Cycles

Cycles

Jason's gut hurt. The thing was rotting his insides, and his eyes were watering before they could even adjust to the darkened room. He rubbed at them viciously, a futile attempt to wake up faster, before fumbling around the dresser for his cell phone. He turned on the flashlight, and pointed the beam at his belly. No movement, of course, though he wasn't sure exactly what he thought he would find. The pain kept nagging at him. His middle was a vat, swirling and churning, and each minor turn or twitch only exacerbated his agony.

The churning pain mutated and now it felt like thousands of tiny scissors snipping away at his innards. A strange sensation of heat bubbled just below the surface of his skin, methodically working its way through his body. It didn't add any physical discomfort, but the heat's feeling of inevitability was oppressive. It was as if the heat spelled it out for Jason— whatever was happening to him was something he couldn't escape. He tried to brush those thoughts away, but waves of anxious sweat started gushing from every pore.

The gnawing, snipping, rotting force inside him migrated to the outer region of his abdomen, encompassing everything from his sternum to his waist. His stomach was a piece of plastic being heated from beneath, warping to the flame, threatening to rise up and burst.

He moved the light back to his stomach, now alive with activity. The surface of the skin pulsated, and tiny pockets of skin pushed away from his body in rapid succession—over and over, rising no more than a centimeter high. The pressure increased until his entire body trembled. The more the tiny pockets pushed, the more the vibrations built in intensity, rumbling his rib cage, threatening to break him into a pile of shards.

Then, it ceased completely. The feverish heat and the excruciating pain continued, but the skittering, tearing feeling temporarily dissipated. The surface of his stomach was quiet, replaced by a pulsating knot in the center of his abdomen. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it. Ignoring the pain, he pushed his hand into his torso, searching for the ball underneath the skin. His fingers made contact with the object, but each time the two connected, the ball divided below the surface.

He closed his eyes and tried to will the pain away—hoping he could wish or pray it away—hoping to think of anything other than the inert and unmoving corruption bulging beneath his skin. He could feel the sticky residue of sweat adhering him to the bed. The pain had decreased, though, and he remained motionless, hoping it would leave him. For a while, it did, and he was grateful for the temporary respite. After a few minutes, though, it started throbbing again. The ball sounded like a revving engine, and the vibrations returned with it, sending jolts through his appendages. The heat soon followed, and the stronger the vibrations grew, the more on fire he became. He was burning up, and it became more unbearable by the second. The hum in his gut was louder now, building to a crescendo of burning pain until the ball burst through his skin.

He was paralyzed as a pile of slithering things exploded from his body. Their daggers stabbed every inch of him, and bled to the far reaches of his body—millions of them, working in unison. Piercing and cutting swaths of skin away in seconds. They roared past his chin, devouring his lips and nostrils, pouring into his open orifices. The last breath he took burned with the stench of bile and blood, before the swarm blocked his breathing paths completely. The tears returned. The end was approaching, and as the bugs filled his lungs, everything went black.

Jason gasped, and his eyes opened wide in terror. The thump of his heart pounded viciously at first, before receding to a less threatening cadence. He could tell it was late by the eerie-quiet outside his apartment. He felt a tingle rise in his torso, developing into a slow throb—his gut hurt.