Part 2
Hector woke up feeling like someone had taken a torque wrench just to the left side of his spine. He stretched and twisted and glared at his thin bedroll like it had betrayed him. A gurgling came from the pipes in the bathroom which, because he had no water, could only mean the thing that lived in the sink was also awake. After pulling on a sweatshirt, he attempted to run his fingers through his mop of hair, yanked out some tangles in the process, picked up a plastic up off the floor and gingerly stepped over exposed nails and forgotten screws as he made his way to the stairs.
He'd stumbled into the house last week, bleeding profusely, running low on slugs, and weak in the knees from hoofing his way nonstop for six miles. Gloriously, police sirens passed, the streetlights made the second story navigable, and -- he found the next morning -- the pawn shop next door had a working exterior faucet.
Hector loped down the stairs and padded his way onto the cracked concrete sidewalk, squinting up at a grayscale sky. He scratched himself as he filled the cup at the pawn shop faucet, drank once, and filled it again. Then Bigfoot disappeared back into his cave.
"Ohsonofabitch!" He hopped his way to the bathroom, baptizing himself in the process, and plucked a tiny screw from his bare heel. The moment he reached the sink, a muffled sigh filled the air. "You have got to be kidding me." Another sigh, then a soft clicking sound.
Hector put down the plastic cup and yanked his sweatshirt off, glaring in the mirror at the mouth on his chest.
"You can't be hungry yet."
The mouth, a lipless row of sharklike teeth, sighed and clicked its pearly-whites again three times. The thick cords of musculature and blood vessels that snugly laced into his skin as they hugged his ribs and collar bones tightened perceptibly, like the slow but firm flex of a fist.
Hector sneered, rolled his brown eyes, and picked up his toothbrush, the bristles of which resembled a thriving sea anemone. He plopped it into his cup of water, swishing it around as he soundlessly roared at the splotchy mirror. The hazy light of morning just barely managed to reveal the cavity in his back left molar. But at least it hadn't grown any. Furious brushing ensued.
A sigh. Click click click.
He spat and tapped the mirror with his toothbrush on the vicious maw that grinned at him from his torso. "Guido. Listen. I fed you two days ago. Two! I can still feel your love juice!," which, he realized with growing concern, was not true.
He did not feel calm and happy and lazy. He didn't feel like silk was lining his veins from where they were intercepted and penetrated by Guido's "fingers." He felt strong and confident and jittery. And wide, wide awake. It was like being in the fetal position while standing: his chest was heavy and warm but his arms and legs were insubstantial. He could feel the blood gushing through his brain and the lightning storm of synapses firing across the plump ridges of gray matter. He looked at his eyes, then again at Guido, the splotches on the mirror casting cavities onto his perfect teeth.
Click click click. It wasn't a sigh; it was a hiss.
Hector jerked backward from the sink as a greenish tentacle, thick as a garden hose, lurched out from the drain. Missing his wrist, he felt the thing's soapy flesh glide across his thumb, knuckle, and forefinger as it snatched the toothbrush from his grip and stole it, snapping, back down the sink.
"Oh come on! That was my--!" He kicked the pipes squarely with the ball of his foot, then listened as the gurgling sound retreated farther and farther until the drain was perfectly quiet. "You fucker." Hector dropped his pants and made to urinate into the sink, but the adrenaline flooding his brain -- as well as a few neurotransmitters wholly alien to human physiology -- kept his sympathetic nervous system active and ready. The floodgates were closed. "Damn."
Lifting his pants, he looked back in the mirror. Guido grinned as usual, relaxing a little, loosing its grip on his ribs. Hector smirked. "Sorry, bud. I appreciate the warning, though."
He'd stumbled into the house last week, bleeding profusely, running low on slugs, and weak in the knees from hoofing his way nonstop for six miles. Gloriously, police sirens passed, the streetlights made the second story navigable, and -- he found the next morning -- the pawn shop next door had a working exterior faucet.
Hector loped down the stairs and padded his way onto the cracked concrete sidewalk, squinting up at a grayscale sky. He scratched himself as he filled the cup at the pawn shop faucet, drank once, and filled it again. Then Bigfoot disappeared back into his cave.
"Ohsonofabitch!" He hopped his way to the bathroom, baptizing himself in the process, and plucked a tiny screw from his bare heel. The moment he reached the sink, a muffled sigh filled the air. "You have got to be kidding me." Another sigh, then a soft clicking sound.
Hector put down the plastic cup and yanked his sweatshirt off, glaring in the mirror at the mouth on his chest.
"You can't be hungry yet."
The mouth, a lipless row of sharklike teeth, sighed and clicked its pearly-whites again three times. The thick cords of musculature and blood vessels that snugly laced into his skin as they hugged his ribs and collar bones tightened perceptibly, like the slow but firm flex of a fist.
Hector sneered, rolled his brown eyes, and picked up his toothbrush, the bristles of which resembled a thriving sea anemone. He plopped it into his cup of water, swishing it around as he soundlessly roared at the splotchy mirror. The hazy light of morning just barely managed to reveal the cavity in his back left molar. But at least it hadn't grown any. Furious brushing ensued.
A sigh. Click click click.
He spat and tapped the mirror with his toothbrush on the vicious maw that grinned at him from his torso. "Guido. Listen. I fed you two days ago. Two! I can still feel your love juice!," which, he realized with growing concern, was not true.
He did not feel calm and happy and lazy. He didn't feel like silk was lining his veins from where they were intercepted and penetrated by Guido's "fingers." He felt strong and confident and jittery. And wide, wide awake. It was like being in the fetal position while standing: his chest was heavy and warm but his arms and legs were insubstantial. He could feel the blood gushing through his brain and the lightning storm of synapses firing across the plump ridges of gray matter. He looked at his eyes, then again at Guido, the splotches on the mirror casting cavities onto his perfect teeth.
Click click click. It wasn't a sigh; it was a hiss.
Hector jerked backward from the sink as a greenish tentacle, thick as a garden hose, lurched out from the drain. Missing his wrist, he felt the thing's soapy flesh glide across his thumb, knuckle, and forefinger as it snatched the toothbrush from his grip and stole it, snapping, back down the sink.
"Oh come on! That was my--!" He kicked the pipes squarely with the ball of his foot, then listened as the gurgling sound retreated farther and farther until the drain was perfectly quiet. "You fucker." Hector dropped his pants and made to urinate into the sink, but the adrenaline flooding his brain -- as well as a few neurotransmitters wholly alien to human physiology -- kept his sympathetic nervous system active and ready. The floodgates were closed. "Damn."
Lifting his pants, he looked back in the mirror. Guido grinned as usual, relaxing a little, loosing its grip on his ribs. Hector smirked. "Sorry, bud. I appreciate the warning, though."
posted by Ghostwind at 3/09/2006 03:17:00 PM
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