Flip's first memory of the holes wasn't traumatic. Just a passing glance at a kitchen sponge. He was rinsing dishes after dinner when something clicked inside him. He dropped the sponge, froze, and stared at it, his eyes fixed on the porous surface. The holes seemed to expand, their jagged edges creeping outward as if reaching for him. His heart raced, veins pulsing in his throat, hands twitching. Sweat dripped down his temple, and a wave of nausea churned in his gut.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Flip shook it off. Stress, he thought. Work had been grinding him down. But soon, the holes were everywhere, multiplying and growing. One morning, he glanced at a honey jar, the honeycomb pattern bulging, pulsating like something alive. It moved-he was sure of it. He squeezed the jar, the thick glass cutting into his fingers until it shattered, splintering in his palm. Blood and honey mixed into sticky ribbons, but Flip hardly noticed. The holes wouldn't leave him alone. They were watching. Waiting.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A few days later, it got worse. He saw a candy bar-just a simple piece of chocolate-but the air bubbles inside triggered a deep, visceral terror. His throat closed up. His palms were damp with sweat. His breath was sharp and ragged, choking him. Too many holes. Too many. He grabbed the bar, stared at it in disbelief, and smashed it against the counter, watching shards of chocolate and silver foil scatter across the floor. The cashier barely had time to react before Flip vaulted the counter, fists flying.
Freckles. Holes. Too many holes.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
