Written by Ly Faulk
The virus has taken hold, but I grip the arm of my chair and try to keep it at bay. Inside
my skull, tusks are forming. Dead skin and cells that would have been hair fuse together until
they harden into a horn-shaped mass that makes my jaw swell. I grit my teeth and will the tusks
not to penetrate my skin, not to emerge glistening in blood and viscera. Hair begins to fall into
my lap. I saw all this happen with my mother and my neighbors. I know I can’t keep the hair
from falling from my scalp no matter how I try. My clothes begin to chafe, the arms
uncomfortable and the pants too tight. A dull ache emanates from my legs and I kick off my
shoes without thinking about it to see that my feet have gone cloven on me.
The urge to root, to snuffle, to let my nose trail through the grass and soil, takes over.
Before I know it, I’m on all fours, and I have the unstoppable need to obey, but no masters are
presenting themselves. On the television, the man in the blue suit is talking. I listen as I root
around on the floor, exploring dirty laundry (which now smells oh so interesting) and empty beer
cans. He makes sense to me in this state. Authoritative. He smiles as he talks, white teeth
glistening against artificially tanned skin. It comforts me. I stop my exploration of smells and
floor objects and just sit and stare at the man as he goes on and on. All thoughts of resistance are
gone now. I could listen to him talk for hours. I can hear the men approaching. They’re just
outside my window. I know what comes next, but it’s ok. I don’t mind anymore. Let them take
me.
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Ly Faulk (they/she) is a queer artist and an all-around weirdo. Their work has appeared in Ghost City Press, Prose Online, Jake the Magazine, and others. Learn more at https://lynnceefaulkcom.wordpress.com/