Parasite

Part 1: A Parasite Lives in my Shadow

"Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage."– William S. Burroughs.

            Someone, I beg of you, please help me. I'm scared, lonely, sleep-deprived, and rocking like a stubborn baby. (If that's the word you want to use, then be my guest). Will a child-eating bed bug scoop me up in its pointy beak? Thinking about something (other than a human) putting their grimy, obtuse hands on my behind worries me. I'm seriously considering the life of a nun. The hood, black and white, the prayer, on your knees for hours at a time, the long midnight dress, I want it all. To make things more digestible, at least you're not alone. You have partners in crime to rant to. An entire syndicate of peach-skinned nuns. Delightful.

            For the last seemingly forever, I've been innocently excited. No, I'm not referring to the kind where you get aroused (excuse my choice of vocabulary) by the playful seduction of a cute classmate. The specific excitement I'm talking about is when you have trouble catching your breath, and your heart races like a Formula 1 car. It makes you feel like the lopsided closet proudly displaying your uncomfortably loud bras and underwear will come alive. (Think polka dots). Or some hideous cyclops will drag you into the burning sunlight to tear you apart. Bystanders will laugh and giggle at your screams and pleas for mercy. Once done, it'll lick its fat lips and say, in a low, muffled tone: "That young, pure maiden was quite delicious." As it gives a smile, the monster will lumber into the night. All the while thinking of how yummy the girl's remains taste going through its complex digestive tracts. Ah, the perfect ending to a soft horror comedy. I should seriously write one someday. Eh, I'd have to trust myself first.

            Which leads me to think of my insecurities.

            It's been years since I've last trusted someone. Am I even capable of trusting anyone at this point? (Imagine being unable to trust yourself.) The last time I did that, my younger brother, Noah, flapped his jaws and flew to my parents. That indecent incident cost me my car and phone for two weeks. Trust me when I say life becomes a slog when forced to live like a freaking Neanderthal. Eat, homework, sleep– that was my routine. I swear I gained ten pounds in the first week from a lack of motivation. Zero social media, zero influencers to take advice from, zero horror playthroughs on YouTube, zero life. It took me months to recover from that psychological nightmare.

            But now, if you saw my body, you'd say I'd gotten larger, such a shame. 

            Beside my bed, tucked between the two concurrent walls, resides a nagging shadow. How had I gotten so absorbed in my degenerative thoughts that I forgot this? Ha! Sometimes, reality doesn't exist to me. Sometimes, I say, out of respite, "Begone maggots! Beware atheists!" That last part was entirely my imagination. I would never speak so poorly of a religious faction. (Or non-religious faction, do you get it? Get IT? Forget it).

            It shuffles and stirs like it's spit in the mouth of retirement to deliver an impactful speech on drunk driving. My pupils morph into dinner plates, and the pillow I squeeze with enough force to detonate squirms out of reach. All that's physically possible is to let my jaw drop and my saliva drip evasively onto my duvet. Like a frightened kitten, I collapse onto my hands and knees like a suck-up servant, moving my bottom-heavy arsenal (Kim Kardashian would be put to shame) away from this methane-eating monstrosity.

            Behold, it speaks as I moan in suppression of frustration. I'm sure this abstract beluga thingy glaring at me like I won a world record enjoyed it. "Why are you afraid?" Long fingers, thin and enticing, pry on the duvet.

            Alarmed, as anyone would be under these circumstances, I reach for my bedside stand. On it, I ALWAYS stash a pocket knife in the first drawer. Every icky, sadistic lesson of feminine self-defense comes crashing back to me. It reminds me of how an awful first date circles your memory months after it happens. You're driven to the cusp of insanity but allowed to teeter on the edge for a while. While the sarcastic, human prophet of wrong choices pokes your chest warningly. Their finger repeatedly touches your no-no area. Maybe it's out of good taste, or (this is as far-fetched as they come) perhaps it enjoys experimenting with the spring mechanics of a female chest. As wholesome and pure as I am (still a virgin baby), I would love to be poked. Like, please boop me.