UNDER THE SKIN
By Randy Romero
Marc Warner hadn’t felt like
himself in days. It was as if something had drained him of all his energy.
He was weak, tired, and sluggish.
His head ached and his temples throbbed. He couldn’t concentrate. He had zero
ambition. He didn’t have much of an appetite, either.
As far as he could tell, there
was nothing physically wrong with him. He didn’t have a temperature. No sore
throat or stuffy nose. His doctor ran a few tests and they all came back
negative. No cold or flu, no viruses or bacterial infections. Blood pressure
was normal. And his doctor told him he had the lungs of a professional athlete,
which Marc attributed to being a non-smoker, as well as his daily exercise
routine.
He never touched a cigarette in
his life. He wasn’t really a drinker, either. His friends called him a fitness
freak, but he didn’t view it as an obsession. He was just trying to stay
healthy and was always careful about what he put into his body.
His dad used to smoke Pall Malls,
the ones that came in the short red pack. A pack a day for thirty-five years. He
saw the irreversible damage it had done to his old man and he vowed to never
smoke a single cigarette.
But just because he lived a
healthy lifestyle and everything appeared to be fine, that didn’t mean Marc was
okay. Something wasn’t right. Something was off. It was a strange feeling that
Marc couldn’t decipher. But he knew something was wrong. His doctor hadn’t
ordered any X-rays or scans. What if there was something wrong internally? Something
they missed or hadn’t considered?
Myriad scenarios ran through his
head on the occasions where he was able to focus and think. Was it cancer? Did
he have a brain tumor? That would at least explain the constant headaches. Was it
an autoimmune disease? Diabetes? A central nervous system disorder?
Each day was worse than the
last. He couldn’t even function at his job. He left work early again that day
and went straight back to his apartment. He sat, exhausted, his body
practically melting into his brown sofa.
On top of his fatigue and mental
fogginess, his right arm had been itching him like crazy.
He rolled up his sleeve to take
a look, and that’s when he saw it for the first time.
Bumps on his skin. Thick and
red.
He fought against the urge to
scratch it. Scratching had only exacerbated the itch.
He reached for the remote and
turned on the TV. He glanced back and forth between the television and the
hideous red bumps on his arm.
Marc gasped. “It can’t be…” he
whispered and trailed off. For a moment, he thought somebody had slipped
something into his afternoon coffee and he was hallucinating. No way he could’ve
seen what he thought he saw.
It was five o’clock on a
Thursday in December, and already dark outside. His apartment was even darker.
He got up and ran his hand across the wall, found the light switch.
He gasped again, bit his lip to
stifle a scream. Now that he could see it in the light, it was undeniable. The
bumps on his skin were moving.
Something was shifting and
writhing and wriggling around underneath. His muscles tensed, then spasmed as these
anomalies twisted and turned under his skin.
The bumps took form and became
more defined. It looked like worms squirming around inside of him.
Whatever it was, it was alive.
And it was trying to escape.
He reached for his phone, not
even knowing who to call. His doctor’s office was closed by now. His family all
lived in other states. And his friends all lived in other boroughs. 911 was the
only number that came to mind.
Before he could punch in those
three lifesaving digits, a sharp, sudden pain caused him to wince and drop his
phone. Those things were digging around in there, moving closer to the
surface. The pain was maddening.
He felt flesh being torn away.
He felt them gnawing away at his skin, trying to force their way out.
Blood spurted across the living
room in thick jets as they burst through the skin of his arm. Black wormlike
creatures. Bigger than he could’ve imagined. No eyes. But their teeth were on
full display. Jagged, needle-like teeth.
He screamed; a brief, weak,
muted scream. Then his whole world went dark.
Marc didn’t show up for work the
next day. Or the day after. He wasn’t answering his phone either. Every call
went straight to voicemail. His family and friends were frantically trying to
reach him. Finally, his mother alerted the local police, who were summoned to
his apartment.
The officers had to get the
landlord so he could use his keys to unlock the door. They searched Marc’s
apartment and found him in the living room.
The two officers covered their
mouths at the gruesome sight. His right arm was mangled. Something had eaten
away at most of his flesh. And what remained of Marc’s face scarcely resembled
a face at all.
Those black, parasitic creatures
had slithered away, moved on in search for fresh victims. But they had left something
behind. Something still growing inside Marc’s decaying body. In the pit of his stomach, they had nested their eggs…
