Extraction

It is always painful now. The pain continually looping through its tortuous racetrack around my head, down my back, into my thighs and back up again. I feel it through the haze of nails and sawdust that fills my head. I keep my head very still, fearing that if I move it, the jagged pieces of pain will fall from their precarious perches catching on the open wounds in the folds and crevices – still nicked and cut and stinging. There were many times that I thought that should just give up, and make it stop. But the reality was that I didn’t really know how to do that. And in my mind I’d find a small place where I could curl up and rock back and forth and just let the time pass. Now I just want to make it to this afternoon. I need to leave soon.

I don’t know how I let it get so bad. How I managed not to notice the slow, complete infiltration. Then, once I did notice it, I did nothing but think of ending it. I was trying to think how I could do it. And I’d spend my days thinking of all the things I’d do once I had escaped. I can’t remember them now. I seem to recall their urgency. But not their content.

It was two months ago. The voice had said:

*****

“Stop being so feeble. And such an idiot.”

It was awake.

“What were you were thinking this time?” The scorn continued. “A new venture? Tell me how would your life would be so different if you did do it? Tell me what it is you are trying to achieve? Although, perhaps you are afraid to admit that you have chosen and done what you can do. And this is it. Why can’t you just accept that? It would make you a lot happier.”

Somehow, I think I had angered it again.

“If you want to do something useful. You should try and determine what is realistic and what is not and stick with the one and stop making yourself miserable with the other. Help me up. I’m stiff. How long was I asleep?”

I mumbled a number. I was not in the mood for an argument. Although I was never in the mood for an argument. Best to go quiet because you never really know what will upset it. I adjusted our positions trying to find the best combination of angles and support. A fleshy architecture of load bearing structures.

“Aren’t you hungry?” It had said. “I’m hungry. “

But the cupboard and the fridge and both looked the same. Empty except for condiments, fresh food no longer fresh, mocking stares of bits of crumb and leaf, and ghostly ringed stains of foods once there.

“We need some food. Do some shopping. How could you have let so much of this day slip by already? If you can’t even keep a cupboard stocked, how do you expect to manage the important things in your life. Not that you have any.”

It seemed like good advice. But I could never tell. Or I’d get tired of trying to tell the difference. And when I thought I knew, it would be all wrong, wrong, wrong. I put on a sweater, pulling it over us both. At one time I’m sure I could get my clothes between us. It lifted its arm with mine as I put it through the sleeve. I was trying to tell if it was doing this as a habit, or if the arm too had become attached.

*****

“Ma’am?”

“Pardon?”

“What would you like?”

Food yes. Fuck it’s hard to think. I try and make sure I can handle the task of being quick and decisive in the progressive series of choices that await me.

“Ham and cheese, please.” I state.

“What type of bread?”

I glance up to remind myself of what they are. The woman asking the questions looks through me. Bread knife in plastic gloved hand. Surgeon ready for the operation to proceed in her theatre of fillings. I try not to stare at the top of her head.

“Wheat, please.”

I glance briefly at it. A grotesque, slithering, turban. The main body is grapefruit sized, but its legs and arms are ridiculously long cords of rope. The limbs entwine themselves around her head. Legs fall down the side by her ears, and wrap themselves around fully once, ending at little folds of feet that constantly flap about her neck, as if forever climbing a slippery pole as in some never ending mythological task. The arms circle about the top of the head and back to the front again. Hands pawing about her face.

“Cheese?” She asks as she deftly lifts a hand that was about to find its way into her eye, and moves it to her forehead. It snaps back with a soft thud.

“Cheddar.” I look away. Monitor the rest of the room. There is a young couple and an older man by himself.

The ones on the couple seem very well behaved. Like little monkeys clutching to the fur of their mother. But the one on the old man is almost completely infused. It’s hard to tell who is who. There is a certain air of sympathy between them. They take a sip of their coffee and stare out the window. I look away.

Another customer comes in and the turban-headed sandwich doctor rewinds to the first question in the quiz. The customer stares straight at her and smiles his answers. Everyone just ignores them. I wonder if that is what I should have done.

*****

The grocery store was full of tipsy nine-to-fivers with baskets full of beer, crisps and other odd items that can be immediately consumed. They were interspersed with frazzled husbands on their way home from work, looking uncomfortably and quizzically at aisles of diapers and sanitary pads, staring enviously at the baskets full of beer and crisps. I tried not to look at the bumps and protrusions, wriggling masses and wrinkled stacks of flesh that shushed and poked and pulled at these people.

“You should eat more vegetables. No wonder you are always tired. Why don’t you spend the time to cook something nice.”

I had been shuffling my way through the produce section, looking for something interesting. How does one find an interesting vegetable? I stood beside a man checking out the rutabaga. What the hell is a rutabaga? And how do you cook it? And what do you serve it with? The man stood there intently analyzing the rutabaga with the secret method he had of determining its texture and tastiness. He turned and smiled at me lightly while gently squeezing the base of another vegetable.

I went for the broccoli.

The image in my mind played on, and I realized what I had seen. My fingers lost their grip and I dropped my basket. Packaged meats and bottled condiments fell about in an embarrassing display of clumsiness and poor diet.

And all that I thought was “How did he do it?”

“Jesus. Pick this shit up. People are staring. Look there. You’ve split open the package of chicken tenders. Well, you should still buy them. Or maybe you can just quietly drop them back in the frozen food section.”

I looked around for the man. He was casually walking past an assortment of fresh herbs and glancing at each as if he knew what to cook them with. I’ve seen them when they are small, but they still poke and pop about. On him, not a hint of anything.

I watched him as he wandered through the packed pasta aisle. He smirked gently as if at a monologue of little jokes he made in his head.

“What are you going to do? Follow him? Oh won’t this be interesting.” The whisper cast a fine spray of spittle in my ear.

And I did follow him.

*****

“Come with me now. Next door. Downstairs.”

The man appears apprehensive, but excited. I am nervous. And numb. The pain having been there for so long, no longer seemed real.

“Don’t.” It pleads. Its voice is thin. It tries to hinder my movements, but has little strength in its arms. “You’ll regret it. I swear. I’ll do what’s necessary. Without me you won’t know.” There is frail kicking, and twisting that has no effect. I smile.

The man guides me next door and down to the basement.

It smells sickening.

*****

I can’t remember if it was him or I who initiated. I just recall getting to the point where we had talked so long that one of us either needed to politely declare they had a life to go on to, or pose the question of convening somewhere more comfortable.

We went to a nearby café. And coffee led to conversation. And conversation to confession. And then he explained the process. Outlining clearly what had to be done.

So over the next few weeks, I simply spent ignoring it.

At first I just tried simple ignoring. It was difficult. Too ingrained. And I would listen or react. Then I got more creative. I purchased a fly swatter. And when it spoke. I would reach around and smack it on the head. The stream of cussing and swears and threats lasted for nearly an hour after the first time.

Sometimes, when it spoke, I would back it into a wall. Sometimes when it was about to speak, I searched for brick walls, and sharp corners, and rough surfaces to smash or scrape it against. A passer by once caught me doing this, and quickly walked on. His counterpart, a small knobbly thing that peered over his shoulder, glared back at me and then started a tirade of insults upon its captor.

After over three weeks, we were both exhausted. I no longer needed to do or say anything, for it to stop. I would just motion some sort of retribution, and it would cower and become quiet. Quiet in that very loud “I’m being quiet” way.

And then I met the man again. He provided me with supportive encouragement after my wearying weeks of constant battle. I was ready to let the fatigue take over. Have a rest for a bit. But he persuaded me not to, and pulled out a satchel. It clanged and knocked when he handed it to me. He explained how it feeds and how it can be starved.

I took the satchel home and emptied its contents onto the floor. I stared at the series of clamps and vice grips. Sizes from the miniscule to the unweildy. Some twisted and tortuous. Some straight and unforgiving. Metal and hulking and ugly.

I picked one up and found a point of attachment and clamped and locked. It squealed. The pain I now feel all the time seared through the clamp while he moaned. I managed several more that night. It screamed with of each the clamps. It cried through the night. Pulling out stories and sicknesses, promises and cures.

I repeated the procedure every time the pain subsided enough for me to continue. A series of clamps covered by back and arms, down through to my buttocks and upper thighs.

On the third day it began to go limp. First on one arm. Then throughout the back. Its whispers became more airy. Its threats more desperate. And I began to feel a certain lightness again…

*****

I enter the main room nervously. In pain. It must know. It makes its faint thrashes and pleads for me to change my mind. The room is covered in dark stains. There are two worn out couches covered in plastic. A dirty sink. An open drain on the floor. Shelves and shelves full of clasps and hooks, knives and razors. He motions for me to lie down and then begins. There is some pain, but more of a release. A wetness. A warm gushing oozing feeling down my back. And again. The creature barely cries out now. I drift in and out of places and thoughts in my mind.

There is a weight removed. And a thump. I lie there weary, but invigorated. And stare fully at the creature for the first time. It is shriveled and pitiful. I can’t believe I listened and wasted so much time with it. The man congratulates me. And I know how it is to feel so wonderful. He covers me in a towel and wipes my wounds. Telling me how proud he is, how hard it must have been. And I don’t feel my wounds weeping anymore. They feel wonderful, almost sensual, as the man cleans them. He swabs and pushes into the open sores. And the pressure continues. What is he doing? I turn my head to ask. His arms can almost not be seen. He has pushed them in and throughout my back. His face is contorted and eyes are closed in relief and desire. He opens them and sees me.

“I’m sorry.” He says. And then closes them again, continues the invasion and gently coos in my ear “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine…”