The Frenemy Within

The flashing red light above my kiosk signaled to everyone else checking in for surgery that I was inept. I could feel their eyes on me, invading me, judging me.

Well you are rubbish . . . and hideous rubbish at that.

“Shut up,” I murmured.

I will not. You have been starving me for a week and I will say whatever I bloody well want to. The gloves are off, chum. “No more Mr. Nice Guy,” as you Americans say.

“Mr. Nice Guy?” I replied. “What American says that? And since when have you been nice?”

That got it. At least for a beat. Then the parasite responded with its usual acidity.

My niceness manifests principally by refraining from pointing out just how big a waste you are. And believe me, I exercise such restraint far more often than you deserve.

It was then that the hospital’s check-in attendant arrived, forcing me to choke down my retort.

The attendant was a young man. Handsome. He smiled big. But it was a forced smile. His eyes—vivid and blue—locked onto my own. Not because he had any interest in me personally, mind you, but because he was desperate to look at anything other than my distended belly. Bloated and bulging from the massive parasite living in my intestines.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked in a strained sing-song.

“I’m hopeless,” I joked.

But the joke didn't land.

Strike one!

I refrained from telling the parasite to suck it. The attendant just looked at me, his nose scrunched and eyebrows raised. I tried to recover with a smile, but grimaced instead—as all my smiles do. I had failed again.

The parasite inside me chuckled.

Strike two!

I ignored it and tried to answer the attendant’s question in earnest. Pointing to a flashing field on the touch screen in front of me, I fumbled my way through an explanation.

“The, uh, computer won’t let me move on. It, um . . . it doesn’t like my answer.”

Grateful for the chance to look at something other than me, the attendant peered hard at the computer screen. Then back to me.

He was not impressed.

“You need to enter an emergency contact.”

My face burned red. My cramped bowels dropped. Was everyone looking at me now? I didn't have words. My shoulders raised. Followed by my hands. They lifted out and away, palms facing up. The universal sign for I have no idea.

“Family? Friends? Spouse? Children? Coworkers?”

The attendant spit out the options rapid-fire. I shook my head the whole time.

“They don’t have to be local. Anyone will do.”

Again, the helpless expression on my face said it all.

“Not even a neighbor?”

Shame enveloped me.

“I . . . I don’t get, uh, out much.”

Annoyed, the attendant sighed and spoke again, his voice betraying just how anxious he was to move on with his life.

“Well, you have to put someone.”

“Can I put your name?”

The question came too quick, too desperate, without conscious thought. Honestly, I didn’t know I could be so bold. But desperation had taken control.

The attendant’s demeanor changed from annoyed to openly hostile. With a tinge of disgust. But he didn’t speak.

He lifted a key card that was attached to his belt with a retractable string and placed it on a sensor. A keypad appeared on the computer monitor. He entered a series of numbers and walked away. His voice cold and cruel.

“You can leave it blank.”

The words hit hard and deep in my chest. The parasite roared with glee.

Strike three. You’re outta there! (I believe that is the correct phraseology).

“Suck it,” I muttered, fighting the tears away.

*****

An hour later I was in a room of my own, changing from my street clothes into a hospital gown. Nude, I looked down at my grotesque belly. Bloated and discolored. Swollen lumps stood out in direct contrast to the rest of my emaciated body, which, having been robbed of a year’s worth of nutrients, was slowly dying of starvation. A week without any food at all hadn’t helped either. But that’s what the doctor ordered.

My legs felt weak from the exertion. Lights began to dance in my head. I leaned against the nearby gurney and began to cry.

The parasite snorted.

I fail to see why you would be crying. Today is not our execution. It is mine and mine alone.

Too exhausted to respond, I finished putting on the gown and hobbled my way up onto the gurney. Then went limp from the effort.

Let us speak frankly, shall we, chum? Do you not think you have taken this far enough? I am a reasonable fellow. We can come to an arrangement. I know I have been parsimonious in the past with food and nutrients and whatnot. But I am willing to negotiate. Truly. Come. There is no reason for this.

Just then the nurse opened the door.

“Hello there.”

Her voice was cheery. Frankly, a little more upbeat than I thought the circumstances warranted. Still, she was easy on the eyes. Perhaps a little plump. But her smile more than made up for the fatness.

“Hi.”

I couldn't look her in the eye. Not without anything more than a thin cotton gown between her and the perversion that was my body.

“Are you nervous?” she asked as she wheeled in a cart with a strange metal tray on top.

I didn’t respond. My focus was on the metal tray. It was generally rectangular and about four inches deep on three sides. But one side was different. That side was bent down and elongated into a half-funnel. The funnel jutted out about a foot, maybe three inches wide and level with the base of the tray. Inside the tray lay a small tube that looked like toothpaste.

Dread tickled at the center of my anus.

“The Doctor will be here soon.”

The nurse shut the door behind her, trapping us in together. There was finality in the wooded thud and the metal click.

“I’ll get you strapped in while you wait for him.”

Strapped in?

The words didn't compute.

Then, with alarming speed, the nurse separated the bottom of the gurney into an ominous-looking V. She bound each of my legs into the resulting stirrups with multiple straps. And just that fast, any and all ability to move my lower body was eliminated.

The tickling dread stopped tickling, turning instead into an acid alarm spreading steadily throughout my whole body.

I gulped as the nurse continued her preparations, gently folding each of my legs and spreading them as far apart as tendon and sinew allowed. She then wheeled the cart with the metal tray around and into the empty space she had just created between my legs. My misshapen stomach blocked me from seeing anymore, but I felt the cold brush of metal against my junk and buttocks as the tray was placed into its final position.

The nurse left.

The parasite inside me laughed.

Are you sure you are ready for this? I know you have a little freak inside you. But this seems beyond the pale.

Fear kept me from speaking. Nevertheless, I maintained my resolve, closing my eyes and focusing on the future's freedom as I waited patiently for the doctor's arrival.

Luckily, he appeared soon afterwards. His entrance a welcomed bath of reassurance.

Off we go. End of the line.

Aloof and impersonal, the doctor greeted me with mechanical proficiency. He got right to the point.

“As we discussed before, this can be a long procedure. The parasite inside you is a living creature. As such, we can predict its reaction to the procedure with only a limited degree of certainty. But it should be gone before the day is through.”

I detest him. When I get out there, I am going to bite his face off.

The doctor worked his meaty hands into thin latex gloves before reaching in between my legs. Presumably into the tray stationed near my nethers. A blue hand came back holding the tube that was lying there earlier. He unscrewed the cap and threw it away. Then I lost sight of the tube and his hands, but I heard the gloopy wet sound of sludge on metal.

This sounds unpleasant.

The doctor spoke again.

“Once in the tray, the parasite will die quickly. This ointment will coax the parasite out of your body and into the tray. It won’t be able to resist. That’s why I had you fast. But in order to get it to its final destination, I am going to need to give it a taste and trail to follow. This will be a little cold.”

Without further warning, something cold invaded my anus. A reflexive yelp burst from my throat.

The parasite chortled with glee.

Violated by jelly. You had that coming!

My head shook an ardent NO. Silently willing the stupid voice to stop talking.

Finished, the doctor threw the spent tube and his soiled gloves into a nearby trashcan marked “Biohazard.” Then he spoke for the last time.

“I’m afraid I can’t wait around to see how long it takes. But you’ll know it when it does. It’ll feel like you need to have a bowel movement. My advice is to bear down and push. I have other patients to see, but you can call the duty nurse if you need anything.”

The doctor then handed me a buzzer attached to a cord, turned, and left without so much as a nod or a wink. The door closed behind him with an indifferent thud.

I was alone. Or soon would be.

The parasite spoke. Its voice a whining plea.

Come on, chum. Do not do this. I will change. I will be better. I promise. Just give me a break. Another chance. Call them back in. Let us go home. Please!

I ignored it.

And I waited.

*****

I sat alone in that cold hospital room for an hour before anything happened. Just me and an angry parasite. It reasoned. It pled. It yelled. It swore. It threatened. I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw and tried my best to ignore it all. Wishing all the while that it would end quickly.

But it did not.

You came to me, remember? Not the other way around. I never invaded your house, your bedroom, your kitchen. You came to mine. You swam in mine. You peed in mine. I was just a baby. I tasted salt and felt warmth and saw a new, fun place to hide. So I did. It is my nature. How was I to know the hell you would put me through?

You think it was my heart’s desire to live with you my entire life? To be ripped from my family and friends and everything I held dear? To sit in your tubby belly and listen to your narcissistic brain working overtime day in and day out? You think I enjoyed your cooking? And your whining? Your horrible jokes? And your emotional binging?

Who was with you for every setback? Every failure? Every rejection? Who sat with you and your stupid red rose at La Cavalier, waiting for a date that never showed? And who cheered you up on the walk home? Who pointed out that the moles in the hussy’s profile pics resembled Cassiopeia?

Who endured all your pitiful shower songs and tedious toilet musings? Who tolerated the hours of mirror dances and “jiggle time”? Who watched “Casablanca,” “Eyes Wide Shut,” and “Dirty Luggage” with you AD INFINITUM?

Who helped you cope with the steady rejection of one co-worker after another? Who inspired you to leave them all and work from home so that you never had to see their smarmy faces again?

And who was there for you when your parents died? Who reminded you that they did not like you anyway? And who helped you choose the epitaph for their headstone?"

Taking a deep breath, the parasite gathered its thoughts and emotions before speaking the words it had crafted not too long ago.

Beauty for ashes

Under God’s tender touch

The sun will rise again

The dead will be reunited

He will bring us all home

Opening the gates of heaven

Love will reign there

Eternity upon eternity

The parasite paused for a full breath after finishing his impassioned recitation, weeping quietly from the majesty of its masterwork.

You could never have written anything so lovely and heartfelt.

I sighed a weary response. The only words I had spoken since the doctor departed.

“You just made up a poem whose first letters spelled out the word ‘butthole’ and I was too distracted by grief to notice until it was too late.”

The parasite chuckled, but only for a moment. When it spoke again, it had changed. In strength and fervor. It was getting tired.

Perhaps. But who has been with you every day and every night, absorbing the stolen glances and whispered criticisms of the repulsed public every time you step outside? Who has born that weight with you? Who has shared that pain with you? Who has never let you forget that you are not alone?

Then he went silent. A terrifying stillness settled in the room. And eternity passed before he spoke again.

You will be all alone, you know.

Its voice was soft and quiet now. Even approaching gentle.

You will die alone without me.

My stomach rumbled. A small shutter.

Please do not do this.

My stomach rumbled again. Bigger now.

Please.

Movement in my gut. Then again.

I can smell it. I can taste it. I am raaaaaavenous!

Distracted by the scent of the butt paste and his own voracious appetite, the parasite stopped speaking and began his long, slow descent out of my bowels. The urge to defecate overwhelmed all thought and feeling. So, as instructed, I hunched over and bore down.

I could feel the beast slithering through my colon. Lumps on my belly shifted below my hospital gown. A searing fire flared in my rectum.

And then it happened. A fetid smell penetrated my nose and a slow, slimy movement tickled my inner thigh as the burning in my anus increased exponentially. I screamed and yelled and pushed the call button through hot, frenzied tears.

No one came.

I don’t know how long it took the parasite to evacuate fully. Every second was a lifetime of torment. Every inch a mile through inferno. But it did end. Mercifully.

When it was over, I saw the parasite on the tray. Pink and plump. Coiled and pulsing. It was the size of an elephant’s crap and just as steamy.

A serene sense of relief—both physical and emotional—settled over my body and mind and heart.

Quiet! Sweet quiet!

I looked down at my deflated belly. A layered pile of excess flesh. Like egg custard gone bad. What would happen to it? Would it shrink back to its normal size? Would I need surgery to remove it? And what do I do in the meantime? Should I get a girdle?

“Who cares,” I said aloud. “It’s over.”

The sound of my voice died in that little room. Quickly. With finality. Leaving me burdened with a strange feeling of isolation.

Surprised, I looked reflexively at my parasite for companionship.

But no consolation came. Beyond my belly, on the tray, the parasite had stopped his rhythmic pulsing. Its color was beginning to fade, changing before my eyes from luminous to dull.

The intense quiet came back to the forefront of my attention. I was so unaccustomed that its continued, uncontested dominance grew unbearable.

I tried whistling, thinking that another sound—any sound—would help. But I was wrong. Dead wrong. Like sneezing in the Grand Canyon, my meager noises merely drew added attention to the uncompromising silence.

Restless and uncomfortable, my eyes searched my sterile little room, void of any human touch or kindness. No sounds from outside. No sense of time or place. No indication whatsoever of life or love. A heavy loneliness set in, rising like the tide in a briny marsh.

Forlorn, I looked back to the parasite, now a dull gray and drying out. It was dying. As the doctor said it would.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s the view?”

But it didn’t answer. I had lobbed it a softball the size of a melon and it hadn’t even swung.

That's when the thought hit me. As devastating as it was overwhelming.

I had killed him.

I had killed my only friend.

He was only person willing to live with me. Let alone look at me. Yes, my distended belly had made matters worse. But even before that, I was alone. Totally alone.

Until him!

Confusion and fear invaded my tired heart. My sterile room became a satiric cell. Permeating every sense and thought, I felt the quiet. Now deafening in its privation. This indomitable hush was a crushing weight. And with it, peeking out from behind its impenetrable wings was knowledge and understanding. The acute realization that I was entirely alone in the universe. Unknown and unloved. The parasite was right. I was going to die friendless. Forgotten. Forsaken.

Panic consumed me. With a junkie’s desperation, I pushed the call button again and again and again, shouting for help and pleading for someone, anyone to come.

Nobody answered.

Fastened to the gurney, unable to exit, the confines of my tiny room engulfed me. Ingesting me like a cruel and unrelenting constrictor.

Loneliness was my only reality. Infinite and all-encompassing. Solitude owned me. Mocked me. Raped me.

Frantic. Desperate. Broken. I dropped the call button and reached my weary hand out toward the dead, black parasite. Still and cold in the metal tray.

Carefully. Gently. I gathered him and cradled him in my arms, weeping for my friend and the end of my life.

I wanted him back. I needed him back. Back with me. Back inside me. It was the only way to save him. To save me!

But how? How could I get him back inside me?

I stared at him. Gray and lifeless.

“There’s only one way . . . I love you.”

Then I swallowed him.

Inch by inch. Foot by foot. I ingested my friend. Careful not to bite or chew. Fighting through the gagging and retching. Forcing companionship and salvation back into my body

Back into my life.

Until I blacked out.

*****

Sometime later. Far longer than it should have taken. The hospital staff responded to my call and found me. Dead. Half of the parasite hanging out of my mouth.

Turns out my stomach was too small to hold him. Even in his emaciated state. And so, unable to fully ingest the creature, I had suffocated myself.

He was dead.

I was dead.

Only the staff knew.

Ever.

They had no one to call.

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