Spawn

INVASION: WEEKS 1-4

My birthday was on a Tuesday night and it was raining. I had just finished my last shift at Watkins and Watkins, after quitting in a huff of indignation when the client I had been wooing was given to a different lawyer.

“We needed someone more forceful, sweetheart. Maybe next time.”

 A male lawyer, naturally.

It was the last straw. The place had used me again and again, and I had never had the nerve to speak up for myself. I knew that I deserved more than a dead-end job – I wanted to see the world and to make some mark on it, not waste away in a man’s world that would never truly accept me. I thought that I could change things, that if I just worked hard enough then I could make a name for myself at the firm. Instead I’d just wasted my twenties (and most of my thirties), and now, at a very recent thirty-seven, I decided that I needed more.

I made it as far as the bar next door before running out of steam, the what will you do now doubts finally creeping in. I’d spent my life at that firm, fighting to be the best, the smartest, and I wasn’t sure I could do anything else.

I decided to look for future plans at the bottom of a bottle, and I thought I was getting close, could just make out an answer if I squinted right, when I was suddenly interrupted. The answer was gone.

“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?”

The voice was tentative and kind, followed by an equally gentle smile. He had kind eyes, a kind face, and still my hackles raised. He would get what he’d wanted by virtue of what rested between his legs just like all the other pigs at work, and I wanted nothing to do with it.

I scowled. Charming, I know.

His smile faltered and he’d started to back away before I remembered my manners, my societal training. Old habits die hard: I knew that I needed to smile, to be approachable, that abrasiveness was not a good look on a woman. If I wanted respect, I needed to be more feminine. That’s what Ms. Watkins always said got her to the top. I think it had more to do with sleeping with the boss, but what did I know?

“No, of course not. All yours.” I tried for a smile, but it was ruined by a hiccup. It was almost cute, until I burped, yeasty breath blowing in his direction.

He laughed. I should have seen that for the red flag it was: the perfect mask for the perfect monster.

He ordered another round, brave enough to drink whatever I was having without knowing what he could be getting himself into. I liked that he was bold, and I was drunk enough to even flirt with him a little, to recover from a horrible first impression.

“Hit me,” I said to the bartender, tapping my fist on the bar. I never mixed business with pleasure, but since I no longer had a business and it was my birthday, I thought I deserved a little fun.

The flirting must have worked, because next thing I knew his hand was rubbing small circles on my bare knee, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his touch.

“Last call,” the bartender yelled from the opposite end, but I could feel him staring at us. The man looked down at me questioningly, an eyebrow raised. I shook my head, the motion making me a little dizzy. My mouth was dry, and all sound felt distorted, like it was traveling through water before it reached me.

I went to stand and stumbled instead. Like a true gentleman, he was there to catch me. He offered his arm and walked me to the door, offering to order me a ride home. My brain tingled in warning, but it wasn’t loud enough over the throbbing in my head, and when the car finally pulled up to the curb he helped me into the backseat. I thought that he would close the door behind me and send me off into the night, but he climbed in after me. He would put his address in after, he said. He wanted to make sure I got home okay. He was worried about me.

I didn’t have anyone to look out for me, and it felt nice to let someone else take control for once. I was used to taking care of myself. Pouring myself into my career left no time for friends or family, and I was used to being alone. He’s being kind, my heart screamed, my brain too inebriated to form a coherent counterargument.

The driver’s eyes met mine in the mirror, but I turned away from them, back instead to the man beside me with a smile, resting my head on his shoulder. I’d made enough daring decisions for one day, what was one more in a string of bad choices?

When we reached my small, third-story apartment he helped me to the stairs, gallant as ever. My legs didn’t seem to work right, or the stairs were moving, and I don’t think I would have made it to my floor without his arm. That’s what I told myself, anyway. My hands shook and couldn’t even press the key into the door, so he gently took them from me and helped me to my room.

He didn’t even slow, as if he were familiar with the layout despite having never been there before. He was the only steady thing in the spinning room. He directed us towards the bedroom like he owned the place, strong and confident and totally in control.

He helped me with my shoes, a strappy number that wouldn’t have come off without him. I hated those shoes, but Ms. Watkins said they would help, that if I dressed a little sexier then I could use it to get what I wanted.

Since he was already down there, he helped me with everything else too.

All at once his lips were on mine, his hands cold on my bare skin. I was breathing too heavily but thinking too slowly, and when he finally pushed me deeper into the bed I fell with him into darkness.

He was gone before I woke up, the sheets cold on the side he had slept. I didn’t even know his name.

FERTILIZATION: WEEKS 5-12

He’d left me with a parting gift, a permanent side effect. I’d given up control for one night, and now my body was no longer my own. Serves me right. His seed had taken root, dug its tendrils deep into my garden and took everything that was mine: my nutrients, my lining, my blood. A parasite. It took and took and took as it built its nest, rooting deeper inside of me as it grew and grew and grew.

It felt like menstruation that wouldn’t end, except that I didn’t bleed. Bloating and sore breasts. Cramps, particularly in my lower abdomen, all served as constant reminders of the alien presence. I’d considered an abortion, but it really wasn’t the spawn’s fault. I couldn’t even eat meat without feeling guilty about it; who was I to decide if it should live or die?

Its poison spread through my body to wake me in the middle of the night. I lost control of my bodily functions, throwing up and peeing whenever it wanted. I could smell everything, which only made vomiting more frequent.

It even controlled my emotions: spikes of irrational anger followed quickly by sadness. I wasn’t used to dealing with feelings, knew that they made me weak in the eyes of men. I liked to keep them buried, to act logically instead of emotionally, but the creature had other plans. All it did was make me want to eat.

I regretted my decision to quit my job, to give up, to keep the spawn. I called and scheduled the abortion, then called back and cancelled. Took a break to pee or vomit. Then scheduled again.

Cancel it, a voice whispered against my skull, flitting around beneath my skin. The thought felt foreign, separate from me, but I listened.

My head hurt all the time, and there was extra saliva in my mouth. I wanted something, or it wanted something, and it was getting hard to tell the difference.

It controlled what we ate. I had been a vegetarian before, I believed in the sanctity of life. But the monster craved meat and blood. Flesh. I would tear my teeth into juicy steaks, the rarer and bloodier the better. I was sick thinking of the cow they belonged to and would cry as I ate, the tears blood-tinted as they mixed with the remnants of the cow on my face.

Eat, bite, tear, chew. These were the only thoughts that mattered anymore and I couldn’t even tell if they were mine.

We craved pickles of all kinds: pickles and chips, pickles and peanut butter sandwiches, pickle juice straight from the jar. I had hated them once, but as the creature grew stronger, I forgot about my own desires.

It left a white discharge behind, staining my underwear. I assumed it was remnants of its poison, or pieces of its nest. Despite the ugliness inside of me, my outsides glowed, belying the darkness that had taken root within.

PROLIFERATION: WEEKS 13-20

The monster grew more restless, stretching and kicking and punching while it made itself comfortable inside me, molding my insides to meet its needs for the low price of my own comfort. It increased my sex drive, which was all but non-existent before the alien. I didn’t know what benefit it would gain, and all it did was remind me that I was alone.

I thought about the man from the bar, the man who had ruined my life but got to walk away without any responsibility. I wondered what he was doing now, and hoped he was as miserable as I was.

I was dizzy all the time, which made it harder to leave the house. The doctor suggested an exercise program, and said that I should get my home ready for the newcomer. I’d already given up my body to the monster, and now it wanted my home, wanted to be a part of my life. By then it was too late to consider any other plans: it had infiltrated its host, and eviction was no longer an option. We’d have to move forward.

I watched it on a screen at the doctor’s office. Listened to its heartbeat, separate from my own. There was an alien lifeform growing inside of me, parasitically taking everything from me, ready to tear forth from my skin and discard the shell of me and leave me behind. The nurses in the room smiled, but I could only cry, my own strained smile a perverse reflection of theirs.

I went to a store to buy supplies to fortify my house for its arrival. I held a small stuffed elephant in my hands, stared down at it until it blurred into three images beneath the tears. I forgot how to breathe. I would have this thing for the rest of my life, be expected to care for it, to nurture it and keep it safe. I couldn’t do it. I put the elephant back on the shelf and left empty-handed.

It stretched and kicked, destroying me from the inside out. I watched, horror-struck, as its limbs pressed against my skin, crawling beneath it. Foreign.

My body changed colors in places: armpits, nipples, inner thighs and navel, all darkening. I started to fear that the monster would change my appearance, that I would no longer be me once it was gone.

My body contorted its shape, ballooning out to accommodate the monster as it grew. It stretched my skin, leaving ugly lines behind, marring what used to be smooth and young and mine. I had never felt so hideous before as I watched the number on the scale go higher and higher, like a sacrificial pig about to be slaughtered.

INFILTRATION: WEEKS 21-28

Everything was sore as my body became accustomed to the new weight: my lower back, my hips, my feet. My feet ached constantly, and while I could definitely still feel them I could no longer see them. My legs cramped, my eyes were dry, my hands swelled. Varicose veins intersected across my body, and it began to feel as foreign to me as the thing inside of me.

Everywhere I went, people would eel around me, give me space. I could see jealousy in some of their curious eyes, but they didn’t understand the burden I was carrying. Everyone held the door for me, offered to carry my things, moved to the side to let me pass. I even had a special parking spot, close to buildings so that I wouldn’t have to walk so far. It was a privilege to bring a monster into the world.

I went out less and less, confining myself to the safety of my home. I didn’t get a new job, relying on savings instead. I’d have to call my parents to ask for help.

I listened to the phone ring twice.

“Hello?” my mother chirped on the other end. I hadn’t talked to her for months, couldn’t tell her I’d failed, couldn’t ask for help.

Hang up the phone. The voice felt darker than my own, scraping against the inside of my skull, but I couldn’t tell my own thoughts from the monster’s anymore. I hung up.

The skin on my belly dried up and flaked as the creature sucked the life from my blood. My hair shone, thick and lustrous, as the monster forced my body to make more and more nutrients for its survival.

Discharge increased as the alien moved in its nest, growing and getting rid of what it no longer needed. My gums bled, and I would lose feeling in my hands. When it finally allowed me to sleep, I snored. I spent too much time running to the bathroom while it pressed on my organs to spend much time actually sleeping. It forced me to use the bathroom again and again, until my own body got sore. I tried treating new hemorrhoids with cream, and cried at the idea of the veins in my rectum, pumping the alien’s blood.

MATURATION: WEEKS 29-39

My breasts leaked, a yellowish fluid. I wiped at it frantically, but they were still so sore. The stretch marks were more pronounced, uglier, but by now all I could think about was how tired I was. I forgot appointments, lost my keys more often than not, and tripped over everything.

My body would convulse in pain, and I’d suddenly forget how to breathe in a panic. But then it would end, just as suddenly as it began, and the alien would continue eating me from the inside out.

My mind and my body were no longer my own. I lived in a constant cycle of pain, urination, and more pain. I just wanted it all to end.

HATCHING: WEEK 40

Today is the day. I can feel the monster readying to depart. It breaks forth from its nest and fluid from its sac runs uncontrolled down my legs. I look around at the people near me in the grocery store, mixed expressions of awe and disgust as my body betrays me, leaking across the smooth linoleum.

A child points at me from his shopping cart. “Mama, that lady just peed!”

His mother quiets him, glancing apologetically in my direction as she hurriedly carts him away.

I drive myself to the hospital, sitting in uncomfortably wet sweatpants. They chafe on my legs and I squirm against the leather seat, the wetness sticking. I had meant to have a spare pair of clothes ready and waiting, but had forgotten. My whole body erupts in an explosion of pain, and I have to pull over to catch my breath. I can’t do this.

The ride is a mix of speeding motion and pauses while I try to breathe around the pain. It takes a long time to reach the hospital. When I arrive, I am treated like royalty, whisked from my feet and carted around to all future destinations. I can’t even appreciate it, and only cry out as the monster convulses again.

“Shhh, now, it’s okay. It’s almost over.” The woman says it with an encouraging smile, and I know she is lying. The monster convulses again in response to her deceit, saving me from having to reply.

I am supposed to be given drugs, anything to make this easier. But it is too late, they say. The spawn is hatching too fast, ready to burst forth and take over the world, and again, my own comfort is irrelevant. I couldn’t do this when I thought there would be drugs; I certainly cannot do this now without them.

They wheel me into a room with a bed and monitors. I am hooked up to different wires and tubes, a needle injected into my hand as a bag of fluid drips slowly into me, a futuristic space-scene that is all too fitting a backdrop for the alien invasion about to occur. A woman in pink scrubs smiles and tells me to just breathe through it, and I grit my teeth to bite back a response. She feeds me ice-chips, as if this will forgive all.

A doctor comes into the room, his white coat out of place amongst the pink scrubs surrounding me. My own doctor is on vacation because the parasite is early, and now I am stuck with this man who looks at me like an incubator. Metal hangs from his neck, and he looks cold. I retreat into the bed, further from him, but he tsks, the clicking of his tongue repulsive.

“Scooch, scooch,” he commands, his voice almost robotic. His gloved hands are cold on my legs as he spreads them, sticking something cold and hard between them. I cringe away but he holds tight.

He removes the coldness. “Nine centimeters, almost there,” he coos, reassuringly. Or at least, that is his intention. It fails.

He snaps new gloves onto his hands, and the women in the room bustle around him in a hectic dance. I try to follow them, but it is too much, and the monster convulses more frequently. Monitors beep behind me, but I can barely hear them over my panting breath. An astringent smell hits my nose, and I think I am going to be sick.

My fingers dig into the metal rails on the side of the bed, ghostly white where the blood has rushed from them. My hands are sweaty, all of me is sweaty, and I continue to scream along with the monster’s motion. The women increase their tempo to my screams. It’s time.

The doctor takes his place again between my legs, hands braced on my knees, holding them apart. “Push,” he chants again and again.

My body is no longer my own; it hasn’t been for a long time. I remember the tight control that I used to have on my life, what seems so long ago now, and wonder how I let it all slip away. One night of bad decisions, and nine months of punishment culminate in this. I am being ripped in half to the beat of the doctor’s chants, punctuated by the screams that no longer seem to come from my own mouth. A nurse brings over scissors: the monster’s exit is too small and I need to be cut open further.

He hands them back to her when the deed is done, coated in blood. Everything is coated in blood. I have lost control of my bowels, and a nurse cleans my shame robotically, the smile still plastered to her face. A different nurse hands the doctor what looks like a giant suction cup.

The sound is horrific, a squishing noise as the blood and cup come together to peel the alien from my body. The room smells of rust and salt, and the sickly sweet scent of sweat. The nurses in the room still have smiles plastered to their faces.

The monster is suctioned out, ripped forth and screaming into the world. Its cries echo my own. The scissors are brought back as the tentacles are snipped from the parasite; I was  nothing but an incubator, and now no longer necessary. I can be discarded. One nurse continues to wipe sweat from my forehead, but she looks longingly at the others who wash the blood and lining – my blood and lining – from the creature’s body, and swaddle it into a pink cloth.

They place the monster that has stolen nine months of my life, that has destroyed my body and caused me nothing but pain, into my hands. It smiles up at me with kind eyes, squeezed shut, a kind gummy smile, on a gentle face. A familiar facelooks back at me, the stranger from the bar. The monster that used me to spawn his clone.

The creature is taken from me for observation. I am changed and cleaned. I sleep for a time and feel strangely empty, my hands circling again and again on my now empty stomach. At some point a nurse comes back. The pain is not over. She pushes again and again on my uterus, dislodging clumps of blood and placenta, remnants of the monster’s nest. She calls it the after-birth, and it seems unfair that the first birth was not enough.

It is placed back into my arms again and I am expected to bond with it. I glare down at the monster’s face, a reflection of the man who took everything from me. I hold it further from me, disgust urging me to toss it across the room, to destroy it before it can destroy anything or anyone else.

Then it coos.

A smile spreads unexpectedly across my face. “Hello, little monster,” I sing to it, to her. She gurgles back, squirming in my grasp, nuzzling closer to my chest. I cradle the child closer, gently press her button-nose with my finger. Her little mouth puckers open in sleep, her tiny hand gripped around my finger.

She nuzzles in closer, trusting me to protect her from the world around us. She has so much potential to be everything that I could never accomplish. She could change the world, pave the way for women, or the world could change and be kinder and more accepting of her. I stare down at her tiny face, and rest my hopes on her tiny shoulders.

She has my blood inside of her, my blood singing in her veins. I am her and she is me and we are a monster.

---

---

Rejected by Ghost Orchid Press’ Blood and Bone Anthology of women’s body horror.