The bedroom door opened and a sobbing child was thrown in. The child fell to the wooden floor in a heap, his long dark hair falling in his face to hide the fresh swollen bruise on his cheek and his red eyes.

"Stop crying, Symon!" His mother snapped. "I can't believe you'd behave like that in public, do you know how much you humiliated us out there?"

"I'm --hic-- I'm sorry mama..." Symon wept. "It was loud, a-and there were a lot of people-"

"Galas are loud, Symon, but that's no excuse for you to throw a tantrum."

The tantrum in question was something the poor boy had no control of. He didn't even want to go to the event, he didn't understand why the adults cared so much, but his parents were socialites and they were drawn to such festivities. But for Symon, it was an assault on the senses. It was loud with music and people shouting, warm bodies bigger than the poor boy bumped into him, each touch feeling like an electrical shock to the system and the lights were so disorienting that he often found himself almost losing the safety of his parents. 

He'd been told to act normal. Any fidgeting or strange movements he needed to do was met with a slap on the wrist. He felt like a fizzy drink, shaken up and ready to burst at the slightest provocation. 

And then there were fireworks. While all the adults whistled and cheered, Symon ducked his head and covered his ears as every boom felt like an explosion directly to his ear drums. He could feel each pop reverberate through his body. 

Stares came his way, not just from strangers, but from his own mother. She gave him this irritated, hateful glare that he recognized too well.

"Stop making a scene and enjoy the fireworks, Symon." She'd say, pulling his hands to his side. Her touch burned. 

His ears were exposed to the full brunt of the noise. His eardrums recoiled painfully and his ears rang. 

He screamed, as any child would do when hurt. He thrashed against his mother, kicking her  to get him to release her. Now everyone was looking.

"Symon! Stop it!" His mother hissed.

"Boy if you don't behave..." his father didn't finish his sentence, but he didn't need to. Symon already knew the threat, but the bottle was uncorked already, there was nothing to do to stop the flood of emotions from releasing violently in the form of screaming and crying. He squirmed away from his mother, he needed to get away from her, away from everyone.

He swung his arms around violently, hitting people to get them out of the way. He felt like a caged animal being poked with a hot brand with every firework that continued to fire.

"How unruly."

"Someone get that child on a leash."

"What poor parents, letting their child act like that." 

Symon ignored the murmuring of the people around him. He felt a hand grab his arm, it was stronger than his mother's. His fathers grip clamped down painfully onto his arm as he was yanked closer. He looked up at his father with tear filled eyes as he raised his hand and stuck his palm against his face.

"You can't act like that in public!" His mother continued to berate him in his own room. "This is how you end up getting taken away from us and thrown in a sanitarium. Do you want that?" 

"No..." The boy whimpered.

“I don't either, but if you keep acting like this, your father and I don't know what to do with you anymore.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It puts so much stress on us, why can't you just be normal?”

“I'm sorry.” The boy's voice barely spoke over a whisper.

His mother sighed. “Maybe you should sit here and think about getting your act together." She closed the door part way. "And get that unruly hair out of your face."

Symon flinched as the door was slammed and locked. Curled up in a corner, the boy had nothing to do but think and stare at an insect on the wall.

❇❇❇❇

Symon awoke from a dream about a memory, but he didn't want to dwell on why his mind relayed that event to him again. In any case he had far bigger problems to worry about. 

He was still lying on the floor of his bedroom, making it clear the previous night's events were not a fabrication of his unconscious mind. His mouth was dry and his body droned with a low ache. His back ached from the floor, and the sun hitting his eyes struck him with a migraine. His body felt different, just slightly. The room was blurry; he could make out the glittering gold frame of his glasses having fallen off some time in the night, but it was also much more warped, as if he was looking through a fisheye lens.

He looked at his arm, it was grotesquely fused into three digits, two fingers and thumb that had been pushed down by his growing bones. It was coated in a hard, brown layer of skin that cracked around the joints. He took a mental count of his limbs. Left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg. He still had all four limbs, that was good. What remained of his clothes were torn to shreds and covered in blood and sweat. He tore them off to get some relief. 

His strength slowly came back to him and he was able to sit up, and his stomach lurched again. He was hungry again, but judging by the gastric distress, he was still only able to stick to his liquid only diet. The sun filtered through his window and he didn't even need to look at the clock to it was late morning, and any chance of opening up the store on time was long gone.

He thought he heard his mother calling for him, but he was still too sore to move. He wondered if it was important enough, if she would just come to him instead. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but instead there was a pounding on his door.

“Symon??” His mother called. “ Symon, are you awake? Please get up. Your boss just called, it sounds important.”

Symon groaned and tried to stand up. He tried to respond, but was startled when his voice was harsh and squeaky. His throat was painfully sore and his tongue was heavy, causing him to slur his words. “Yesh… I-I am… up…” 

“What was that Symon?” She replied. “I couldn't quite make that out. Are you still unwell?”

Symon tried to clear his throat by coughing, but all he managed to do was hack up a few drops of blood.

The silence behind the door was interrupted by a loud thumping, which Symon recognized as the sound of his father making his way upstairs. His knock was heavier, angrier, like he could bust the door down if he wanted to.

“Symon, what is the meaning of this?” He bellowed. “Your boss just called and said he came back to the shop unlocked and broken into! He said several valuable items have been stolen.

Symon's stomach sank. Damn it! He'd been so preoccupied with the painful attack that he neglected to lock up the shop.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in? You could lose your job!” His father shouted.

“Oh god. I.. I'm s-sso ssorry—COUGH— There wass… I wass having… —HACK— a.. a medical emergency.” God, it hurt to talk. “L-lemme t-talk to him m-myself…”

“What? What are you saying?” His father questioned. “Don't try to speak to me through the door, damn it! I'm coming in.”

“W-wait..” Symon wheezed, but it was too late. He'd also neglected to lock his own door and so his father was unimpeded from barging his way, and revealing Symon’s grotesque form to the whole family.

What followed was the most horrific scream from his mother before she fainted, followed by his father making a sound equivalent to being stabbed by some invisible force. When Izzah made her way upstairs upon hearing the commotion, she too screamed, snapping his father's attention so he could slam the door shut again.

Symon pressed his ear against the door, listening to his father and Izzah get his mother off the ground and hurriedly rush down the stairs. Then there was silence. Symon waited there for what had to be twenty… thirty minutes, with no one coming back up to check on him.

He eventually pulled himself up to his feet, which felt thinner and longer than usual, and he made his way to his bathroom. He was horrified at what he saw in the mirror.

His skin had begun to harden and as dark patches mottled his body. His eyes had turned completely red and swollen. His body had become chunkier with a pronounced arch in the back. He looked like something out of a nightmare. He felt his mouth fill with blood and he spat more teeth.

Then he heard his family talking downstairs through the vents. They didn't know how well the vents carried sound through the house or how often Symon had eavesdropped on them through these vents. They spoke in hushed murmurs.

“What should we do? Call a doctor?” His mother asked. 

“No way. No doctor is going to be able to treat that. Did you see him?” His sister answered. 

“That was no human ailment. That’s a curse.” His father proposed. “He’s turning into a beast!”

“Oh my god. My son is cursed!” His mother sobbed. “What are people going to think?”

Symon needed to tell them that everything would be okay, that he'd sort this whole mess out and things would go back to normal. He slowly opened the door and limped down the stairs. All the chatter stopped and by the time he'd seen his parents, they were staring at him with large, terrified eyes.

“Is… everything… okay down here?” He asked, as soon as he did, everyone averted their gaze.

“Everything's… fine , Symon. Go back to your room.” His mother told him.

“I'm —cough— alright mother… I-I'm sure w-whatever this is… isn't contagious.”

“ Please , go back to your room.’ She insisted.

“But-”

“No one wants to look at you like that!” Izzah blurted out.

“Izzah!” Their mother scolded her.

“It’s true though. None of you can bear to look at him either. He’s going to scare off anyone who visits.”

“That’s still not a nice thing to say about family.” 

“N-no, I understand,” Symon said. “Just give me… time.. to fix it…”

“We will call for a doctor later, just… please go back upstairs.” His mother continued.

“Yes, mother.” He said solemnly and headed back to his room. 

Symon had no doubt in his mind that his father could be right, and a doctor would eventually come. The man made a ghastly noise upon seeing him, but forced his professional demeanor back on to examine him. It was uncomfortable and humiliating to be prodded like a diseased animal, and even after all that he would come to the conclusion that Symon was a medical anomaly. He insisted that Symon be checked out by a more advanced medical team, but his parents refused. They couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else knowing about Symon’s condition, the kind of shame that would bring to the family. They determined they’d have to fix Symon themselves.

They tried everything, oils, crystals, prayer. Many people tried to scam his family, drain them of their resources for some miracle cure that was pure snake oil. Nothing worked, and Symon could see it in their weary faces they were getting frustrated and tired. In the meantime, Izzah would stop in every so often and bring him something liquid based to drink, though she refused to look at him.

But Symon knew what was causing his pain. He limped over to his desk and pulled the fossil out of the drawer. 

“Whatever you did to me, please stop.” He pleaded to the stone. “I’m sorry. Please fix me.”

But the curse didn’t stop. His transformation would continue to progress as the days went on. He would continue to have episodes where he would writhe on the floor while his body became more like that of an insect. He’d curl in on himself on the floor helpless as his body was molded like putty by some cruel god, burning and twisting and making him want to gag at the feeling of his form becoming something unnatural. 

There was nothing he could do other than scream and sob; crying out for someone, anyone to help him. But his family never came to help. They’d avoid the stairs and speak in hushed whispers whenever he would call out for them.

And when the episodes passed, he’d feel the cold air brush against his sweat drenched skin. He’d tremble on the floor violently, his mind finally clearing from its pain induced fog. He felt the grooves in the floor where his nails had dug into the hardwood. 

More days passed. He stopped going to work. His family stopped taking Raja’s calls. He knew now even if he recovered, he’d not have a job to return to. After a while, his family stopped visiting his room, not even to try some new medicine.

He began to worry about his family's financial stability. At that point, he was the sole breadwinner. He wasn’t working; his savings wouldn’t last forever and their money was being drained taking care of him. He felt terribly guilty and ashamed for putting them in this position. This was all his fault. He should have never taken that relic home with him. Now, even if he knew what to do with it, there wasn’t much he could do by himself in this state. 

Izzah would still bring him food occasionally, but often would not even open to the door if there was a chance she’d see him, so Symon opted for hiding under his bed whenever he heard her footsteps come upstairs.

He couldn’t blame her. His body was deteriorating rapidly, and he looked more monstrous by the day. His hands by now had swollen like small claws, his abdomen was bloated and extending far past his legs, his eyes were growing too large for his head. His hair was falling out, and he could no longer put it in a nice braid.

His senses were also changing. Bright lights were becoming harder to handle, and during the bright noon sun, he’d hide under his bed in the darkness. He could start to smell his food from several feet away from his door, he was starting to notice when Izzah was approaching just by the scent. 

He found himself often pleading to the fossil, begging for an answer to end his suffering. He started to believe the stone had some life in it, that it could communicate but it was refusing to.

In his dreams, he was a small insect. He was crawling through the ruins of a vast ruin in the jungle. Its people had vanished long ago, and all that was left was the bugs. He dreamt of the professor, screaming as he too changed into an insect, died, and was picked apart by his scavenging brethren. He dreamt of ants, stuck in an endless spiral of walking around a stone that glowed hypnotically. 

He dreamt of being a child on a walk with his mother, and a memory of him playing in the park in the middle of summer. He’d find the trees covered in cicada shells, and one by one he’d collect them in his hands. They were so small, perfect little pictures of what that insect used to be. Those were simpler times.

 No matter what he dreamt about though, he’d end up in the same room, in the same bed, where he’d lie about with nothing to do and no one to talk to. What did he even have to look forward to if he did get better? A life of working himself to death?