Comic 901: Nude Supper

Alt-text: And the baby has a fever.

I wake up trapped in cheap cotton sheets, sticky with secretions, belt still wrapped around my abscessed arm. Sick yellow light seeps in through the translucent curtains and fills the veins that splay across the walls and ceiling, a stomach of a room that pulsates and melts me down into cheap cotton and hard springs. She comes in through that sphincter of a door and I can see she's already half-digested, skin crinkled and sweat-sodden, hair hard and already curling.

She sees me and a black smile breaks her face in half and she's on me before I can move. But the mind isn't willing and the flesh is barely aware, flops like rotten meat dropped on the concrete, but she finds a way to get what she wants.

Eat this tuna sammich boy, mommy made it 'special.

I do what I was taught to do in that dark little room, what I draw and attempt to sanitise with black, clean lines on crisp white but it's never clean. This time is different though, I can see through her cotton-skin into her, inside her and I can see a little clump, a little glowing ball sitting in there and as she's jerking and jostling I can see it work loose. When she wails like a banshee it gets washed down, her twitching firing it into my mouth and I can feel it embed into the back of my tongue and I can't scrape it off with my teeth and I can't get my fingers to it. I wonder what the fuck it is and then the truth smashes through my forehead like a bullet, leaves a hole where my thoughts leak out. I start trying to work out when we last fucked, turn to see her flopped over in the bed beside me and I can't, I don't know.

I scramble some clothes on and they latch onto my melting skin like mould, run out of that stomach-room into bright, burning sunlight. I just run, my legs taking over as my mind dribbles out and I find myself at the drug store. I hunt around like a coyote that lost the scent trail and I see something that makes sense and I grab it, rip open the box and pull off the blue lid and jam the thing in my mouth. It says twenty seconds so I count them like fucking ice ages and the world around me spins and changes in a hot, musty blur.

Hands are pulling at me and I can hear voices in the distance but I wait my twenty seconds and pull it out, look at that clean little digital display tell me what I already know, what I already feel doubling and doubling and doubling in size at the back of my tongue and all I can think is...

...I should probably make a comic out of this.