Memphis Pov

May 16, 2024

1 AM

My hand still burns from her scratches. A persistent reminder. The night’s over, and I still have to go back to that fucking wench. Just the thought of her sobbing about my hand “slipping” makes my face twist. She’ll drag it out for days, even though she started the whole damn fight.

How dare she touch my shit. Dump every can like that because I choose to have a couple of drinks instead of entertaining her. She has no right, not when she wastes her money on useless makeup and clothes.

Fuck, even at the bar, Pagan’s all I can think about. Like a bad hangover that won’t quit, needling my brain until everything goes red. I drain the glass and smack it on the counter “Another.”

The bartender refills without a word, those dark eyes judging me again. I lift the fresh drink—cold glass, sharp scent of whiskey cutting through the stale air, warm fluid down my gullet—but the booze finally catches up. Pressure builds low in my gut, sudden and urgent, my dick screaming.

I shove off the stool. The room tilts. I stagger toward the bathroom toward the bathroom, shoulder the door. Locked.

“Sorry,” The bartender calls, wry. “Out of order.”

“Where the fuck am I supposed to piss?” My voice comes out thick, words slurring.

“You’re welcome to use the women’s.”

“Screw that. I don’t want anyone to think I’m some tranny!” I push past stools. “I’ll just piss in the alley.”

“I doubt anyone would think that, but pay first.”

Fucking douchebag.

I dig out Pagan’s card, slap it on the counter. A small twist of satisfaction curls in me as the machine beeps approval. Let her feel this one.

The bartender slides it back. I snatch it, stuff it away. “Prick,” I mutter, shoving out the door. I yell, “Last fucking time I come here with that attitude.”

“We will see about that.”

The alley stinks of old beer and garbage. I barely make it past the dumpster before unbuckling, letting go against the bricks. Relief floods through me, warm stream hissing against cold stone.

The pain in my bladder eases, just like my mind is slipping. I stumble back, nearly falling as I lose my footing. Piss splashes the tip of my boots. “Shit.” I shake my dick off, tuck it back in, and lash the belt.  

I should never have followed my dick. It always leads me into trouble. Now it’s landed me with someone who nags, who thinks she can fix me. Nothing wrong with a few drinks after sweating my ass off in that hot garage all day, reeking of oil and grease.

My throat parches, and yearning hits me. I fumble for her card, and my wallet slips and hits the ground. I bend for it—world spins faster—and I go down hard on my back, laughing at the sky because the fall barely hurts. I’m so shitfaced, and sleeping here doesn’t sound half bad.

It beats going home to that cunt.

But there’s still that fresh drink waiting inside, sweet amber catching the dim light, fizz still clinging to the glass.

I push up. Glass crunches under my palm—sharp bite, blood welling warm. Before I can wipe it, a wet squelch echoes behind me, like a pumpkin splitting open. Then a heavy, fleshy flop.

The laugh dies in my throat.

What the fuck is that noise?

I slowly turn my head toward the noise, but the alley is even darker here, the dim streetlights too distant to help. Nothing looks out of place, but my gut twists hard, the same sick lurch I get right before I puke. Time to get the fuck out of here.

I stand, and pain flares across my injured hand, a burning pressure. I flip it over. A decent-sized leech—or some red worm—is latched on, swollen with my blood. I wrinkle my nose, mortified, watching it pulse and grow thicker.

I pluck it off fast. It rips away a chunk of skin with it. I wince, blood welling fresh.

This is no fucking leech. This is some monster!

My heart slams against my ribs. Cold sweat beads on my forehead. The thing’s mouth opens—a perfect circle of razor-sharp teeth. Threatened, skin flaps rise on either side of its head like gills. I hurl it as hard as I can against the bricks. Splat. It doesn’t die. Instead, it screeches, high and wet, furious.

I step closer, boot raised to stomp it dead.

My legs lock.

The body goes numb from toes to scalp. I topple like dead weight, head cracking pavement. No arms to catch myself. Just hard impact.

What the hell? I’m paralyzed?!

Eyes dart wildly. Panic floods in. Green goo oozes from the bite on my hand—the exact spot it fed from—threading into my veins. Breath saws faster, the sound jagged against the quiet. Sweat pours down my face as I search the dark alley for the thing.

Where is it? Where is that gross, disgusting fucker?

Helpless. I open my mouth to scream. Someone has to be nearby. “Help! Help me—”

It moves. Fast. A slithering snake in the shadows. It shoots straight into my mouth, silencing everything.

I gag hard as it forces down my throat—thick, alive. I want to claw it out. Can’t move. Can only gag.

Tears slide down my cheeks. Suddenly I can’t breathe. Vision fades, blurs. My entire body seizes, muscles burn.

I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what it’s doing.

Everything hurts before darkness swallows me whole.

Then light—sharp, stabbing—cuts through. Morning already.

I can move again. Arms. Legs. Throat screams with soaring pain. Tongue feels swollen, heavy.

I vomit everything—booze, bar food, bile—splattering the alley stones. Hands clutch the dumpster rim. Legs wobble.

Fuck. Doctor. Now.

I stagger out of the alley and collapse to my knees on the sidewalk. I reach for a man heading to work.

He steps wide, curls his lip, phone still to his ear. “Damn drunk. Don’t touch me.” He hurries away.

I push up. Sweat drips. I stumble a block, then heave again. This time it’s black, thick, wrong—glimmering faintly, smelling rotten.

People stare. Phones come out. Someone laughs. “Ew, gross.”

“Didn’t someone on main street do the same thing?”

No one helps. More tears run down my face. I grow weaker.

I crumple on the ground and stare up at the sky. As my body and mind fade, one thought cuts through: If I hadn’t fought with her… used her card… stormed out… I’d be home. Safe. With her.

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, but it gets hotter, noisier. Tears dry on my cheeks. Throat arid and swollen. Weak. Drained.

Is this what dying feels like? Am I dying?

My tongue spasms violently, swelling in my mouth as something burrows through it—slick and thick—pressing against my teeth like it’s testing their strength. I gag, convulsing, stomach empty, body still trying to purge what doesn’t belong.

My finger twitches.

Then my arm jerks hard enough to wrench my shoulder, and I know—I know—that wasn’t me.

Panic detonates in my chest. My heartbeat stutters, trips over itself, then races like prey.

Why me?

I growl through clenched teeth as the thing writhes harder, stretching my tongue until it feels too long for my mouth. Get the fuck out.

Get out of me.

I bite down. 

A sickening crunch. White-hot pain shoots through my jaw as my teeth tear flesh.

Blood floods my mouth instantly—hot, coppery, thick enough to choke on. The parasite screams—not with sound, but with violent thrashing. My skull rattles.

My hands fly up and force my mouth open. Fingers dig into my cheeks, nails splitting skin, jaw stretching until it threatens to dislocate.

“No—!” I sob, saliva and blood pouring down my chin.

I slam my teeth down again. Harder. I feel it rupture between my molars, feel it burst, something wet and stringy snapping apart as I grind. Agony lances through my face, but with it comes a surge of control—just enough to curl my fingers, just enough to fight.

I shake, choking, drool and gore spilling free now. My tongue is shredded. I can feel pieces of myself tearing loose with it.

And through the pain, through the frenzy, one thought rises sharp and hateful.

Pagan.

This is your fault.

If you hadn’t fucking scorned me!

You brought this to me.

My vision blurs despite the fight I give it, dark creeping in from the edges, but I bare my bloody teeth and force words out around the ruin of my mouth. The parasite burrows again, furious, wrapping itself deeper into what’s left of me, but I speak anyway.

I curse her.

I curse that fucking cunt with my dying breath, with blood-soaked syllables and something older than rage. I bind her name to my last pain, my last fear, my last love twisted rotten.

If I die like this, I think viciously, you’ll never be free of me.

My body goes numb.

The thing inside me takes control, booting me out of my own body.

And I die knowing I’ve left something of myself behind—my face will always haunt her. Even if I’m no longer in control.

I hope IT finds her…and I hope it fucking wrecks her just as I did.