POP

The pulsating sting woke him up. He had been trying to ignore it for days but it had become unbearable. He was trying not to pop them anymore. The doctor told him not to, said it made them spread, but now he couldn’t help himself. This one was big and swollen and ripe and oh so ready to pop. He went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. A neat white pearl of puss sat atop red swollen skin right over his sternum. He finally succumbed to the craving. He put the nails of his index fingers on either side of it and squeezed. He felt the painful yet satisfying sensation of pressure indicating its imminent pop.

After a few suspenseful moments it finally erupted, splattering freckles of blood tainted puss onto the mirror. He sighed with a certain sense of victory. He washed his hands as he checked his face. He froze for a moment. Something was stuck to the mirror. It was moving. He slowly leaned in for a closer look. Plastered to the mirror by a layer of puss that coated it was a squirming tadpole-like creature about the length of a thumbnail. It was a translucent fleshy colour with a tadpole like tail, undeveloped pale black eyes, and tiny arms. Its small mouth appeared with a pucker as it released a barely audible squeak.

Disgust suddenly overwhelmed him and before he could think he reflexively crushed it with his thumb. It fell to the counter. He looked at it for a moment, and then he frantically jumped in the shower.

He vigorously scrubbed his whole body with soap and hot water. It’s probably normal, he tried to convince himself. Must just be some sort of parasite, or some overgrown bacteria. Maybe it was a just bug that had been caught in the crossfire of the exploding pustule. He would save it to show the doctor. It’s okay. It’s fine.

He got out of the shower.

It was gone.

He looked around. There was so sign of it.

Had it crawled away? No… he crushed it. Where did it go? He must have imagined it… Either way after searching fruitlessly for it he convinced himself to go back to bed and promptly drifted into an uneasy sleep.

In the morning he woke up and groggily got ready for school. He ate his breakfast in a dead eyed daze.

“Have you seen the dog?” his mother asked.

He stared into space briefly remembering the incident of the previous night.

“Have you seen the dog?” she asked again, annoyed.

He shook his head no.

“How does he keep getting away?” his mother grumbled as she slammed the door on her way out.

 He was finishing his breakfast when he heard something banging in the basement. The dog was trying to get at his food again. He hurried downstairs.

“Boy? Bad Boy! Come here!”

He heard a strange wet chewing sound when he got to the bottom of the stairs.

“Are you okay? Come on out… Come on out boy!”

He slowly turned the corner into the pantry. He froze. Glistening Translucent skin stretched over an arching row of long, spiny vertebrae that ended in a small finned tail. Webbed feet supported the body that squatted over a furry carcass. Long, pale fingers greedily shoveled the dog’s innards to a head covered with slick, wet, black hair.

It slowly turned around. Glazey black eyes glared at him. Above the chin dripping with blood, sharp teeth formed a wide smile. He recognized the face. It was pale and wet and rubbery, but the features were unmistakably similar to a face he was very familiar with. His own.

“Hello,” it said, “Remember me?”

Later that day his mother returned from work and began busily preparing supper.

“Hun! Come get dinner!” She saw him come up the stairs from the corner of her eye. “Did you take out the trash?”

“No,” he said as he silently crept behind her.

“Are you okay? You sound kinda sick.”

She turned and looked at her son but was shocked by the black eyes that met hers. He swiftly sank his teeth deep into her neck. She fell to the ground. She writhed and grasped her neck but couldn’t stop the blood.

“Better now, mother. Better now.”

She stopped squirming. He had his supper.