Razors

         The patient strains against the padded cuffs, cords standing out on his wrists and neck. The large men in white pay him no mind, but continue their conversation.

         Why can’t they understand? It’s inside me! I have to get it out!

         The patient’s wide quivering eyes keep straying to his torso, looking for it. Trying to see it. He cannot, yet he knows it is inside. Moving about, squirming, grinding its teeth. He screams.

         The men in white turn at looked at him, exasperation in their eyes. They grasp the gurney and begin pushing him out of the examination room.

         No! Nooooo! Where are you taking me? Take me to surgery! Get it out!

         Screaming, he is pushed down a hall of white walls and sterile white ceramic tile floors which smell of bleach, past rooms full of tormented souls. They end up at an empty room.

         He screams again, to no avail as the men in white push him inside. The echo of the slamming door muffles his screams. He casts his frantic gaze about, up, down, left right, always coming back to his torso, waiting for the horror beneath to emerge.

         Is it moving again?

         The patient howls until he is hoarse, until there is no voice left to make sound. He strains against his bonds.

         Something gives, a defect, a weakness, and his left arm is free. He uses it to unshackle his right arm, then his torso belt, then his feet are touching cold tiles. Soon he is curled up on the floor, ear to the door, listening for the large men in white. His hands idly dig at his chest.

         Have to get it out. It’s moving again. Horrible . . .

         His fingers dig deeper, tearing away the white tee-shirt and exposing his scarred chest. No fingernails, already chewed to the quick. All his fingers can do is raise welts. He pulls the door open and peers out. The hall is dark and quiet, with no men in white about. He pads toward the far double doors, away from the examination room where he can hear murmurs.

         A sign on a door catches his eye, announcing, ”Supplies.” His eyes rove back and forth like beetles, and his hand is still digging at his bare chest. The smell of bleach is his only company in the hall. He enters the door.

         The room is claustrophobically small, lit only with a single bluish fluorescent bulb which makes the tattered remains of his tee almost glow. Shelves line the walls, piled high with medical supplies.

         He plows through them, searching, scrabbling for something.

         He can still feel it coiling around his guts.

         Bottles, test tubes, sample jars rattle across the floor. Boxes of paper towels and latex gloves follow the cascade.

         No! Not right! Not right . . . oh God, it’s moving . . .

         A small box falls with the bright sound of metal tinkling on tooth-hard surfaces. Little rectangles burst from the cardboard. The patient kneels and surveys this treasure. He picks up a razor blade.

         Yes.

         He sits down and stares at the edge, so sharp it is invisible.

         He brings the blade to his chest.

         Yes.

         He opens his right pectoral muscle from top to bottom like a zipper. Blood pours from the tear, staining his tee.

         I will get it out myself. Dig it out . . . like the parasite it is . . .

         The blade digs deeper, muscles and sinews parting like rubber bands, spattering blood across the immaculate white floor. Then the blade strikes something hard and stops.

         No!

         The patient digs deeper and is defeated by another rib.

         He takes another blade and tears into his left chest. More flaps of skin peel back, more muscle parts before the flashing steel. Again and again he attacks his own ribcage in a rabid flurry of slashes. Again and again, the blade stops against unyielding bone.

         The patient’s breath explodes in a sob.

         . . . still there . . .

         He sits on the cold tile, his butchered chest leaking uncontrollably, and begins sobbing some more. He swallows.

         Then his head jerks up, a dull gleam appears in his eyes.

         The patient grabs another blade from the pile and looks at it. Rectangular, silver, the edge impossibly thin.

         I won't . . . let it stay . . .

         He puts the blade in his mouth and swallows.

         The blade slithers past his tongue scoring it deeply before going down with a torrent of blood. The pain is exquisite. The patient grins. He feels more squirming, rows of concentric teeth clicking, grinding, chewing.

         Chew on this!

         He grabs another razor blade and swallows it. This time it catches the back of his throat. He heaves twice, and the blade goes down, leaving ribbons hanging in his throat from its passage. He grabs another, and another. The blades pile up, a serpent of jagged steel slithering down his esophagus to his gut.

         . . .dying. I can feel it dying . . .

         He is ramming razor blades into his mouth, pushing them down his gullet when the door bursts open and the large men in white rush in.

         It's done. I got it! he tries to yell at them, but his tattered tongue will not form words. They grab him and shake the blade out of his hand. One of them produces a syringe, its white plastic glowing in the light like a neon tube. He tries to shout a protest as the syringe buries itself in his shoulder, and two blades fly from his ruined mouth along with gobbets of flesh. A corner of steel protrudes from his throat, releasing a sliver of his breath in a mist of red. He tries to push away and his feet slip on pools of red, the tile no longer immaculate.

         As fog begins to descend on the patient, he smiles at the men in white.

         I’m free.

         The last thing he feels before darkness overtakes him is the thing inside, choking out its remaining life on rectangles of sharpened steel.


Word count: 1022