites simply expire and break down into the same inky black fluid from which they hatched. The Queen reduces in size and slips down behind the uterus of the female host, her upper tendrils extending to curl around the Fallopian tubes and ovaries. Her lower tendrils secure themselves around the cervical external orifice, sitting perfectly still unless penetration occurs. Upon penetration, these tendrils protrude down through the cervix, and open in a flower like state, serving as a protective barrier into the uterus.  We do not know if this is to prevent semen from entering the uterus, or if it is simply a safeguard. Given that the victim in an attack secretes LT1, perhaps this newfound symbiosis is a secondary wall of defence. Should sexual intercourse happen as a result of an entirely consensual union, then we hope nothing untoward will occur. Naturally, we need to see what happens during a sexual assault with a symbiont in situ.

We kept our female hosts sedated for a further twenty-four hours post merge.  At that point, we witnessed their bodies go through something of a visible transformation. Any scars, bruising, or damage otherwise incurred from their sexual assault, completely disappeared. They are of course still prisoners and as such will spend the remainder of their lives here at the facility with my team, but this facility is a preferable environment to that of a high security prison. This will allow us to conduct innumerable studies to our benefit.

Female hosts or Taliones as we now refer to them, were up and on their feet with an extremely healthy appetite and notable motivation, forty-eight hours post merge. Taliones who reported any long term illness prior to their arrival, now appear to be free of any ailments. We naturally assume that these new symbiotic relationships require no extra management, dietary or otherwise, however we will put subjects through their paces to see precisely how they have been altered overall. Images and scans performed at each developmental stage throughout infestation have given us the data we need to provide authorities with answers to some of their questions, but we still have much work to do, with the male hosts particularly.

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT:

PERSONAL NOTES.

September 30th 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Transcribed).

I have been told in no uncertain terms, that I am not allowed to seek a warrant to gain access to the facility. Those above me aka those who are friendly with Dr. Milton at Public Health, have told me to back off and leave our investigations alone unless something significantly new happens in the public eye.  This was not unexpected, this level of bullshit, is something I am used to. I am quite unfazed at using coarse language at the moment, since we are in fact dealing with something horrific. The powers that be are happy to allow our informant to play both sides so that we are moderately in the loop, but won’t allow me to push for access based on that information. As usual, a great deal of my work is profoundly frustrating.  Unfortunately, our informant is becoming more and more reluctant to provide new evidence. They have been caught once in an area they weren’t supposed to be in, and now believe they’re being closely monitored as a result.

PUBLIC HEALTH REPORT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

October 10th 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

Progress with the Taliones continues to be…interesting. When coupled with previously violent male prisoners, their apprehension seems to be somewhat diminished, and given the results of said couplings, it’s not hard to figure out why. We put them in cells one on one with new extremely violent male prisoners, aaaand naturally the men thought they were in for a good time. Whilst the Taliones appeared less agitated than before, they all carried a steely kind of expression on their faces that was…unnerving. They clearly didn’t want to interact with these violent men at all, however for the most part they did issue a warning beforehand, not to touch them. Of course this only fueled the men’s enthusiasm for their brand of sexual assault more, which led ultimately to their being severely mutilated, if not actually dead within moments.

What we witnessed, was extraordinary. Within seconds of another violent sexual assault taking place, we heard bloodcurdling male screams coming from the cells. Our Taliones stood naked and motionless, with long silvery blood covered tendrils slowly recoiling back inside. It seems when a man enters them without consent, those tendrils wrap around their penis, or whatever they have chosen to penetrate them with, and…tear it clean off. Another variation in one case was those tendrils pulling the penis and balls as far into the body as possible, before crushing them mercilessly.  The CCTV footage shows the Talione involved looking directly into the eyes of the man, almost as if she was enjoying what she was doing.

We attempted to reattach one member to the prisoner it was ripped from, but found that the tissue had died almost immediately. We believe that LT1 present in the yellowy trails left by the tendrils, has a detrimental effect on flesh, as a means of defence. Three prisoners bled out before we had chance to save them. The prisoner with the crushed genitals was rushed into surgery, and will now spend the remainder of his life pissing into a bag.

Since we know that prisoners are often rife with sexually transmitted diseases, we were quite surprised to find that testing on the Taliones post merge, show that they are now in perfect sexual health. This has a significant amount of potential, however it will take a little more time to ascertain if the symbiotic presence in their body is enough to reverse the likes of HIV and AIDS. We may have to draft extra prisoners in for that particular purpose. It won’t be difficult to encourage prisoners to come forward of their own volition if they think we might be able to cure them. However, we can and will use force if necessary.

A number of male facility staff are growing increasingly uneasy around the Taliones. Given the things they have witnessed either via CCTV or by direct observation outside our cells, they are aware of just how little power they could hold over them if they felt threatened. Given the mutations we have already witnessed, it is making male staff wonder if they are even safe to be around them.  We are therefore gradually rolling back the involvement of male staff working in close proximity with the Taliones. I will not be including myself in that rollback, as I am not intimidated in the slightest.

There are studies I would like to conduct in consensual sexual relationships, but finding willing subjects is difficult. Given the recovery time a victim needs after being subjected to sexual assault, it might be some time before we are lucky enough to find a couple who are willing to let us work with them. Any sign of pressure or duress, could jeopardise our purpose.  We….well I have an idea involving our Primary Case, Emma. I don’t quite know how to go about this, because there cannot be any coercion whatsoever, but she NEEDS to comply. She and Lucie have both been so helpful with our work and seem content to stay with us, but I cannot deny that they would be more useful if they would at least listen to my ideas.

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT:

PERSONAL NOTES.

October 15th 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Transcribed).

Our informant has now gone completely dark. We don’t know if this is because something has happened to them, or because they’re too afraid to communicate with us. We are therefore considering that a dead lead.

Unfortunately, another twist in this parasitic nightmare has taken us back into hospital. I received a call from a very panicked nurse at King’s College Accident and Emergency. She said there was a male escort who came in after he’d been sexually assaulted a month ago. He’s exhibiting the same symptoms as the woman in the Primary Case, Emma.  How the fuck is that even possible?

PUBLIC HEALTH NOTES.

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

October 20th 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

A rather peculiar case has emerged which if confirmed, might be the biggest mutation to date.  King’s College Accident and Emergency contacted our facility with something both terrifying and astonishing.   A young man, more specifically a gay male escort found his way there after he started bloating up, vomiting profusely, lactating, and displaying other symptoms similar to a pregnant woman. He arrived via ambulance in quite a severe state, mainly because he’d left it until the last possible minute to try to seek help. Hospital notes tell us that he could barely whisper because his throat was so sore from projectile vomiting, and he was so severely dehydrated that his skin looked ill fitted and droopy. He is only nineteen years old.  We unofficially removed him from the hospital and brought him to our facility, where we’re keeping him under the strictest level of observation.

Since we haven’t been able to speak to him prior admission to our facility, the only information we have to go on is that he is displaying these symptoms, and that his last client raped him.  As with the Primary Case, absolutely nothing shows up on any imaging we’ve taken. Samples we have drawn show no signs of foreign hormones anywhere in his endocrine system. He is currently in a medically induced coma on his side, to minimise the choking hazard from the waves of vomit that keep spewing form his mouth, which only seems to consist of watery bile. Having fitted him with an ostomy pouch, his waste tests entirely normal, aside from its perpetual liquid state.  Given that we are providing him with intravenous nutrients, all we can do is wait until something significant emerges. If this is indeed a mutation of the Primary Case, he will be the first male merge subject. We will not make the mistake of removing anything from the host on this occasion, assuming he experiences merging.

PERSONAL NOTES.

October 21st 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

Further to my musing on an idea involving the Primary Case, I have brought someone into the facility for the sole purpose of getting close to her. This is significantly unethical, however it must be done. The man I have introduced into the equation is someone we suppose she will find physically and emotionally attractive. After spending time with facility mental health, her profile shows her to be quite demure and submissive, although she certainly has no issue with offering her opinions when the need arises.  Her interests are very varied, some quite obscure and some mainstream, but we are aiming to pique her interest with someone who shares albeit falsely, her love of Japanese horror films, and associated lore.

Our male subject is ex military, now working in the private sector. We will bring him in under the guise of added security for the Primary Case, given that we share the facility with extremely violent criminals. He has instructions to slowly and gently get as close to her as possible, which will take time. I have neglected to give him the finer details of the situation, since it’s on a need to know basis. He does not need to know this could prove to be fatal to him if this plan should fail. Physically he is a good deal taller than her. He stands at 189cms as opposed to her tiny 152cms. His military training afforded him the typical well built and toned physique, and aesthetically, he is very well polished with dark hair and a square jaw that I am told women find very attractive. This might seem like a section in a romance novel, however this needs to be convincing. He is a very calm and confident fellow who carries himself well, has no need to raise his voice to be heard, and seems like an ideal candidate to hopefully make this work. Whilst he knows he has to work under pretence to get close to her, he is not in any way malicious, and only believes he has to get her to confide in him. I am…hoping they will couple of their own accord. This will take a certain degree of encouragement and manipulation on my part, but it is entirely necessary.

What needs to be done before that, is significantly more brutal.

Since the Primary Case was operated on during the process of her merge, with the Queen…exploding all over the operating theatre, we need to make sure she fully merges. We will have to make sure she is re-impregnated. Given the presence of sexually violent men in our cells, that shouldn’t be too much of a problem.

PERSONAL NOTES.

October 22nd 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Transcribed).

Against orders, I went to King’s College Accident and Emergency today to request access to the young man I mentioned in my previous entry. When I arrived and asked to see him, I was told he’d been discharged. Nobody would give me any information or leads, and because I was there in an unofficial capacity, I couldn’t press for anything.  They wouldn’t even give me his name. I know this means he’s been moved. Nobody even mentioned a warrant to me, which makes me think it would be futile even if I had one.

My other concern is our dead lead. I’m also aware I’m being followed, but it’s not by anyone from the Met. I’m now writing this so that if I should go quiet or worse end up missing, someone will know what I was pursuing.  After seeing the footage from that facility, I can’t let this go. I have to appeal to my superiors and hope they will see sense. I don’t know where that will get me, but I have to try.

PERSONAL NOTES.

October 23rd 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Transcribed).

My appeal did not go well. I’m now suspended. Who’s fucking pocket are they in? I’m already being followed. I might as well give them something to follow me over. I need to get into that facility. I need to find the informant, find out if they’re safe, and find out what’s going on there.

PERSONAL JOURNAL.

October 30th 2017

Emma

(handwritten).

This is the first thing I’ve written since I was admitted to the secure Public Health facility. I thought I was safe here. Lucie and I have been staying here in relative comfort and security since I fell gravely ill. I know Dan is dead. In probably the most horrific manner possible given what’s happening. Nobody will tell me exactly what happened but I know it was violent. I beg Lucie not to leave my side, not that I really have to beg her. After what happened a few nights ago, she’s more determined than ever to make sure nothing else happens. We both know we have fuck all power here, now more than anything. We really thought we were safe. I’m so broken. I can’t stop crying. I was beginning to feel human again, after several cycles of therapy and the help of medication, and now? Now I’m back at square one.

A man, someone I’ve never seen before got into my room in the early hours of the morning. They promised us we’d be safe. He came in and he forced himself on me, there in the dark. I couldn’t see his face, it was too dark to see. His hands were sticky with sweat and he reeked of stale perspiration like he’d not bathed in forever. He breath was foul, and the awful, brutal things he said to me were unrepeatable. I tried to fight at first but he felt like he was gigantic, I could barely move through his onslaught. He raped me. I am a mess. How did he get in here? Who, being so physically vile and repellent would be IN here, in here with me? I lay silent for hours until daylight, it wasn’t until Lucie came in my room that she found me laid there, reeking of his horrible stench with silent tears soaking the bed-sheets. She went berserk.

I want to die. I want to leave. Both of us do, we don’t want to be here. They won’t let us leave. Dr. Milton has put extra security on my door. I’m not allowed to leave my room. Lucie can come and sit with me, but I can’t leave. The man on the door, isn’t cold or disaffected, but he still scares me. I just want to go home with Lucie.

I vomited this morning. I’m so afraid. What if it’s happening again? 

PERSONAL NOTES.

October 31st 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

The attempt on the Primary Case was made last night. I already have the prisoner locked away in the lowest levels of the facility, isolated from the rest of the inmates. We aren’t going to do anything with him, we will simply let the cycle complete itself, and incinerate the remains after it takes its natural course. Why bother wasting medical resources on him? He’s outlived his usefulness. He outlived it once he landed himself in prison. They’re all vermin, absolutely no use to society whatsoever. They don’t even deserve to be called human.

Our Taliones did something…extraordinary during the small hours of the morning whilst the Primary Case was undergoing what was hopefully re-impregnation. We keep them apart in their own cells now, for safety. They rose from their beds, and stood upright, naked, staring directly at the CCTV cameras in their cells. The tendrils from their Queens protruded down from inside them, and started glowing a silvery white sheen in the dark. They opened their mouths and that same…hissing sound the larval parasites make when a woman goes through the merge, cut through the air to the point where it almost deafened the security guards watching from their stations. The sound grew in intensity and the tendrils slithered and glowed, dripping with bio-luminescent fluid that we later discovered to be loaded with LT1.

It’s almost as if they could sense what was happening, and felt the need to draw attention to it. I find myself transfixed by them, utterly in awe, but newly afraid. I was not initially afraid of them until I witnessed this phenomenon. Something else in that bio-luminescent fluid made two of the mercenaries standing outside the cell blocks crumple to the floor and cower like panic-stricken toddlers. One of them even started sobbing, and lost control of his bladder.  They reported being in intense pain, and several of them vomited profusely. I replaced our own male staff with these privately hired mercenaries as I hoped they’d have a little more substance to them. Clearly I was wrong.

If this continues, I don’t know how if we will be able to contain them. If they break out of the cells, we might be in serious trouble, at least the men will be.  I’ll have to draft female mercenaries in until I figure out the next move.

PERSONAL JOURNAL.

October 31st 2017

Lucie

(handwritten).

We need to get the fuck out of here. I don’t know who that man on Emma’s door is. I stay in there as long as I’m permitted to with her, sometimes I can stay in there for a whole day, and others they tell me I have to leave so they can do tests etc. I don’t know what they’re saying to her. She’s being sick again, violently sick, and it’s only been a week since that…animal violated her. How the fuck did he even get into her ROOM? Why wasn’t it on lock-down as it usually is at night?

I’ve never warmed to Dr. Milton. I’m intensely grateful that we were given a safe haven after the nightmare with Emma and what she endured, and jesusfuck that stuff with Dan was..unspeakably horrible. I don’t give one single fuck about what happened to him, he deserved it, but to get to know what happened, even the little that we know about it, how does that happen? Why can’t we go home? I have asked to see Dr. Milton several times, but he’s too busy and engrossed in research that I keep getting fobbed off. The lead nurse won’t even entertain me asking about him anymore. Everything about this is wrong. Emma is so sick, AGAIN. She’s not even trying to be a person right now, all she does is vomit, cry and stare at the floor. She’s given up. She’s completely non-verbal. She won’t eat anything. They have her hooked up to drips and gods only know what else, and she’s under observation around the clock. The man outside her room is…well. I’m not sure what he’s doing other than guarding. He keeps looking at her with a soft expression almost like he feels for her situation, he’s not like the other guards around here that seem like robots.

I asked if I could contact my parents. I was denied. We can’t use the phone, have access to any WiFi or the like. The nurses say they’ve told our families that we’re safe, but I don’t believe them for a second. We’re being kept here against our will, but given the state Emma is in, I don’t know that we should be anywhere else right now. They’re in her room prodding her again, she’s just blankly staring into space. I can’t do anything. I’m completely powerless.

PERSONAL NOTES.

November 4th 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Transcribed).

I went to The Guardian offices. I had to know exactly who the informant was on the inside, and I was clever enough about it to apply the right pressure to the journalist who came forward. I didn’t really want to do that, but I needed to figure out who the informant was.  I need to know if they’re alive, and if so, what aren’t they telling me?  I have a name, but getting it was a fucking nightmare. Fortunately I had an ace up my sleeve, the journo in question was notoriously at the mercy of a close personal relationship with Mr. Jack Daniels on repeated occasions, some of those occasions whilst being behind the wheel of his car. I said in no uncertain terms that if he wanted those allegations to come to fruition, that I’d be happy to oblige. All he had to do to stop me from doing that, was to give up the name of his informant, and I’d be out of his way. He dropped a name fairly quickly after that revelation, and pleaded with me to say it didn’t come from him. The last thing a journo needs is for his informants to learn he has a slack jaw.

PERSONAL JOURNAL.

November 5th 2017

Lucie

(handwritten).

Dr. Milton is not even pretending to be empathetic at this point. We were never people to him, just experiments to study. What scares me right now is if he arranged for her to be…violated to put her back into this position. We know what’s going to happen. We know she’s going to be sick again. Why? WHY would you do that to someone?

The man on the door looks as exasperated as we are.

They told me I can’t see her for a few days. I’m not allowed out of my room. I keep trying to listen through the walls but I can’t hear a fucking thing. I have to get out of here, I have to get help from someone and tell them what’s going on. We aren’t fucking animals.

PUBLIC HEALTH NOTES.

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

November 10th 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

Now that our Primary Case is once again impregnated, I can take steps to make sure her merge takes place successfully, and hopefully push she and Tom together. I’ve sequestered her friend Lucie to her own room so she can’t interfere, and Tom currently guards between both sets of quarters. Should the Primary Case fail to comply at any point, I’ll just threaten to throw Lucie in with the male prisoners, which she doesn’t know exist yet. Showing her footage of their antics with the female prisoners prior to them becoming Taliones should prove persuasive in that regard.

I am keeping the Primary Case heavily sedated whilst she goes through her internal metamorphosis. She is kept clean and cared for by the nurses, and I purposely leave the blinds in her quarters open to Tom can see her looking vulnerable. The anti-emetics in her drips mean she’s essentially a sleeping beauty waiting for him to swoon over her, or so I hope.

The young gay man we acquired is also proving a highly interesting state of affairs. His pelvic area is slightly distended, and whilst he is still in an induced coma, his body is doing some peculiar things. He is lactating colostrum with a secretion that’s not LT1, but similar in structure. It’s not a significant variance, and so we’re calling it LT1i, for now.  He is no longer vomiting, but his skin…sweats a yellow watery liquid which feels hot to the touch, but leaves no trace of a burn behind. That too contains LT1i, although only a scarce amount. We can only assume that it’s similar to the slime that parasites slither around in when infesting a rapist. Assuming his situation develops in the same amount of time as it would in a woman, he should be ready to merge in approximately two weeks from now. Again, we are not sure if that will occur, but all we have to do is wait.

 

PERSONAL NOTES.

November 11th 2017

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

(Partially transcribed).

Ed Sexby. That’s the informant’s name.  I might be suspended, but I have some of my own contacts who can get me information when red tape prevents me from getting what I need. Downside is I’m going to owe this chick big time. She got me everything, even his credit report and looking at it, he’s a fucking wreck financially. I’d rather not misuse that information, but I need to get in, and he’s likely already dead when he’s found out, and not by my hand. Harsh, but not unrealistic to surmi#\££#amp;para;£&>££$~###~##¶¶¶¶¶¶¶¶¶¶¶¶¶¶

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PERSONAL JOURNAL.

November 15th 2017

Lucie

(handwritten).

The guy on the door, his name is Tom. Tom Edwards. Milton barked his name demanding assistance for someone who appears to have gotten into the facility from the outside, does this mean someone out there knows something weird is happening in here?

They weren’t gentle with her either, and Milton was ranting about someone called Saxby? Or was it Sexby, I can’t remember and I’m scribbling all this down so I have a timeline of the stuff I’m hearing. I think she’s in the room next door to me, they’ve got Tom on the opposite side of the corridor watching all three of us. His eyes are usually on Emma’s room, I can see the concern in his face from here. It’s kind of sad, I loathe the fact that he’s working for that…bastard Milton, but he’s watching over Emma in a manner that makes me think she might actually be safer from Milton with Tom around. It’s not like I can do a whole lot from here, and I’m fucking worried sick. They still won’t let me see her. There’s no need, they tell me, she’s sleeping. That doesn’t mean I don’t need to fucking see her!  

I can hear crashing about and banging on the walls from the next room. I don’t think our new resident is taking kindly to her new incarceration. She hasn’t been physically hurt that I could see, but they’ve riled her up plenty.  I don’t know what the fuck she is doing in there, but given the walls are pretty thick, it’s very violent.

The lead nurse told me I can come out of my room tomorrow, IF I stop asking about Emma and demanding to contact my family on the outside.  Too fucking right I’m going to leave my room, but if they think I’m going to give up on either of those things, they’re delusional.

PERSONAL NOTES.

November 20th 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

The last few days have been difficult at best.

We are currently holding Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero in our facility. We have a leak, and it would appear she has been colluding with them in order to get in here. We don’t know how much she knows at this point, but given her pushy demands for information over the last few weeks, all of which we denied, we can only surmise that her superiors denied her requests to investigate us, which resulted in her suspension from duty. Nobody with legitimate permission would attempt to get into the facility in such a ridiculous manner. It…helps when you have the Deputy Commissioner in your pocket to manipulate the right people into keeping things going the way you’d like them to. As far as he and the rest of the force are concerned, she is using her suspension time to ‘take a much needed holiday.’

She’s going to be staying here with us for the foreseeable future. I have yet to decide what to do with Sexby, as he was their informant. He is the reason she managed to get in here.  I need to know what he told them, and how long they’ve known.

Our male host is doing remarkably well. His vitals are excellent, and aside from the changes we have already noted, the only difference is a slight increase in abdominal distention, which now pulses softly. He is we hope, due in four days. Imaging shows a slight anomaly forming around the seminal vesicle, but nothing that explains the pulsing growth.

I have had to remove the male mercenaries from guarding the Taliones.  It has become evident that when they are…agitated they are able to immobilise men completely. That is unsafe to say the least. We almost had a repeat incident when we found Cavallero, the Taliones could sense something was going on, even from deep inside the facility. They haven’t properly settled since Emma’s re-impregnation, mainly because they can sense that Lucie is somewhat stressed worrying about her. If I don’t get this under control soon, I fear losing grasp of the facility won’t be our only problem. The female mercenaries I have assigned to guard them seem to have a calming effect, although I don’t know how long this will last. I have considered sedating the Taliones, although I am unsure how effective this will be given their current abilities. Whilst I was previously unafraid of them, I am becoming increasingly aware that I might have been a little premature with that judgement. From now on, only our female scientists will work in close proximity with them, with remote guidance from me if necessary. Given that the Taliones are all convicted prisoners, I would not like to think what they might do given too much freedom.

What to do about Cavallero…given the noise the Taliones made when she was bring ‘processed’, means I can’t apply any kind of pressure to her. I can’t sedate her because then she’s not going to talk. Even though the hissing the Taliones made was in the bowels of the facility, male staff all the way up here reported extreme nausea, intense head pain, and some actually vomited explosively at their workstations. When they did the same thing during Emma’s re-impregnation, reports from all over the facility came in with similar reactions. Whilst this was unfortunate, it will hopefully give some indication as to the radius of effect. I myself felt rather dizzy and nauseous, however I assumed it was one of the migraines I suffer with when I work too hard and sleep too little. Given that I was several floors up from the Taliones during both incidents, I imagine we can safely keep our male crew working here provided we maintain a workable distance. A little nausea and head pain shouldn’t be enough to halt their work.

PUBLIC HEALTH REPORT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

November 26th 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

The male host survived. As hoped, he did undergo a metamorphosis which was…messy to say the least. The pulsing growth around his pelvic area started to ripple and flatten out, his body oozing copious amounts of the hot yellow secretion that we concluded was part of a cooling process. His temperature rose to 110°F, reaching far into hyperpyrexia, and yet somehow he didn’t crash. His ostomy bag swelled with thick black liquid to the point where we simply drained it into an open bucket. The stench was putrid and hung around in the air like a heavy blanket, causing several people to vomit. He remained sedated through the entire process, so it is as yet unknown how painful this metamorphosis would be in comparison to merging in female hosts.

Imaging revealed a small organism latched onto the seminal vesicle, slender tendrils spiral around and through the vesicle itself, extending down through the ejaculatory duct, and finally into the testes.  Extensive testing is ongoing to ascertain what its purpose is. We have theories, but it would be premature to speculate.  Given that there are plenty of highly violent male prisoners being held here, I imagine it will be quite easy to recreate this instance several times over, especially since some of them have a fondness for other men.

I may have a use for Sexby after all.

PERSONAL JOURNAL

November 30th 2017

Lucie

(Handwritten).

The lead nurse let me see Emma today, under the watchful eye of Tom.  She looks so frail but her belly is huge. God I despite Milton for doing this to her. She didn’t deserve this, nobody does.

The woman in the next room, I saw her briefly this morning. She was ranting at Dr. Milton, and he was doing his best to keep her calm, but it wasn’t working very well. I think she’s a police officer, from the language she was using and the way she talked about her chief, it seems like she shouldn’t be in here, but she found her way in all the same. I don’t know if it was the volume of her voice, but several of the men around her started to wince and clutch their heads, one of them even gagged like he was about to vomit. It was all very strange. Tom looked a little green around the gills too, but he managed to maintain his composure.

I don’t trust what’s going on. They’re letting me bunk up with the woman, her name is Valentina Cavallero. I was right, she’s a police officer, CID in fact. I don’t like this. The nurses and Dr. Milton have gone from being militant and cold to being relaxed and open again. I can see Emma whenever I want as long as Tom is there. They’re buttering us up and I don’t know why. Valentina is as suspicious as I am and is reluctant to talk to me in any detail, and I don’t blame her. She’s constantly agitated. Ohgod I can hear screaming from Emma’s room, it’s not her, it’s one of the nurses..

PUBLIC HEALTH REPORT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

November 30th 2017

Dr. John Milton

(Transcribed).

The Primary Case subject Emma, has successfully merged. Even sedated, it was a disgusting affair to behold. One of the newer nurses couldn’t cope, and started screaming the moment black slime started spewing out of her. Granted, the stench is quite overpowering, but there are worse things to deal with in here. Oddly, Emma actually came out of sedation after her merge completed, which we were not expecting, but she has an eerie sense of calm about her, and she looks…different.

Her eyes are now yellow much like the secretions we have seen from various hosts. Her limbal ring is an intense magenta colour, whilst the whites of her eyes are quite brilliant and seem to lack any visible capillaries. Her hair and skin have a kind of sheen to them, which intensifies when she feels threatened. We haven’t seen this on (transcription incomplete)

PUBLIC HEALTH REPORT:

INTERNAL EYES ONLY.

LEAD NURSE

DECEMBER 1ST 2017

(Recorded).

We are in chaos. Dr. Milton underestimated the capability of the Taliones. Emma, the Primary Case is some kind of Matriarch, the others in the basement stirred wildly when she was fully recovered. Valentina and Lucie, started screaming at Dr. Milton, and it set Emma’s Queen off. Ohgod, the noise. It doesn’t have any effect on women aside from our hearing it, but the men? ALL of the men dropped to their knees and were incapacitated. They were bleeding from their eyes and ears, some deafened with burst ear drums, and blind with pain.  Emma dragged Dr. Milton off with Valentina and Lucie in tow, further down into the facility.

She’s letting the others out.

Dr. John Milton

December 1st 2017

(Smartphone audio).

I am locked in a containment cell in the basement. Emma, clearly the Matriarch has…released the Taliones from holding. I can hear screaming from the male prisoners, I…don’t think they’re going to survive.  They all followed her immediately, like they knew she was The First, even though she lost her initial Queen.  I don’t know what they’re going to do with me. My head hurts, so much. It’s pressurised and I can feel it throbbing all the way into my throat. My eyesight is heavily blurred. Before they left me here, Emma’s tendrils protruded and left some of that same glowing secretion behind on my neck. I cannot stand up because my legs are like lead, and trying to move makes me vomit. I am essentially immobilised.

Emma  

December 1st 2017

(Smartphone audio).

All the men in the facility are either incapacitated, or dead, barring Dr. Milton, Tom, and the newly merged man I need to locate. Tom, even when temporarily incapacitated, was helpful once recovered. The Taliones are safe and comfortable in the main staff suites at the facility. Lucie and Valentina are anxious but eager for us to leave, but we can’t. Not yet. The female staff are bewildered and concerned about the men who are still alive, but we mean them no harm; if anyone is to blame for this situation, it is Dr. Milton who is currently spending some time in a cell in the lower levels. He used prisoners to experiment on like they were disposable. He is truly VILE.

I am sending Tom downstairs to attend to Dr. Milton, with strict instructions to provide food and water, but not to talk to him. The female mercenaries from the basement are now up here with us.  Dr. Milton can’t escape his cell, as I have the remote lock-down code, and nobody else is down there for him to manipulate. I need him alive.

I have this craving to protect the others, but something specifically about Valentina and Lucie is twisting me around inside. It’s not painful, it’s more a need to be close to them. Whenever I am within five feet of either one, my tendrils stir inside me, like I need to do something. I can’t seem to settle.

Something weird is going on with my hands. There are two small growths in the palms of each hand. They’re not painful, but a small opening almost like a lip is forming, and it’s leaking the same glowing liquid like the tendrils of my Queen. They itch when I get close to the other women. The Taliones don’t seem to have them yet. Is it just me? I should be afraid, but I’m not. I haven’t felt this secure in a long time. They have the same yellow eyes at I do, but only I have the magenta ring.

Dr. John Milton

December 2nd 2017

(Smartphone audio).  

Tom came down to me with food and water, but despite my attempts to talk to him, he wouldn’t speak. He shot me a look of pure disgust, and walked away. If they’re feeding me, they must need me for something, there’s no point in feeding someone you don’t want alive.

I am exhausted. Whatever Emma left on my neck isn’t weakening, and as much as I need to eat, I cannot stomach the food I was left with. I can manage water, but I cannot e..(broken audio)

Detective Chief Inspector Valentina Cavallero

December 2nd 2017

(Smartphone audio).  

The Taliones are amazing. The female mercenaries that were guarding them were given permission to leave, however they all declined, and wanted to remain with us at the facility.  The previously incapacitated men have been dealt with by the nurses onsite, and Emma had Tom drag Milton back up here to keep in a secure room. He needs to tend to Jack, the poor male sexworker who was horribly sexually assaulted. He’s only nineteen years old, and gods only know how many more like him are out there, lost and alone. I..(sound of phone clattering down to the floor with muffled voices)

Emma

December 4th 2017

(Transcribed).

Lucie and Valentina are in some kind of torpor, or that’s what Milton called it, god I hate having to keep him around the fucking horrible bastard. Tom watches him like a hawk. It’s been three days since anyone in the facility had contact with the outside world. I forbade Milton or any of the staff from contacting anyone until I figure out what to do with my Taliones.

When I touched Valentina to get her attention whilst she was dictating something into her phone, one of the growths from my hand shot out a fine tendril that quickly wrapped itself around her wrist, burrowing through the skin on her palm. It was so fast, I don’t know if it was painless. She collapsed to the floor and has been out cold ever since. Lucie came running and before I told her to stay away, she reached for me and the same thing happened. I couldn’t stop it.

The Taliones gathered around me and softly told me not to worry. They held out their hands and showed me they have the same tiny little lips forming in their palms. They said it’s okay. They say we can fix things now. What do they mean fix things?

Jack came out and told me the same. It’s the first time he’s spoken since he stabilised. He’s so quiet and gentle, I don’t know if he was that way before. He’s got the same growth, but only on one palm. Milton referred to his symbiotic organism as a consort, because it’s much smaller than our Queens.

What am I supposed to do with this?  

Tom came to tell me that fucker Milton somehow got a message outside. They’re coming for us. The country is in crisis, and they’re coming for us.

Jack

December 5th 2017.

(Smartphone audio).

Our Queen is giving Milton to my sisters..

They’re closing in on him now, all of them with their tendrils glowing and that beautiful hissing they make, I thought it would hurt but it doesn’t. Not now I have my little friend inside me. I feel so much better. They’ve gotten to him and they’re shredding his clothes, and now they’re clawing and ripping him away in great bloody chunks of flesh and sinew. His innards are fatter than I thought they’d be, how did they all fit inside him? His skin tears like wet tissue paper, and his screaming has gone from high pitched bloodcurdling, breathless shrieking to wet gurgling and…oh..

He’s dead now. They de-fleshed him in less than five minutes. I can see his broken and mangled bones glistening in the harsh light. I think I would have been sick before. Not now, not now. Everything is good now.

Bye bye Dr. Milton..