Minion

252.

                The number stares up at me, a bunch of segmented lines illuminated on a pale-coloured background. I feel numb. I step off the scale and dress myself before leaving my room. In my head, a daily itinerary presents itself. Going through the day plan, one thought breaks through all others: Maybe It will be gone today. Leaving the hall and entering the living room, my eyes land on it: a blobby mass of flesh sitting on the couch. Seeing It fills me with a mix of emotion, but overall, I’m unbothered. Here today, as always, It sits, surface pulsing, a groaning noise emitting from who-knows-where. Good Morning to You Too.

                I make breakfast and sit on the couch opposite It, setting a plate in front of the thing. I hesitate to eat. I watch carefully, wondering if today will be any different. It isn’t. The mass moves in a way that reminds me of mucus, parts of Its body covering the plate. Seconds later It retracts, the plate now devoid of food. The usual.

I eat silently, staring at it. I run through my projected day in my head once again: work, call Mom, shopping. I dread the last part.

                I’m not exactly sure when It first came around, but It’s been with me as long as I can remember. Like a pet, I take care of It. Unlike a pet, It doesn’t do much. At first, living with the thing could be fun. I’d feed It, and It would respond with some noise that I, for one reason or another, would be fascinated by. Over time, however, It has become a nuisance. An embarrassment. It insists on being around me constantly, only giving me time alone when sleeping. If I try to go anywhere without It, It clings to me like a leech. I’m not allowed to have pets. Possessions are sparce. Roommates… I don’t even want to think about it. Things have become harder with It, but I’ve managed to make life a little easier I suppose.

                Wordlessly, I clean the plates and start work. I was lucky enough to nab a remote job; something where I don’t have to worry about being around people. I open my laptop, and in response the mass makes a noise I’ve come to interpret as impatience. I reach over and place my hand on It, an attempt to calm the nerves. It works. I pick up my phone and begin my day of work.

                Work goes well. A woman threatens to sue me, another person screams at me for 45 minutes over a mistake someone else made, tons of people hang up before the scripted introduction. Overall, nine out of ten. I close everything and shut my laptop. The thing sits across from me, surface rippling in slow asymmetric waves. Experience tells me It’s hungry, but the kind of hunger that isn’t hunger and more so just an instinct to feed. Eating is just what It does. I notice a faint groaning noise coming from It.

                “We’re out of food.” The words make my lips pucker as they come out. A sourness brought on by resent. I decide not to dwell on it and go to my room to change.

I’ve gotten into the habit of wearing business casual clothes during work: button up with khakis and some nice shoes, maybe a tie if I’m feeling real professional. (This makes me feel less sick of being home all the time. Work at home is good otherwise.) I get my shoes on and try to noiselessly pick up my keys. Unfortunately for me, luck is not in my favor and the sound of metal leaving wood is enough of a beacon. With speed matching that of light, It moves from the couch and latches Itself onto me like a backpack. I am parasitized like this often. Barely fazes me at this point.

The feeling of It touching skin is a hard one to describe. When I was younger, I would just say it was “sticky” and leave it at that, though now that feels incorrect somehow. Lately I’ve likened the feeling to wearing another layer of skin, a level of suction sandwiched within. Every movement under it feels like rubbing against a sickly slime-rubber compound.  Luckily, nobody else has the displeasure of feeling this.

I ignore the feeling on the drive to the store. Twenty years gives you a lot of practice time with discomfort. People in the grocery store stare at us. Not all of them, but enough. This is something I’m more than used to. A lot of visitors come through town meaning a lot of fresh faces to grace with Its presence. Those fresh faces often turn into disgust, some morph into pity and others surprise. I like the last group – those still willing to converse with The Person with the Thing on Their Back. They’re usually nice.  Usually they’ll ask questions, seemingly genuinely interested: “so, It’s like a pet?”, “What does It eat?”, “do you play with It?”, “What exactly is It?”. Sometimes they think they’re nice when they’re insulting, but the thought is there all the same.

Clerks and stockers that see me regularly smile at me. One, a short woman in the meat department (her nametag calls her Flora) tosses the thing a slice of ham. It assimilates the meat into Its body and vibrates, letting out a high-pitched hum. Flora giggles, as she always does, the type of giggle a senior has when a kid shouts in excitement. In an aisle, I look for a specific brand and feel eyes on me. I take a quick, cursory glance around. Nobody’s looking but the feeling of being watched sticks. The mass lets out a purr-like noise. Everything feels overwhelming and I leave the aisle, check out, and go home. I lock myself in my room. Calling Mom would have to wait until tomorrow. I power through the discomfort until I fall asleep.

                                                                                ~~~

The ringing fills me with a mix of emotions. Mom and I have an interesting relationship dynamic. She gives me what she feels is good advice and nags at me. I give her half truths about the goings on in my life. It works for us. Anxiety takes over during the short silence when she picks up.

“Honey!”, she shouts into my earpiece. I turn down the volume. “How are you? How’s the blob?”

A beat. I’ve never liked that title for It, but that’s how my family identifies It. I wish she hadn’t said anything.

                “We’re both fine,” I lie through a smile, continuing to steer the conversation elsewhere. The segue works without issue, but it sticks with me that she brought “the blob” up. Maybe it’s the reminder. Or the concern. Why would she care? I am on autopilot throughout our conversation and when we hang up, I feel numb. A distraction would be nice.

                It sits on the couch, seemingly ready to burst, surface flesh stretched and distended. Overindulgence. Part of me hopes It’ll die from the greed, but all of me knows that it isn’t enough. Television acts to dull the emotional drainage. My thoughts are so loud it only acts as background noise.

                                                                                                ~~~~

                We sit in the car as I debate simply going home. Inside the house in front of us is a group of friends that I haven’t seen in what feels like years. A party, invitation granted to me although I feel like a burden with the problem’s insistence on tagging along to every outing.

                “We miss you,” said Desmond, our phone call from yester week running through my head as I sit white knuckling the wheel. “We don’t care if the growth comes either.” The Growth. Another name that sours my tongue. I, again, wish It hadn’t been brought up. My gaze shifts from the inviting house to the thing in the seat next to me. It heaves in a way that mimics breathing. Only now do I notice that it seems to have gotten bigger over the last few days.

                A mental pep talk helps swallow my nerves as I - and It by extension - make my way to the door. A knock tells the door to open and on the other side Olive greets me with a warm smile. If she sees the thing, she gives no indication.

                “Hey! You finally made it!” We hug and I am quick to notice how careful she is with her hand placement.

Yeah, me too.

                “I made it! I’m finalllllyyy here.” A friendly chuckle escapes my throat and feels more genuine than expected. Relief. I make my way inside with the idle chat of new happenings in each person’s respective lives. As I enter the living room, five voices give an enthusiastic but not-too-loud cheer. The room is warm and inviting and it feels like a reunion.

                The mass moves from me to the kitchen island counter, and I sit with the group. We talk and laugh and yell and I, for a time, forget that the fleshy thing is in the house. I’d missed this. Having friends, having a life. Everything feels normal in this moment. I excuse myself to the restroom as Kiel yells some lame joke about falling in.

                In the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. It’s been a few minutes and I’m taking time to go over my appearance. The conversation and laughter whispering through the door is comforting. I think about this moment and let the feeling of happiness wash over me. I spread soap on my hands and scrub. The world around starts to drift away.

Suddenly, unease. Sounds on the other side of the door build from a comforting gaggle of joy to a cacophony of inaudible noise, somehow loud and right in my ears but also somehow far away. The water washes over my hands and I feel something in my chest. This isn’t right. The noise loudens, filling my head, draining out all thought and concentration.

                I remember that It came with me. Suddenly, an unplaceable panic. This isn’t right. I can’t be here right now. Even from the other room, I know that It is calling for me, hungering. I’ve never felt this before. My chest is heaving and I notice the labored sound of my breathing. The sound crescendos, filling my entire body. My head feels light, the room is spinning. I haphazardly shut the water off and drop down onto the toilet seat, head in hands. Too much. Nothing’s right. Breathing now feels difficult. Unseen eyes fall on me – I am immediately aware that I am the center of attention. Everything is noise. Fuck this.

                Something pulls me back to reality, and as my hand meets the doorknob all becomes silent. When did I stand?

I hear nothing. I slowly open the door. The house creaks in response. I make my way down the hallway, cautiously silent, and peak my head around the corner. The house sits silent and empty. My throat feels dry. I step toward the living room. As I enter, the emptiness is overshadowed by the only other living thing. It.

                It now completely covers the island countertop. Its size is overwhelming as is the silence. My chest feels full of water; I gulp it down.

                In the car, I stare at the now empty house. The thing in the backseat lets out a groaning noise, the first sound it’s made in the last half hour. I feel horrified and angry and disgusted. Tears fall from my eyes as I make the realization – my friends are gone. Noise from the backseat starts to fill me with a deep, terrifying dread. I obey and drive us home.

                                                                                                ~~~~~

                Sitting in bed, the decision is made. I can’t live my life this way anymore. For breakfast, I eat in the kitchen. It makes a sound and I give no response. Before work, I quickly make my way out the door, successfully escaping Its leeching grasp. I take an hour-long walk. I think about what steps to take next. I won’t let it burden me anymore. I am neither parent nor guardian nor keeper. I must free myself of this unwanted responsibility.

                The next few days, I work myself into a routine, ignoring the mass at every possible turn. For work, I lock myself in my room. I escape the house as much as possible to work out, see friends, go to events – anything to keep myself away. I’ve stopped feeding It, and it shows. It makes noise sometimes, a pitiful attempt to ask for help. I show no sympathy let alone acknowledgement.

                As time goes on, I start to feel better. Things run more smoothly; I am finally in control. I can do anything I want as a person should be able. Life is mine once again.

                Unfortunately, this freedom comes short lived. I dream about It. The thing sits, unmoving and deflated, but something about the liquidish-black dream area surrounding us unnerves me. I am afraid. Frozen, I stare at the fleshy mass, and It begins to stare back. Dream time trickily passes, and at some point, I realize It has a face. It is emotionless yet somehow filled with a sinister malice. I grow uneasy, my heart feeling heavier by the second, and I awake in a sweat.

                Bed is my home for these few minutes as I gather my thoughts, thoroughly shaken by the visions awarded to me. Something in the air feels wrong. For a moment, I fear the idea that my dream could possibly come true. Cautiously, I leave my comfortable temporary abode and find myself shakily handling the bedroom doorknob. I can’t escape the feeling that turning it would bring the end of me. I do anyway.

                I silently make my way toward the living room and notice that the thing isn’t on the couch. I inspect the kitchen from where I’m standing but It isn’t visible. I gulp down my nerves and slowly turn the corner, hoping to see it elsewhere in the living room. My hopes fall away faster than it takes for me to fully turn the corner.

                The now giant mass of flesh sits covering the entire section of the room housing the front door. It looms with its top squished against the ceiling, the door to the outside completely covered. The thing must be at least ten feet across.

                My jaw’s open, I realize, and I promptly shut it. I’m shocked but instead of getting more scared I get angry. I yell and rush to the kitchen. Knife in hand, I return and move to stab the thing, but Its body moves around the blade like water. I pull the knife back to the sight of clean, smooth flesh. The knife clangs against the hardwood floor. The doorbell rings, and I realize I’ve been staring at It for a while. It doesn’t move from the door. It’s very direct.

                I slump onto the couch.

                “So this is it, huh? No life to myself?” No response. Gulp down the throat lump. “So that’s just it!? It’s all about you!?” It makes a gurgle noise, like a stomach growling. I notice I’ve been biting my nails.

                The next few hours are spent in blind anger. I scream, cry, and try to hurt It, but the mass doesn’t budge. Finally, defeated, I give in. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please.” It gives a noise of affirmation but stays immobile. Crawling into bed, exhaustion takes its toll on me.

                It takes 4 days before the thing feels comfortable enough to let me use the front door. It’s my only way in or out, another effect of the thing’s greed. It only lets me leave to get food. It eats everything. I’m barely getting leftovers. A knock at the door. I hesitantly answer. I don’t know the woman, don’t pay attention to what she’s saying, but mid-sentence she gives me an odd look and leaves. She saw It. I feel mortified, but at this point I’m too weak to care.

                The thing doesn’t let me out after that. It’s so large now it blocks out nearly the entire living room. There’s no food in the house. I’m tired and starving. I cannot fight. I wish to. My phone rings, a call from Kiel. I let the ghost go to voicemail.

                                                                                                ~~~~~

                I don’t know how long I’m stuck. Differentiating dreams from reality becomes hard. When I think I’m awake, there it sits. When I believe I’m dreaming, It has grown large enough to fill most of the house. During these times, I fight my way through the flesh to attempt to escape, but when I reach where the front door should be there is only blank wall. I wake up from this but find myself waking up often throughout the day when I believe I’m awake.

                Pushed to my breaking point, I Isolate often.

                                                                                                ~~~~~

Sunlight beams through the curtain, calling me from sleep. I get up, brush my teeth, and look at myself for a good long while in the mirror. The gaunt figure staring back looks nothing like me. I change into now loose-fitting clothes and make my way down the hall. The house is quiet and empty. Breathing, mine, heavy and excitable as I process what’s happening.

                As frantically as able, I search the house. It’s nowhere to be found. Dumbfounded, I plop myself onto the couch. Dryly, I let out a laugh. All the pain, all the torment, now gone with no warning. It must’ve finally died. It must’ve starved. It must’ve gone to bother someone else. I pity the thought.

Still processing, I realize the door is no longer covered. Part of that scares me.

                Now I stand, facing the door, and praying to anything listening that this not be a dream. Trembling I reach for the knob. The door swings inward bringing sunlight with it. The sounds and smells of the outside air grace my senses, and tears begin to fall. It takes every ounce of strength I can muster not to fall to my knees.

I step outside carefully, as if not to disrupt the fabric of reality. My first breath of actual freedom fills my lungs. I can’t stop smiling. I look back at the house. For the splittest of seconds, I think I see the mass, but the door stands as a pathway to an empty abode. I look out past my yard to the street. I can hear others somewhere far away and a wave of relief washes over me.

                I stand and take a nice long breath. I want to look at the house again but refuse. My phone rings. It’s Olive. I smile at the screen and understand now what I need to do. I take a step, then another, and finally begin my walk into life.