Parasitus

Parasitus is a 18 page thriller horror novelette and is C.G.Youngs' debut piece. In the chilling world Otoya lives in, despair and grief take center stage in this depressingly beautiful tale. But will you dare to witness the haunting crescendo, where shadows converge, and the chilling dance of fate unfolds?

Parasitus

By: C.G.Youngs

In the quiet desperation of the small Japanese town, while everyone slept, Otoya’s footsteps echoed along the stone walls of the houses; with the weight of a thousand regrets which he seemed to carry everywhere with him, his footsteps sounded utterly painful. A light rain fell upon the wooded rooftops of the town, tap dancing their way to the ground. The moonlight lit Otoya’s path gleaming upon him, brightening his austere face. He was a slender and tall man, his skin almost as pale as the moonlight itself. He had black hair that was just long enough to shield his eyes; his eyes that almost matched his hair. As they were a dark shade of brown; they looked like tree bark from an old tired oak. They managed to give the allusion of deep depths that you could dive into, yet at the same time, they looked empty. They looked as if there was nothing behind them. I’m not sure why he was out this late tonight, why he carried himself with such discomfort, why he didn't seem to acknowledge the rain. At this time in my life, I knew merely nothing about Otoya. But that would soon change, he would soon change, and we would soon become one.

There's something about tonight that's different, something off. Perhaps the full moon that shines down casting sinister shadows throughout the town, or possibly the frigid breeze that slices through the air, leaving those same slices embedded in your face. Whatever the reason may be, you could feel it in the atmosphere of the town, weighing down on your shoulders, pressing in on your chest. It was like a python wrapping around you, restricting your breath. Leaving you stranded without any way to free yourself from its deadly grip. This was accompanied by the way the night hugged the town, as it wrapped its ash-colored fingers around everything, only amplifying this feeling more. But tonight was exceptionally dark compared to most nights that fall upon this town. The moon was the only light source, providing minimum light to anyone out so late. The town's lanterns were left unlit most nights, tonight being no exception. The waters fell eerily silent and the normal waves were absent. Otoya seemed to bring this energy with him, wherever he went. The feeling radiating off of his body. Leaving a trail of despondency wherever his weary feet carried him. Those soon would become my weary feet, my body. But as he made it to his house, he took a minute and acknowledged the waters. The waters he wished he could become a part of and float away in, find refuge in. You could see in his eyes the ways he yearned for such freedom. Then without any more delay, he turned briskly away, opened then shut his door; vanishing into the void he calls home. Then it was just me and the rain. No lamps flickered on or candles lit, just the usual darkness that seeped out of Otoya’s home. I have been watching him for awhile now, he is unusual, intriguing. I can't help but wonder what he tastes like. How his muscles would part as I chew through his body. The way he would squirm as I consume him from the inside out. But for now, I need to prepare so when my time comes I can feast.

…

Nights in this town seem to go by slower, everything does. I slept under a rock last night by the seaside; cocooning myself into the moist sand. Making sure to stay far enough away from the tide that could easily drag something as small as me away into its darkness. I was awoken to the sounds of wagons and horses bustling on the pebble-laid streets, to people chattering and merchants haggling with customers. Seagulls squawking their good mornings and the ocean breeze carrying a hum of warning, punctuated by the crashing of waves against each other. As I make my way out of my makeshift sand blanket and up the embankment. I am amazed by the sight before my eyes. A sea of tents and vendors, those that seemingly appeared from thin air, now flooded the street outside of Otoya's home. Bakers, weavers, fishermen, and farmers all lined the street hoping to sell their goods. As I rounded the corner, slithering in the shadows of the vendor's tents. I come to a halt when I can't help but overhear a conversation about my little friend.

“Oh yes dear, everybody knows Otoya. He only comes out at night.” a scrawny old woman with sun spots and drooping skin informs a child. It's made clear she runs a farmer's stand as she hands the young girl a bag of rice. But with the mention of Otoya's name, the surrounding vendors and shoppers freeze in their tracks. Freeze is a bad word to describe what they did. They practically stopped breathing, as if the mention of his name would bring bad luck. The old woman and young girl, unfazed by the shift in the surrounding townspeople’s attitude continue on with their conversation.

“But why ma’am, doesn't he get lonely?” the little girl questions, with a curious tone to her voice.

The woman laughs at the kid as if she’s said something funny. As if she had told her a joke.

“Let me tell you something about Otoya now hun, Otoya stays in that house, and almost no one has seen him in ten years. He does NOT get lonely. Loneliness is all he has ever known.” She begins to trail off, “Ever since his parents died anyway. He has no one else and he doesn't want anyone else. His parents used to buy produce from me with him by their side when he was just as small as you.” the old woman says with a smile as she ends her sentence with a pat on the girl's head, emphasizing her height.

“Well, how did they die?” the young girl shoots back at her, still curious.

“That's not a question you just ask young lady.” the woman says, then she lowers her voice to a whisper and leans toward the young girl over the counter of her stand “But if you must know, no one quite knows what happened to them. One morning they were found curled up together dead, with small white worms squirming all over their bodies. They must have been there for a while. Otoya was the one to find them, oh that poor boy. And he’s never been the same since. People spread rumors about that poor boy. They say he’s the one who killed em.’” The woman says.

“Oh….but-” Before the girl can finish her sentence, she twists her neck back as her mother’s calls for her reach her ears. “Izumi!” The girl's name echoes against the stone walls. And just like that she runs back to her mother. But before she does so, she thanks the old woman and gives her a bow as a sign of respect. The old woman is tasked with another customer and begins her spiel about how nice the weather is. I move along.

Uninterested in small talk at the market I make my way to Otoya’s house. When I finally reach the home, I can't ignore how dirty his is compared to the others close to it. The Japanese architecture which values purity and peace is nowhere to be found in Otoya’s home. Even though surrounding neighbors' houses have this trait to them, it is missing in Otoya’s. The walls of his house, once a bright white, now seem to be stained a permanent monotonous gray, his windows are plastered with cobwebs and dust, and his roof crumbles and cracks before my eyes. Still, no light seems to escape out of his windows, which appear to never have been opened. No light seems to be able to penetrate through the darkened windows either. As they appear to be forever sealed. Not only does the inside of his house appear to lack light, but it also seems to have an absence of movement. Yet this only draws me closer. I spent the next few hours of daylight scaling his house top to bottom and over again, making sure to stay out of the public eye. Finding crevices I may be able to slip through, holes I could slide through, and any opening that I could use to get inside his house. I don't need much room after all I'm just a whipworm, one who possesses a serpent's grace. Even the smallest crevice will do for me.

After roughly five hours of searching the outside of his home, I have come to find three entrances I could easily enter through. One is on the top of his roof. I can easily slide through a chewed-up plank of wood and shimmy myself down onto his shelf. Though my body is almost entirely shielded by a thick layer of dust that sits on top of his shelf. The shelve provides a vantage point, covering almost the entirety of the front half of his house. I can also slide into a small hole that is missing the rock it was once filled with on the back wall of his house. The hole leads me directly into his bathroom. The last entrance I found is at the backside of his house, a screenless window that has been open this entire time and is a heavenly gateway for all types of creatures. But this way isn't very reliable as he probably closes it every night. Nonetheless, three golden entrances to his confines are now easily accessible to me.

…

I’ve spent a few days analyzing my next host's movements, schedule, and routines. Perched upon the cabinet I decipher his every movement and attempt to figure out his thought process. I have taken note of the main floor and all the rooms that are in it. When entering through the front door you see a small and messy gray bed surrounded by oak bookshelves to your right, and then a tattered desk and more books to your left. That is where I watch him from, on top of the shelves. Straight ahead, Shoji Blinds separates the front room of his home from his tiny kitchen. To the right of the kitchen is a small room separated from the rest of the house by a door and four walls. That is his bathroom. There is a sliding door between his bathroom and kitchen leading outside to his garden. The last part of his house is a room in the very back, past the bathroom, almost entirely hidden by boxes and crates; it's his parent's room. It was his parent's room. That door stays locked, trapping the grim memories that haunt Otoya's past confined inside that small room. That door does not get touched. That door reminds Otoya of the person he once was and the person he became after that day. That door is a testament to Otoya's dissociative psychological state. A node to his perpetual depression.

One morning after spending a night's sleep on the shelf in a dust blanket, I’m awoken by sun rays that shine with an enchanted deep orange. Infiltrating Otoya's house, somehow parts of the rays manage to get past his makeshift black fabric curtains. They shine through the old windows highlighting the cobweb build-up in the corners and reveal a thick cloud of dust floating in the air. Soon after the initial awakening of the sun, Otoya rises too, though not with nearly the same amount of optimism. A beautiful sound begins to fill the house from the antique-looking record box that he keeps on his desk. From it comes the ballat, Otome No Inori, by Rikouran. A staple from his childhood. The melody brings a momentary peace to the usual dimness of the house. That is until the ballet is cut short and a screeching cacophony takes its place. A much more suitable sound for this house, as well as for Otoya's life. But Otoya doesn't bother to stop the clearly broken record. Instead, he sits there at the end of his bed listening to it. As if he is fond of the sound. He doesn't stop it and lets the track finish; leaving the feeling of unease heavy in the house. He listened to it as if it was the song itself. As the screeching becomes the new soundtrack for the house, I'm overcome with a strong desire to escape the sound, at least momentarily. I crawl up and out of the house, slithering across the corroded rooftop, the screeching becoming increasingly faint as it is being pushed into the background. It's early, just sunrise, meaning the vendors have not yet set up shop for the day. I make my way across the pathway where vendors will soon be set up, taking advantage of the temporary freedom I have in the street. I’m able to move freely and without worry of anyone seeing me. I slow up when I see a short, old, fat man stumbling out of a building just at the end of the street. I look up at the sign of the building the man just came stumbling out of and it reads “Akanes Tavern ''. He must have been there getting wasted all night long. As if he was walking on stilts for the first time ever, he took slow, long, unsteady steps toward the stone embankment that separates the street from the beach and serves as a barrier to the steep drop down. He plops all his weight down upon the embankment, unaware that his weight could make the whole thing go tumbling. A loose stone falls down to the beach shore and slightly rolls across the sand, all while the man is completely oblivious to this. He sways back and forth, and his short gray hair becomes more apparent as I creep closer. This isn't the only gray hair he has, his entire face has a gray prickly shadow that spreads from ear to ear. The old man begins mumbling an old sailor song. One that is probably reminiscent of his past. He sings in a broken and slurred voice yet he seems to know all the words flawlessly. Then he moves his whole body with the rhythm of his song, his sways become so deep it looks like he is about to lay down on the embankment but changes his mind and sways deeply to the other side; only to do it all over again. As I go to turn around and head back to Otoya’s from this failed stroll, I hear the tavern’s door get pushed open once again. As I turn I see a tall husky-built man with sleek black hair tied in a messy knot above his temple storming towards the drunk. When he makes it to the old drunk he begins screaming at him like he just had killed someone.

“You no good low-life scum!” the man shouts, the words flying off his tongue like knives.

The old drunk is too out of it to understand what the husky man is going on about and continues to sway with his song.

“You come and drink and drink and drink, and then you can't pay, you old trash!” The husky man yelled.

The drunk now just interpreting what the man said a minute ago looks up as if he is shocked at the harsh words he’s hearing.

“I am sooooosooso sorrrry, I swear I will come back with the ch-changeeee-” the drunk manages to barely slur out.

“No! I know how you are, you said this last time and I’m still outta’ that cash!”

Becoming uninterested in the petty fight, I make my way back to Otoya's house. Besides, the vendors will be here soon, and then It’ll be almost impossible to make it through the crowd of people without getting squashed. The slurred words and yells from the husky-looking man fade as I continue on, but the screeching from Otoya’s house becomes all too apparent again. As I make it back to the house and onto the roof the yells are just still audible from here, I turn around and see the men still arguing with violent hand movements and furious eyes, drunk eyes for some. But before I can make it into the house I’m stopped when I hear a deep painful howl. I turn back to the men but only can see one. That's when the husky man runs to the side of the embankment where the drunk previously sat and looked down. The drunk's body is now lying lifeless on the beach's shore. His head split open on the rock he himself caused to fall. Brain matter was barely visible from where I was but it certainly was there, spread across the beach, blood splattered on the beach's sand like a fresh coat of red paint. The old drunk’s lifeless eyes were looking in my direction. Looking at me. The husky man frantically calls for help, and I return home. I return knowing the blood will all soon be absorbed by the sand and the remnants of the drunk's brain will be washed away by the waters and be consumed by the cycle of nature.

A week's passed and my hunger is only growing; an insatiable hunger that my only purpose in life is to suppress and feed. Suppress and feed, suppress and feed, suppress and feed. Over and over again, a repetitive cycle that I call life. I feel as if I'm shrinking to nothing, and I am so very hungry. I'm aware of my situation and I know if I don't act fast I won't be here much longer. No one else is as appetizing looking as Otoya, as divine, as mouth-watering. He spends most of his days in bed, working very little in his backyard garden that's concealed from the rest of the town. He commonly reads and writes; he’s a poet. A dark one indeed. One who's truly fallen past any saving point. He has fallen past mercy itself as if he were a fallen angel. He often writes about love and loss, grief, the waters that he watches, the roses, and their thorns. His poetry is his outlet, it is his legacy. His tear drops stain the paper of his poems, they’re his soul's signature. His poems are bound together by a dark leather book that he keeps on a large shelf with the majority of his other books. The same shelf has hundreds of classic pieces of literature and novels on it. Most were inherited from his mother, who was an English professor at the local school. His love for the wonderful works of literature and poetry that sat on those shelves, was developed in him at a very young age. When he isn't writing poetry or doing other random actions he reads. Constantly losing himself in the works of Osamu Dazai, Nakajima Utako, or other masterful authors and poets. His wardrobe consists of only black and deep grays, lots of wool, and some silk shirts that had once belonged to his father. He drapes black fabric over all his windows blocking most light that attempts to enter this house. He doesn't bother to clean much. Which leaves his house smelling musty and the air entirely stale. Dirt stains his floorboards, giving them a grayish brown coating, as it was trekked inside after his garden work. Very limited garden work that is. His body is decaying, day by day. With every breath he takes he grows nearer to his last.

He pulls pale orange carrots from the bleak soil of his garden. Beets and chard also find their way into his wicker basket. He trims his soybeans and weeds through the bottoms of his garden beds that he crafted himself from old tree branches that fell into his yard after a big storm last year. He doesn't spend much time outside in his garden, as if he is allergic to the sun. Instead, he only comes out when it is necessary so he can prepare himself food. He doesn't bother to water his garden much either, he lets the rain take care of that. Even though it wouldn’t be hard to water, as he lives right next to an entire ocean. But Otoya couldn't care less if a few plants wilted or even his entire crop. What's the point if in the end, whether eaten or wilted, they will all be gone? He could live off his canned foods or go hungry if he lost his crop. Neither would be much of a bother to Otoya.

…

Daylight struggles to pierce through the black fabric that's hung carelessly, but also struggles through the thick shroud of melancholy that lives in this home just as much as Otoya and I do. She is our unwelcome yet cherished guest. The rooms that fill the house, once alive with warmth and laughter of a growing-up child and parents, who would spend hours chasing him around dressed up as monsters. Now that once familiar warmth was gone, entirely dead and cold, the monsters that his parents would dress up as became real and now reside within these walls. The muted sounds of the world beyond the doors crept through, reminding Otoya of his old life. But it isn't until he hears a young boy's faint voice talking to his parents that he really starts to listen. The young boy asked them if he could have an apple that the farmer was selling. Reasoning with his parents, the young boy pointed out that it could be the last one he has this year, as apple season is nearly over. Reminding Otoya of how he used to make points just like that to get what he wanted from his parents. Now all he ever wanted was his parents. He sits cross-legged on the floor, his back propped against his bed, listening to the commotion on the streets, listening to the kid's cheerful laughter as they run about with each other. He sits silently thinking of his old life. He sits silently wishing for it back, for them back. He sat like this for hours, until the kids ran away with each other and the peak of customers at the market diminished to just a few people. The sun began to set reminding Otoya of one of his favorite pastimes, then he slept. One of his few escapes from the harsh realities that live within the house with him, with us.

…

Entirely random seeming Otoya rises from his bed, taking tired slow struts as he just awoke in the dead of night. Momentarily pausing with his hand on the door, presumably contemplating this choice. He steps out into the darkness of the night regardless without any further hesitation. Trading places with the cold brittle seeming air of midnight. I quickly hurried out of the hole I entered through, only to find him sitting on the beach's sandy shore hugging his knees tightly to his chest; so tight he must think he would lose them if he let them go. Perched on the rooftop I come to a standstill and find myself just observing him, as he is just sitting there. The night is still, there is no rain tonight, just cold crisp September air gently blowing throughout the town. Otoya is the most peculiar thing to me, he just sits there on the shore watching, possibly waiting for something, someone. Staring into the ocean’s soul, Otoya's eyes seem to lock onto the oceans, as if challenging it to an intense stare down. But before one of them can lose, his hands dig into the sand and his legs fall from their previous spot against his chest. It's so dark the only way I am able to see him is from the faint reflection of the moon onto the waters, as well as the orange-amber glow that comes from his cigarette. Then there is this sound, a fragile symphony, a haunting melody of grief that is carried silently through the town, yet no one hears it except for me. Tears roll down his bony face, getting lost in his hollowed-out cheekbones. Though they seem to find the moonlight again on his jawline; which is close in resemblance to a knife. Now there is rain, however it's his own rain. His tears -like a downpour from the heavens- fall upon parched sand, quickly being absorbed almost without a trace. The only evidence that he leaves behind is the divets his tears leave imprinted on the shore. They too, will soon be washed away. Then the first words I ever heard him speak in a very long time. A deafening cry for help yet he doesn't want it. His raspy voice was deep yet ethereal as he silently screamed, “Why… Why me?” over and over again. Then, “What did I do to deserve this?” His tears grow even heavier and his cigarette goes flying into the waters. His fists begin gripping at the sand, then throwing it. Creating a miniature sandstorm of his own. He sits pounding on the sand as hard as he can, throwing whatever he can grasp. Screaming all while in the process. “WHY!?” he hollers at whoever he is talking to. He picks himself up quickly and moves towards the water furiously. He throws himself down into it and begins trying to fight it too. Punching it, pushing it around, doing whatever he can to attempt to make the water feel as he feels, all while tears still stream down his face. He tries his best to make the waters feel pain. I momentarily lose my view of him as he throws himself under the water. But he soon comes back up and continues his fight. He gasps for air as if the world around him was closing in, as if he was under the water much longer than he was. The wind now whips his hair around, tangling it in front of his eyes. His eyes are glossy with tears that sparkle from the radiance of the moon. He flails his arms as if they were also being carried by the wind. He sobs and the ocean’s waters engulf any emotions he expresses. Part of him becomes the water. His tears will live on in the ocean waters. The ocean waters that are comforting him as if they are his parents. Still, he slaps the water. But this time not with anger but sadness. His punches grow weaker, and he begins trembling more. His whole body now shaking from the emotions surging through his body. Trembling in the water, he cries like a wounded dog. He cries out at the top of his lungs, a wounded battle cry, then he falls silent again. Picks himself up from the water and moves back to the shore. He stares up at the night sky as if he is begging it to keep this a secret between the two of them. His dark brown eyes giving the sky a contract that he’s asking it to sign. Unbothered if anyone heard his screams and cries. Unbothered that he is soaked. He just stares up at the sky; his tears slowing, but not stopping.

…

The night begins to near an end, and Otoya picks himself up after sitting there silently for hours, without movement since his outburst. His eyes still pleading with the sky. He doesn't bother to brush off the sand that is clinging to his now-damp clothing. He holds himself as if he’s utterly disgusted, and repulsed by his actions. His shoulders sag down and his knees are weak and slightly bent. But before he can escape back to the safety of his home something seems to stop him dead in his tracks. As he bends down, his extremely slender figure becomes only more apparent; as he looks like he could quite literally fold together. The wind blows through his hair still, but now it's reduced to a gentle breeze. He clutches in his hands a medium-sized Conch shell and returns to his awkward standing stance. He studies the shell, running his fingers over the bumps and grooves it has. Then he holds it to his ear, eavesdropping on the water's secrets. For a few seconds, he listens, listening as if it were talking to him. But whatever it told him must have offended him, as he dropped the shell and with the weight of his body crushed it under one foot. Crushing it into more sand. He silently trudges up the embankment to his home with tears still rimming his eyes and re-enters his house. Falling back asleep on his messy bed. Falling right back asleep as if the events that just happened were all a dream.

The rest of the night passes and so does the morning. He isn't awoken until mid-noon by a repetitive knocking at his door. He tried ignoring it at first by covering his head with a pillow, but it is still happening after minutes of non-stop pounding. I however awoke by the second knock, not about to miss anything. Otoya moves like honey, slowly dripping out of his bed. Resenting the fact someone is here. He throws on a black sweater he somehow managed to stain that hangs off the foot of his bed. Once he reaches the door, before he opens it he pulls his hair down to cover his tired eyes and tugs down at his sweater. Grabbing and tossing small pieces of white fuzz that are sticking to the sweater flicking them to the side of him. This is followed by him pulling at the dark, saggy, wrinkled eye bags that infest his face. He doesn't ever have company, so he is dazed by the random knocking. However, he takes a deep breath and finally opens the door to find the old woman from the market holding in her hands a warm bowl of rice. As soon as he opens the door a sincere smile covers her entire face. But also the crowd outside his home that was doing their regular shopping, grows completely still. They're scared of this man, this man that people spread rumors about. Some parents even went as far as grabbing their children tight like he was the Boogeyman. The Boogeyman that was going to pounce at any second.

“I know it isn't much, Otoya but… I haven’t seen you in almost ten years and I wanted to bring you something” The woman's voice is weak and timid. She pauses but adds

“I have missed seeing your little face at the front of my stand. You know I work just outside your house” She says trying to coax him to stop by her stand sometime.

Otoya has no initial reaction, too stunned to speak; he stands there just looking at her. He looks up at the crowd who stares at him from behind her. Tears begin forming at the old woman's eyes and her voice is now shaky.

“I'm so sorry that I haven't come sooner. I just felt like it wasn't my place” Now her whole body shakes with her voice, and an embarrassed blush forms on her face taking the place of the smile she had just moments ago. Otoya, still wearing an emotionless slate on his face, reaches out his hands. But not for the old woman, for the bowl. His bony skeletal hands wrap around the ceramic bowl and he pulls it back to his center. He shifts his gaze from her to the crowd to the warm bowl of fluffy rice now in his clutches.

“Your parents…” the old woman starts her sentence with but is quickly stopped as the door slams into her face. The wood creating a barrier between them. A silencing wall. Otoya stands there for a minute, his back to the door waiting to hear her footsteps become distant. When they do and are accompanied by muffled sobs, He turns and takes the bowl to the small table in between the front room and the kitchen and sets it on the table without any remorse for his actions. He steps away behind the Shoji Blinds that divide this room and the kitchen to grab chopsticks and I know my time has come. I descend down the cabinet that I watch him from and drag my emaciated body across the jagged floorboards, and make it to the small wooden table that the innocent bowl sits upon. I dive my body headfirst into the bowl, my vile task clear. I desperately lay my eggs among the grains of rice. Spewing them out of my own body to become a part of his. Every crevice in that bowl becomes my canvas, my canvas to cover with my children. Ensuring I lay enough to get the job done, I push out as many eggs as I possibly can in the limited time frame I have been given. My eggs are hidden among the grains and camouflaged by the cream color of the rice, and I quickly tuck myself among the rice too. Tightly wrapping my loathsome body around a grain, waiting for the inevitable. Looking forward to the terrors and damages we will inflict on his body. Otoya comes back and sits, looking down at the bowl of rice he is about to consume. He raises his chopsticks, they soar in the air then they plummet into the bowl. Mixing its contents around, mixing us around. He finally picks up the first clump of rice, putting my babies inside of him, unknowingly infesting his own body with my offspring. Unknowingly sealing his fate. The subsequent mouthfuls follow, each bite driving the infestation deeper. Finally, he picks me up, places me in his mouth, enfolding me in saliva, and swallows. Beginning the parasitism I was made for.

YES YES YES

CONSUME ME

CONSUME ME

CONSUME US

C

O

N

S

U

M

E

U

S

I feel like I'm floating on a cloud, as I slowly fall down his esophagus. I know I must act now but the feeling of serenity that's present tells me otherwise. It begs me to stay and I wouldn't mind it either. Despite the feeling of everlasting peace in his throat, I realize that if I don't act now, I will be submerged in stomach acid. Boiled and burned alive. Stomach acid -which unlike my children- I can't survive. As I come to the end of my ride, I cling onto the fleshy-walled esophagus right before it's too late. The clump of rice I was entangled with seconds before plunges into his stomach acid. Sending a small ripple effect in the unforgiving liquids that await below. Now to do what I came down here for; I ease my way down to his stomach slowly, making sure to keep a tight grip on his innards. As I enter his stomach the putrid smell that was faint in his throat hits me like a brick wall. My grip is weakened by the unexpected shock, Causing me to lose my front grip. I now hang upside down, my face dangling just inches away from a pool of death. Taken aback by this horrible scent that I now am surrounded by and now inches away from the culprit of the scent. I cling to the lining of his stomach walls hoping not to fall in, and attempt to pull myself back up. But to no avail I continue to dangle, losing my grip by the second. The idea of living quickly becomes a dream as I look death in the eyes. Death awaits me. Wants me. It's calling for me. I close my eyes preparing myself for the now inevitable. My bottom half loses its strength and I fall. Fall down into a pool of pure destruction and chaos, into death's hands.

I think I'm in Heaven, or maybe Hell. It still stinks so probably Hell. But when I re-open my eyes I can't believe them. I can't believe this. I'm alive. And I'm not in his stomach acid, at least not yet. I'm floating on the same clump of rice I rode down here on. It saved me. But it's quickly sinking. A lifeboat, giving up its life for me. A sacrifice. But if it sinks, so will I. We are slowly heading towards his stomach wall but sinking at a faster rate. There's only one thing I can do. One thing that might save me now. I plunge my tail end into the acid sending shock waves of excruciating pain throughout my body. My tail disintegrating before my eyes. I row, row, and row but the pain is agonizing. My entire body growing weak from the pain. I'm still three-ish inches from his stomach wall. And I accept my fate, my tail giving me a taste of what my whole body will soon be feeling. I sit hugging the nub left of my tail, with barely enough room on the rice clump for my body, I prepare myself for death, sure of it this time. SLOOSH! The pool of acid I'm in has giant waves now. Waves that push me to the side of his stomach, wasting no time I grab onto his wet stomach walls and pull myself up to relative safety, thankfully to whatever had just saved me. When I turn around I see a mammoth chunk of rice floating in the middle of his stomach. Rice that just saved my life. But I also see the rice that saved me by letting me use it as a lifeboat sinking. In seconds it becomes fully submerged in acid, and it becomes no longer visible as it sinks to the bottom of his stomach. Otoya must have gotten sidetracked after he ate the piece of rice I was on and had just come back to finish the bowl. I am alive, tail-less but without a doubt, alive.

As I get to the side of his stomach I quickly do what I came down here to do, wanting to spend no more time in this hellish terrain. I sink my teeth into his stomach lining, I slowly make a small hole in his stomach. Savoring the taste of his slimy flesh, as well as the acidity that accompanies the flesh. When I crawl back, an oval shaped hole is carved into the top section of his stomach. Now, in the case of overflowing stomach acid, he will have an unpleasant surprise, an acidic one, flowing through the parts of the body it is not supposed to be. He will feel the pain my tail felt. He will feel it all. After I chew his stomach up, I begin the crawl back up his esophagus. Crawling to a light source, that his mouth is the origin of. Burrowing through the mucus lining that coats his throat. However, I don't re-enter his mouth yet, instead, I wait in the back of his throat until he falls asleep again. It's warm, dark, and is filled with the faint smell of his stomach acid. But when compared to the smell in his stomach this faint hint of acid only smells like tainted fish. Up here, It's no bother to me. In his throat, I wait and lie in a sinister stillness in an attempt to not raise any suspicions. Folding my body tightly against itself, I paste myself to the back of his throat, I wait in desperate anticipation for nightfall. Within the confines of his flesh chamber, time begins to lose its meaning. The minutes stretch into hours which stretch into irrelevance. The outside world also fades into insignificance. The outside world already becoming a distant memory and my instincts come rushing back to me. I am a creature of utterly vile shadows, born of disgusting sorrows. I was born to feast on him; born for this sole purpose.

With the coming of nightfall and Otoya back to sleep, I make my way out of his throat, through his mouth, and onto his face. I take one last look around before I enter him for good. When I do, I spot his poetry book open and a bottle of ink sitting next to it. I feel a strong urge to slither my way over there and read it, but my guts seem to tell me the opposite. Torn between the two options, I could no longer resist the allure of his poetry, the timeless beauty and torment whispering to me from the open pages. Calling me toward it. Despite all of my instincts, I find myself making my way up the desk before I even realize that I got off of his bed. Upon my arrival, sure enough, a poem still wet with the ink that creates its words sits before my eyes. Two elegantly written verses one about birth, the other on death. Penned in front of me, the top section of the poem reads:

“During life, hardships arise.

People come, and some people die.

Some people, but not yet you.

Some were the people that were there for you.

Burying them, lowering their bodies to Gaia

In life, death looms, they are one, not two.

They are brethren, birds of a feather

Just on opposite wings of each other.

Waiting for the end of her chapter,

And the beginning of his

He is waiting for you.

In life, we are faced with choices,

Choices of who we choose to cherish and who to lose.

Who to love and who to abuse.

We’re faced with these questions every day,

But what does it matter if in the end we are all entombed?”

As I go to read the following verse about death, I completely freeze, as I hear Otoya roll over in his sleep. Depriving me of the easy passageway I once had leading into his brain. His face is now completely flipped and is lying on top of his pillow. Urgency rushes through me and a panicked feeling foreign to me seconds ago now rages throughout my entire body. But I am delayed by the rhythmicity of his poetry, conflicted, I can’t seem to move. I'm stuck in the words like a fly in a Venus fly trap. But as the adrenaline rush finally kicks in, I drag myself back to his bed with all the strength I can muster up. I once again find myself dragging my body across these jagged and splintered floors. When I make it back to his pillow I squirm my way under his pitch-black hair and try to reach his nose. The pillow pushes me unforgivingly against his face causing him to shift his face away from the scaliness of my body. Delirious he brings his hand up to his face and limply drags it down, slightly pulling on me. I fall back down to the pillow after his hand slides across me. Without a second to spare, I crawl over his stomach to the other side of him. His face now once again facing up toward the sky. Now, truly I take a good look around his poetry book catching my eye again. But this time I dive into his nose before I can be distracted any further. As I enter his nose I quickly become covered in a slimy mucus coating, one like his throat but thicker. Slowing me down but not stopping me. As I continue through him, not daring to stop after the incident that almost cost me it all, I approach the junction where air and soul converge. And the gateway to his mind grows closer. It is pitch black inside him, as expected. So I rely entirely on my pre-calculated course to get me to his brain. As I continue up to his mind or at least the direction I believe it is, he must feel something is wrong as I can feel his whole body jolt. And then he begins to shake aggressively, like an earthquake. As if he is trying to get water out of his ear. So I come to a halt and don't move. Not willing to take any more risks tonight. I cling to the slimy walls of him that shake desperately. I only can hope not to plummet down into the unknown. With relief he stopped, he must have thought whatever it was left or assumed he imagined it, and he returned to lying down. But I dare not move until he has certainly fallen back asleep.

…

After half an hour of waiting as still as a stump of a tree, I’m relieved when I hear a faint snore coming from down below. I continue my journey upward and into his brain. Still using my internal compass to guide me, I make my way upward. When I arrived in his head, partially surprised I actually went the right way, I find it isn't as spacious as I recall the last one being. Otoya's brain is tight and full. Brain matter is carefully folded upon itself, like layers of quality linen. Nonetheless, I tuck myself tightly between two warm and slightly moist lobes and begin my feeding. Chewing piece by piece with my ring-shaped mouth and hooked teeth. My teeth digging into him, tearing off each piece with a small snapping sound. Each bite breaks more fragile membrane. Each bite bringing me closer to my main meal, his brain. I continue on until he starts to bleed. So I suck the blood in an effort to help it clot. I savor the metallic tang that accompanies the red river of life that trickles out of his brain; His blood clumping together in small circular shapes that I feel against my tongue. Then I move to the next section and repeat the act. Suppressing and feeding, suppressing and feeding, suppressing and feeding, completing my life's one and only purpose. Satisfying my only cravings. With each bite, each swallow comes a dark satisfaction that merrily fills me. Meagerly pleasing my appetite. Just barely satiating my hunger. Now after minutes of feasting, carrying out the same slow procedure each and every time, I go to bed now too. I tuck myself tightly in his brain and fall fast asleep. Sleeping inside a sleeping man.

…

Days have passed, and I can't even describe the pure delicacy I am surrounded by. Heavenly, ethereal. That is what it's like, how it tastes. The darkness inside him perfectly suits my pale slimy skin, the perfect environment for me. With every passing minute, I grow fuller. With every passing hour, he grows sicker. With every passing day, I grow stronger.

A week has passed now and Otoya is missing a sizable chunk of his hippocampus. Deliberately chosen by me so he can’t remember what is happening to him, trapping him in a disorienting fog of uncertainty. Leaving him unable to piece together the horrors that are unfolding inside of him. Just days ago my children hatched inside of him. He must have seen one slither under his skin and up his arm, because frantically he tried cutting the worm looking creature out from underneath his skin. But while trying he lost a lot of blood, making him weak and very disoriented. He collapsed into a pool of his own blood. An hour or so later he regained consciousness and hauled himself to the bathroom. He wrapped his arm up in some sort of bandage. Then he took a seat on the rough floor boards and shoved two fingers to the back of his throat, gagging himself. His whole body curling as he vomited. When he looked down at what had just left him, he saw large mysterious creamy white masses surrounded by blood, and small worms tunneling into the chunks. This combined with the disgusting smell of bile and the feeling of chunks still sitting in the back of his throat, made him shove his fingers deeper into his throat. But this time Otoya felt something move on his finger. He pulls it back out and sees a small white object with tiny white worms squirming all over it. Panicking him even more, as if worms weren't already coming out of his mouth. He screamed, sending waves of pure horror and pure malevolence through the house, but his screams made it no further than the front door. The house hiding this from the outside world. He flings the stuff on his fingers into the rest of his puke in the toilet. Throwing himself back in shock right after. He sits there, sweating, barely being able to catch his breath it's going that fast. Thinking back to the time he saw his dad doing this same thing, four days before he found them in the bedroom. His dad brushed it off and told Otoya it was nothing just seasonal sickness; now he knew, now he understood.

He lays awake in the dead of night. Restless, tormented. I can feel his movements, as he keeps getting up and walking around his house. Your sense of feeling becomes a lot more in tune when you are surrounded by complete darkness. All your senses become a lot more keen. He slowly paces up and down the length of his house. He's running a fever and must be in a lot of pain. The effects of insomnia and his body being eaten inside out must be taking their toll on him. I'm a phantom witness to his pain, I have seen it all, and now I experience it with him, inside of him. The night stretches on, while he is stuck in a bubble of misery and pain, a bubble that seems to collapse time. I eat away at him, each bite taking more of his brain. A long and unforgiving few hours follow that offers no solace for Otoya. He began to scream when he realized that this pain wasn't going to just vanish. His screams echo inside of him, as he sits once again plunging his fingers down his throat. Throwing up whatever is inside his stomach. In search of more worms, yet he doesn't find them this time. Trying to purge whatever may be infesting him. His uncanny cries become a familiar sound the longer I am with him. I feel like I could cry along and hit all the same notes as him. He cries and hollers but to no avail, he returns back to his bed I think as if he has noticed that his cries won't do him any good. Sobbing from the pain, both mental and physical.

He left the house today, at noon so the streets were less crowded. The sound of waves and people's muffled voices still infiltrated his skull so I could hear. The market had now been closed down for the day, with the seasons changing their hours have shortened. Being darker sooner in the day meant fewer customers, and they saw no reason to stay out to sell to fewer customers. That and because it was getting cold and only the ones who made the most money were able to afford wool coats. The streets sounded almost empty with just a few walking strangers who occasionally passed by him. A heavy door slammed behind him as he walked into some sort of building. Sounds of men's voices, loud and bold seconds ago, now diminished to a quiet whisper-like tone. As if everyone in this building had already seen and recognized Otoya. “Pour me something strong,” Otoya said, with confidence yet the uncertainty in his voice almost made it sound like a question. At that moment I knew where we were. We were at the tavern the old man came hobbling out of just about a month ago.” Sure pal” a voice said responding to the command. The same voice that was yelling at that old man, the same one that sent Humpty Dumpty to his great fall. That voice, that man, he was here now with Otoya. A glass slides across a wooden island creating a swooshing sound. I don't hear the glass being picked up but I hear it slam back onto the island only after seconds of its arrival. “Grab me another one,” Otoya says, this time fully in confidence. And just like that, another drink comes sliding across the island, and then Otoya once again guzzles down the liquor and slams the glass down. “Another one,” he says. And just like that the cycle repeats. As he starts to ask for another, only getting out the “Ah” sound, he's stopped by the man. “I don't think that's quite a good idea. You just had three shots of my strongest liquor.” Otoya doesn't say anything at first and I expect him to just be staring at the man, but then he says “And so what if I did, is that an issue?” He coaxes his head slightly to the left and my body jerks in that same direction. The man answers with, “Well not necessarily, but you’ve already had three, and you drank them like they were candy. Listen I know who you are, and I know what you’re trying to do.” “And what exactly am I trying to do Akane?” Otoya asks the man. “You and I both know what you’re tryin’ to do Otoya. You’re trying to kill yourself.” Any noise in the tavern that survived Otoya's entrance now dissipated to silence. Otoya and the man both fell silent too. I feel Otoya stand up and he turns to leave, but suddenly I feel him turn back. “So that's how your gonna be. Hmm alright then” He says, the tavern's silence still piercing. I feel him take a few steps, but not in the direction he came in, back to where he was. He must have picked up the glass that he had just finished or some other random glass because seconds later a shattering sound filled the whole tavern. The occupants mumbled amongst each other. “Have a goodnight Otoya” The man says as if it were a casual Sunday. “Yeah alright, I’ll see you in Hell Akane” And with that, the door was slammed shut again. Otoya's footsteps became heavy again, slowly stomping his way back home. He enters his home and slams the door, though without the weight of the tavern’s door, it's not as dramatic. He enters his home for the last time. He enters his coffin.

My children are growing and beginning to lay eggs of their own inside his intestines. Which has become very obvious by the bloating he is experiencing, once a skinny and tall man, Otoya has seemed to have gained ten pounds over the course of a few days, and his stomach is bloated like a waterlogged corpse left to swell under the beaming sun. He’s slowly rotting from the inside out. A corpse that doesn't know it's dead yet. He hasn't slept in days and I imagine he has even darker rings under his eyes than before. Instead of sleeping, he spends his nights crying from the pain that is ripping him apart quite literally. He spends most of them in the bathroom, trying to puke anything up. He’s practically disabled at this point, he has decided to starve, and I don't think he has eaten in two days. He’s severely dehydrated too, his tissue is weak and thinner than before. The last time I heard him eating was the night he went to the tavern down the street. When he got home that night, furious at the bartender for reasons that I don't fully understand. He spent the rest of the night at his desk, writing aggressively. Probably poetry that I yearn to read, however, I don't think he slept at all that night. His whole night is consumed at his desk, He doesn't have much longer to live but I do.

One of my children decided to pay their mother a visit today. How it got here is unknown to me since it was early dawn, but somehow it was here with me. I was shocked to see it inching its way around his brain, my brain. Inspecting it as if it was going to be its next meal. That was when I realized what had to be done. I wasn't in the mood for company, and I certainly am not about the idea of sharing Otoya's brain with others. it crawled around slowly, unsure what to think about the uncharted territory. Unaware of his mother's watchful eyes following its every move. Its head slowly turns on its creamish waxy-looking neck, taking in its surroundings. Its face was contorted, it had only one small beddy black eye the other missing, leaving a small empty gap in his flesh, exposing a pink-hued socket that's missing an eye. Its body was covered in scratches, and its mouth was too small to fully cover its teeth, so they stuck out like tiny jagged stones. When it took a turn and faced Otoya's skull, like a dagger, I pounced on it, I wrapped myself tightly around it. Reaping it of any air its deformed body possesses, like a boa constrictor I only grew tighter the more it tugged to let go. But before it could die completely I tear into the flesh holding it together. It makes a quiet wheezing sound and goes limp. I consume it. Striping its small body of all its flesh, leaving a small pinkish skinless worm at the bottom of Otoya’s skull. I consumed my own offspring.

Otoya doesn't do anything anymore. The more I eat away at his mind the more his body becomes dysfunctional. I’m awoken to a quiet laughing. It was Otoya laughing. He wasn't laughing at anything, he was just laughing. Laughing laughing laughing. He did that until the laughs turned to familiar screams. Now he’s rushing around his house frantically mumbling on about a gun. Saying he needed to find it for whatever reason. Though my bedroom is shaky I go back to sleep.

I'm awoken to ear-piercing screams, unable to tell if they are Otoyas or not because of the peer terror they carry with them. They’re unlike anything I’ve ever heard from him. I'm unable to move, I'm trapped. I'm trapped! The outside world falls silent and there is no sound of Otoya. His breath also ceases completely. Something happened, something went wrong. Something is terribly wrong! A faint light is shining into his mind coming from the other side of his head. I free myself from the lobes that were just holding me prisoner. I find a circular tunnel leading to the outside world and a chunk of his brain missing. Taking the brain matters place a silver ball fills it. I crawl out of the tunnel to find Otoya in a puddle of his own blood, lying next to him is a small pistol in his lifeless hand. He’s curled into a ball, a fetal position. My children begin tunneling out of his pale tender flesh now. Burrowing right through his skin. His skin which looks like he has been dead for weeks. My children leave small holes that cover the entirety of his body, holes that go as deep as his guts. In minutes he is covered head to toe by hundreds of my babies, and grandbabies. Their collective movement makes it look like Otoya is moving yet he isn't. He lays still on his parent's bed in the room he never dared to enter after he found his parents. No sound disrupting the silence of the moment. Otoya is dead.

Early morning golden rays of sun land on Otoya’s face from the window. The window he deliberately peeled the black fabric off from. I think Otoya has found peace in death. The comfort that has been absent from his life since he found his parents dead. Found them covered in worms similar to how he is now. After his parent's death, he only ever found comfort temporarily. Now I think he may have found it for good; maybe for eternity. I’m not sure, but for the first time, in an extremely long time, Otoya looks comfortable. He looks like he found the escape he needed. Otoya looks happy; dead happy.

Epilogue: 10 years Later

In the quietness of the town. Izumi’s footsteps echoed along the stone walls of the houses. Carrying the sound of hope with them. A relentless rain fell upon the wooded rooftops of the town. The moon absent in the night sky, which left her clutching a lantern to fend off the darkness. She was a pretty and young lady with brunette hair and rosy cheeks. Her skin has a beautiful glow alike the lantern's golden hue. She stepped with optimism as she was moving into her new house and out of her mother's. A charming quaint little home by the seaside that had always sparked curiosity in her since that one day at the market. The house walls stained with a grim past, a history of suffering and despair. A past Izumi was ready to unveil, but at what cost? At this time in my life, I knew almost nothing about Izumi. The last time I even had seen her she was just a young girl. However, I did know that she would soon fall victim to the same fate the rest of the residents of this house have all fallen to. The ones who have crossed the path of this accursed house. Otoya's parents, Otoya himself, now her, all entwined in a relentless web of despair, forever bound to this place. Their bodies forever remaining mine.

The End