Mind & Body

I’m puking again. The cold porcelain of my toilet has grown all too familiar these last few days.

“Is this going to be a regular thing?” A disappointed voice behind me asks.

I don’t know. I think I’m just getting over something. Sorry.

There’s an uncomfortable conversation waiting for me when I climb back into bed. I’d rather sit here and stare at the bits and bobs floating around from my stomach, swirling like a choreographed reminder of poor decisions. 

Liv got home early for me again and I’ve repaid her with another night of empty promises.

Something steals my attention in the toilet bowl. I dart around, trying to find it again. 

It squirms in the fluid. It’s nearly microscopic. No bigger than a fly. Is that a tiny… leg? 

I rub the fogginess from my eyes and it’s gone.

 

“Why would you have sex with me if you knew you were getting over something,” Liv asks when I finally build up the courage to return. She very much has a point. But there’s a difference between having sex and trying to have sex. 

It’s just hard sometimes. 

She waits for an answer and it never comes. She’s patient with me. Sometimes I take advantage of that. I pretend like I’m formulating a considerable thought, when in reality I’m hiding in the corner of my head where I can avoid decision-making. 

I can feel her eyes on me. Suddenly the glass of water on my nightstand looks fascinating… she got me a glass of water, damn. 

I’m really sorry. Tomorrow night I promise I won’t puke. And I’m not puking because you’re gross or anything. You know the feeling when you’ve eaten raw fish and you also hate yourself? That’s the type of puke we’re talking about. 

She leans over. Thinks for a moment. Then she kisses me. 

I love when she touches me. Sometimes it makes me cry.

But I didn’t brush my teeth after puking so this feels weird. 

I shove her. Hard. Away from me. Did I mean to do that? I didn’t think about doing that. I must have bruised her. The way she looks at me kills me. She turns over without a word. 

Why did I do that?

 

𐫱 𐫱 𐫱

 

There is a man in front of me, yelling. I don’t remember how I got here. I really hope I didn’t drive myself.

Did he also just puke and then not brush his teeth? Smells like it. 

The droning of industrial machinery whirrs all around, as usual, making it extremely hard to hear. I’ve forgotten my ear plugs again. I’m not smart enough for this job, and I’m certainly not qualified enough to handle anything that touches an aircraft. If the pilots knew what kind of toad had a hand in building their plane, I think they’d probably find that guy and puke on him. 

As I’m mulling over the possibility of being puked on, I realize this guy yelling in front of me already has puke on him. Weird. 

Turns out I’ve puked on him. This is my boss, I realize. I wish I could hear what he was saying now. It’s probably better I don’t, though. 

Bennie and Maria assist me on my way to a restroom. They’re good friends to me. Good work friends, at least. You know the difference. Bennie typically bails me out of most situations but I’ve yet to return the favor. Probably because he’s the upstanding-citizen-type, and doesn’t need bailing out. 

A surge of guilt and pleasure converge upon seeing Maria. She leans close to my ear as we walk. Her warm voice makes my neck tingle. I haven’t seen her since…

“Stop sending flowers,” she whispers urgently. 

What? 

I didn’t… what flowers? 

I couldn’t be stupid enough to send flowers. 

But she’s adamant I had bouquets of marigolds and daisies delivered to her place… oddly specific. When would I even have had time to do that? I’m not exactly swimming in free time between puking at home and puking at work. 

This conversation is hushed enough to keep Bennie unaware but he knows what’s up. He doesn’t judge, at least not to my face, and I love him for it.

As we round a corner, I spot two assemblers fondling each other behind the unfinished heap of an engine. One of their name’s is Trish, I think. Good for her. 

 

I insist they leave me alone once I’m in the restroom. Maria meets my eyes and asks if she’ll see me tomorrow; it’s phrased more as a statement than a question but whatever. I know I really shouldn’t but I say okay. 

Now that I’m in here I don’t have to vomit again, thankfully. Although I didn’t think I needed to the first time. 

I’m splashing my face when I hear heaving in the stall behind me. Maybe someone else hurled on their boss and ended up here. It certainly sounds like it.

Something possesses me to suddenly turn around and open their stall.

A large, curly-haired man is slumped over the toilet bowl, dry-heaving. My hand reaches out and grabs the back of his collar. It’s damp with sweat. My hand tears his head away from the bowl so I can look at his face. It’s a man I don’t recognize, half in a daze it seems but nonetheless confused why a stranger is staring him in the eyes while he’s trying to do his business… then I’m struck by how incredibly inhuman his eyes appear. Milky white, glossed over. What the hell is wrong with this guy? Why am I looking at him? Why am I doing this? 

My hand lets go. 

What was that? I can’t shake the feeling that I’m someone’s puppet, controlled by strings. I’m having trouble keeping my own limbs under control. 

Hopefully I’m just getting over something.

 

𐫱 𐫱 𐫱

 

Now I’m standing in the familiar hallway of an apartment building. Why or how, I don’t know. I’m banging loudly on a front door. I feel scared. Like I need to talk to someone. I hope she’s here. Especially after our last encounter. 

Liv answers the door. 

“What do you want, Cal?”

I’m sorry.

I don’t remember what I wanted. I’m just scared.

I plead like an asshole until she lets me in, at which point the coziness of not being alone overtakes the distress of my recent ailments. Her place always smells like home to me. I think it’s rose water. 

I just want to remember this. 

 

𐫱 𐫱 𐫱

 

The strangest part of today was not Maria’s absence, but the collective confusion over what we had just built. 

Again, I can’t remember how I’ve gotten here. And by the disturbed tone in the room, it seems others feel the same way. I catch the eyes of other mechanics near me. Are they all hungover too?  

In the center of the floor is not our usual unfinished mess of wings and parts but the makings of an enormous… shell. At least that’s what it looks like to me. I overhear someone else say cornucopia. I guess I could see that too. I suppose the question on everyone’s mind is…

“Who did this?” My superior asks the floor, as if any one person could have done this under his nose. Yes, this is the man I puked on. 

No one answers. 

I think we all did, I tell him.

He doesn’t like that. 

Suddenly my legs are walking me past him, right towards the shell. He tries to grab me but I yank myself free. My legs seem to be making their own decisions but my pulling away was definitely my own.

I graze my palm against its smooth, steel surface. A serene sense of satisfaction washes over my body. Even unfinished, it’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it? The rest of the floor agrees, as I’m now not the only one groping the shell. A silent hush of fascination envelops the factory.

 

𐫱 𐫱 𐫱

 

It’s nighttime and I’ve found Maria. We’re on her couch, tangled in each other’s bodies.

No. No, no, no, not this again. 

Oh God, where is Liv? What will she say? 

My movements are not my own. Not this time. I’ve made this mistake before. 

My legs flex in ways I’ve never felt. I hold her with a grip far too tight. 

My body ignores every signal from my head to stop. 

This can’t be me. Could it be me? 

Maria. She doesn’t look right. Her eyes… 

Milky. Glossed over. 

Is she ignoring me? 

She convulses. Like she’s fighting something. I can’t stop. 

Everything in my head says run.

Her chest expands and contracts rapidly, her arms swinging and tearing at her skin. 

Coughing. Choking.

My grip grows tighter. My movements more intense. 

A scarlet appendage emerges from her mouth. Then another. Like molting crab legs, like slimy branches of some monstrous body I can’t see.

The shock sends terrible chills through me. I feel one of my arms weaken. Is it mine again?

The appendages thrash viciously as she fights back.  

They spasm and claw at her, the way a spider would flail in water.

I steady my arm. I think I’ve got control of it. I loosen my grip and try pulling myself away.

A terrible screech erupts from Maria’s throat. The appendages wriggle their way back down inside her. 

I tear myself free. 

She stops convulsing. Silence. 

I run.

 

I crash through the doorway of her bedroom and hide in the bath. 

My own chest itches like something is crawling through it. I scratch at my skin, growing angry that in the face of danger, my instinct was to flee. Typical. Could I have helped her? Is she dead?

Something stands me up straight. 

I want to scratch the itch in my chest. It grows restless.

But I can’t move now. I have to move. I have to…

Move a finger. Just move a finger. All I want is to move one finger. 

“No.”

The disembodied voice pierces me like an ice pick. 

“I’m sorry. That finger is not yours anymore.”

Its words are sharp and wet, the way I imagine mandibles would form sentences. Crawling somewhere in my mind. 

Before I can comprehend, I’m slowly walked over to a standing mirror. My bare body looks strange. I have better posture. My hair is parted differently. My chest bears the indentations of something writhing inside it. 

Panic sets in. What is happening? Is the same thing inside me?

“We are lost beings. You are a vehicle of something much bigger, now.”

No. No, I’m not. I will not be. 

I double over, flexing and grunting, trying to force this thing out. I try to vomit. That usually works. Gagging. Pulling at my chest. My arms work against me, controlled by something else. Trying to restrain me. They hold me up by my hair, my face almost touching the mirror. 

“I’m sorry.”

The parasite stands me straight up again. It wraps my hand around my finger. 

“You must understand…” 

It twists and contorts.

Crack.

“…the consequences of fighting back.”

Silent agony. I want to scream. I can’t. It won’t let me. My index points back at me, mockingly. Snapped. Throbbing. On fire.

I can’t move. But I can still hurt. 

 

I blink and I’m outside. Still naked. Brisk air whipping against my exposed skin. Running. Faster than I thought I could. It’s painful. My bare feet crunch against the twigs and forgotten debris of moonlit streets. Headlights blind me as I sprint past, honking in protest.

What’s happening? Where are we going? 

“Home.”

I have no idea what that means. I don’t want to know. I want to die now. My finger is turning a discomforting shade of maroon.

A cyclist swerves to avoid me, my path unwavering. I hear her crash behind me but we don’t stop to look back. 

“I’m truly sorry about your digit. We are known to heal quickly.”

Sorry?

Why me? Why Maria?

Once again, I’m hit with the sinking realization… what about Liv? 

“We are naturally resourceful creatures. Blind, but resourceful. Human ability offers many advantages to us, though it is not without careful consideration. Your companion, Liv, did not align with our needs.”

That is… weirdly comforting to hear.

“You and the rest of your cohort, however…”

Cohort? 

We crest the hill of a road leading to the factory. I see something different about its silhouette. There’s a new shape. Another building beside it, maybe. I was just here, wasn’t I? How long has it been?

As we draw closer, the new shape reveals itself. 

I begin to understand. The word “home” rings in my ears now. It dawns on me that I likely won’t see Liv again. Maybe it’s best that way. 

In a field beside the facility, a towering behemoth of unfamiliar technology now looms in the shape of… the shell. But it’s not at a shell at all.  

It’s a rocket. 

The familiar faces of engineers, technicians, and more swarm the imposing ship with an unnatural speed and efficiency. I spot the curly-haired man from the stall hurdling across the field, carrying enormous engine components and sprinting faster than a man his size has any right to. I see Trish and What’s-his-name, assisting others with the final stages of assembly. 

They’re all in varying degrees of nakedness. Not a single pair of eyes left that aren’t milky white. 

Mine must look the same. 

I wonder if they’re all having the same conversation in their heads. 

Littered throughout the damp field are pairs of entwined workers having sex. Cold, stiff, sex.

“We infect in whichever manner our hosts procreate. After the process of courting, only the best suitors are left among us.”

A quick scan of the grounds tells me Bennie isn’t here. 

I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he’ll come to work tomorrow, as usual. 

Will I die? 

 

Hours go on, I don’t receive an answer. I’m tired. The itch in my chest has subsided.

I’ve stopped fighting. I’m assembling parts I’ve never seen before, calculating intricate math I otherwise could never do. Making choices that aren’t my own. Truthfully, I’m impressed at my ability, if I can even call it mine.

I’ve nestled in the same corner of my mind, watching everything play out in front of me as a bystander. The burden of choice is not mine to bear any longer. It’s a strangely comfortable feeling. I never was good at making the right decisions, anyway.

A sense of calm comes over me. I do have at least one choice left.

I can choose not to fight. 

I can choose to give in. 

As the shell erupts to life, preparing to take us home, I think: 

This is actually kind of nice. 

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