Mohawk On Display

Colors were flowing in front of John’s eyes. He lacked the ability to turn, or blink, or even contemplate what he was seeing. He simply drew in air, expelled dust, and observed the light spectacle.

Gradually, the particles of his bedroom began to fall into place. John could see that he was lying on his mattress, with his head propped up at a sharp angle, so he had a direct view of his own torso. His shirt was open, and the skin was stretched tight over his lumpy stomach. The grotesque sight did not offend John in the least. Part of him had always been aware there was something foreign living, growing inside of him, and he was used to it.

Now that the stage was set, it was time to introduce the characters. John was aware of a churning sensation in his stomach, and could hear voices vibrating through his skeleton and into his skull. They echoed at first, but quickly came into focus.

“Yyyyyoouuuyou waaaanteted tututoooo meet us?”

The sound had an unnerving quality to it, as if the speaker’s vocal cords had been surgically removed, and in its place grasshopper legs and metal filings were vibrating.

“Don’t worry. Everyone finds us eventually. You’re late, but at least you’re still alive. It’s…different, otherwise.”

John realized that he knew who was speaking to him.

“Well, who else would be living inside your skin?”

John wondered why.

“It’s quite simple, really. We feed on your experiences, and you feel us in return. We give you dreams and emotions, and you give us the materials to work with.”

John was reminded of something his ex-girlfriend, a new-age hippie, had told him. She said that nobody actually exists, but that our experiences give rise to memory, and our changing memory gives rise to consciousness. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, but recalling it made the bugs in his stomach restless.

“You have nothing to worry about, John. You’ve lived with us up until now, and our presence will have no future impact on your lifestyle. Actually, without us, you couldn’t continue living the way you’re used to.”

John wasn’t sure he understood, so the voice continued.

“What is life, if there is no driving force? We push you to feel, and to act. Pills can only take you so far, sadly. You wouldn’t be here to dream this if we had given up on you a few years ago.”

John knew what the voice was referring to. He had slit his wrists, but in his daze he had managed to dial 911, and woke up in a hospital. He couldn’t remember having picked up the phone, and he still hated himself for that moment of indecision.

“Oh come now, you don’t really mean that. Do you?”

John considered, and knew that he did mean it. Truly.

“Well, we’re sorry you feel that way. But we’re afraid we can’t let you go like that. You see, it wouldn’t befit our existence.

John insisted, but a battle for control against one’s feelings has only ever ended one way.

***

John lived for several more years. No doctor could find a way to wake him, although his brain waves showed that at times he was fully awake and aware of his surroundings.

Occasionally, his eyes leaked. They could afford him that.

Here’s a poem I wrote for Binghamton’s Q Magazine (February is a special “Fetish” edition).  Let me know what you think!

Unique…Just Like Everyone Else

I’ve gone through hell since you left me.
I’d forgotten how lonely life can be.
Sleeping alone is not the same,
And at night I wake myself calling your name.
I thought life was perfect - I guess I was wrong.
But I can’t live without you.  I’m not that strong!
I know you said true love doesn’t exist.
Still, whatever we had is sorely missed.
I’ve tried new girlfriends, therapy, and even weird porn,
But your memory continues to jab like a thorn.
Because worst of all, I thought you should know,
I can’t get off without your sixth toe.