A Sinister Growth or The Monster Inside-Out

CW: Body horror, violent fantasies

It started with an itch.

Mark was sitting at his desk, eyes boring into his screen, trying his best not to fall asleep as his vision swam in and out of focus. Numbers would dance wildly even against the darkness of his eyelids whenever they shuttered close to relieve the glare of the white Excel sheet. Working had become a daunting task, as of late, what with the new deal brokered recently between their accounting firm and this new up-and-coming tech company. He rarely found himself lucky enough to finish work at 10 pm, so he would often have to complete the job at home.

Sighing, he leaned back in his swivel chair. The bones in his back cracked loudly in the silence of his barely-furnished studio apartment. Tilting his head back to look up at the blank ceiling, he pursed his lips, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of bitterness. He had only graduated college two years ago, and yet he was already questioning his choice of career. His boss was a horrid and bloated mess of a man whose only goal seemed to make him as miserable as possible. From unexpected workloads to shortened deadlines, he would gleefully slap folders on his desk — and more than one time, Mark had wondered how it would feel to smash his head on one of its sharp corners.

Sometimes, when the fancy took him, he would fantasize about it, spending hours imagining in detail how he would take his revenge. Would it be bloody? Would he leave him sobbing with a broken hand? Would he slip rat poison in his lunch?

Hatred was something that Mark had become deeply intimate with over these last few years. He no longer shied away from his most murderous thoughts — he nurtured them, delighted in their taste. But he was also weak, and he needed that job. So, he remained ever his asshole boss’s yes-man and agreed to work overtime with a sweet saccharine smile on his face and a vicious I-f*cking-hate-you loop blaring at full volume in his mind.

Of course, that also meant he barely had time to see his friends. Or at least the rare few he was still in contact with. And those had gone on to do better things, their success casting a harsh light on his own failings. Duke with his exciting job as a successful lawyer in New York, Anna with her budding business venture in the cryptocurrency market, Celina her perfect life with her perfect job and her perfect husband and her perfect kids…

It should’ve been him, by the way. Celina wasn’t always that pretty and he was the only one that was nice to her. She used to be the ugly duckling, and fool that he was, he had ignored her and missed on her turning into a perfect swan. Now he had to watch as she flounced about, raving about how perfectly good her life was. Not only did he have to stay friends with her (because she was one of the few left who actually did try to keep in touch with him), but he had to stare another one of his failures in the face — he was a grown man and he was still desperately single.

And with that, his hatred only grew, further fed by the rejections he suffered from other women through the years. Even the pretty neighbour he smiled at whenever they crossed paths only deigned to give him a muttered “ew” when he had finally mustered the courage to ask her out. He hadn’t said anything bad to her then, but as soon as he was back within the confines of his home, he popped off and screamed himself hoarse. Stupid bint! He was too good for her anyway! The only good thing about her was her looks; just a slash of a knife and she would be ruined!

Indeed. Hatred, envy, anger… It seemed that these were the only things that had sustained him these last few years.

He sighed…

And then sighed again in annoyance – because why the fuck was the skin of his scalp prickling so bad!

His hands, still tingling with the pins and needles of late-night work, reached for the back of his skull as he rubbed it absently. Bad idea. Acknowledging the itch that had been bugging him all day long only made it all the more difficult to ignore. He scratched again, grimacing at the feeling of greasy dandruff getting stuck under his nails in tight clumps. But the grimace soon turned into a frown as the sensitive pads of his fingers came into contact with a slight spongy bump under his skin. Experimentally pressing the blunt edge of a nail into it, he let out a sharp yelp and winced when the tender swell burned.

Okay. This was weird. He didn’t even know if scalp pimples were an actual thing, though perhaps they were — wasn’t one of his colleagues obsessed with those YouTube videos in which doctors would pop ghastly cysts and stuff? He had been scratching the same spot for days now and wondered if perhaps he should have it checked out before it got worse and actually YouTube video-worthy… Though maybe he should wait a bit — he dreaded the idea of a doctor's visit and the slew of medical bills that came with it. A one-week wait would be reasonable, just to make sure he wasn’t making a mountain out of a molehill…

He suddenly froze. Without even noticing it, his hand had returned to the same spot to scratch away at the itch and he could’ve sworn it had grown a bit bigger. Properly freaked out now, he hurriedly saved and closed the open Excel document and turned off his PC before swiftly making his way to the bathroom. The sight that greeted him in the mirror was even more miserable in the stark white brightness of the overhead neon light: his face was sallow, his eyes sunken, and his unkempt hair was shining with oil. The itchy bump continued to nag at him, a relentless torment, impossible to ignore, and so he bent slightly forward, parting his hair as well as he could with his fingers, trying to catch sight of it in the mirror. Yet it was in vain since the thing was behind his head.

Annoyed, he huffed harshly and pursed his lips, leaning and resting his hands against the cool off-white ceramic of the sink. The contrast in temperatures brought relief to his sweaty palms and achy, oily fingers and helped clear his mind a bit. He stood there a moment, pondering what to do, his hand once again unwittingly finding its way to the back of his skull, scratching almost idly. He stilled.

The bump was bigger.

The growth was definitely way bigger.

His breath grew erratic, both hands flying to his head. It had gone from the size of a hazelnut to the size of a clementine. What the actual hell! This was impossible. Pressing frantic digits to feel it up in its entirety, he anxiously realized it had also hardened. No sooner had he made that observation that a sudden sharp biting sensation made him jump and yell in pain.

He froze again. This time he felt as if he was about to faint.

…

Why did it feel like teeth?

Slowly rising up from his bent position, he tentatively fixed his eyes upon his reflection. Terrified eyes met his, pupils so blown that of the iris only a thin ring of brown was left visible. He could not bear to look down at his hands. Hysterically, he put all his will into trying to ignore the sting of open flesh and the small trickle of blood that he could feel running down the skin of his right hand’s index finger. Perhaps if he went back to ignoring the itch and all this madness, then everything would go back to normal, right? The scared man with the wide eyes in the mirror frantically nodded in response, upper lip trembling and moist with sweat.

He had almost managed to get his emotions under control and muster enough strength to go back to his desk when something brushed against the inside of his head.

A full-body shiver seized him. The bump pulsed.

“Mark… Mark…”

There was a moment of silence.

If only time had remained suspended at that moment... But then something scraped at the flesh inside of his head a second time, and it was too much for Mark’s brain to take. With a shrieking heave, he ran to the toilet bowl and violently retched in it.

“It’s inside, oh God, it’s inside, what the fuck, oh please, oh God, oh no,” was all that ricocheted within his mind as he watched yellow bile splash and slide along the white ceramic and gather in swirls of vomit in the water. Something was inside that bump and it was inside him and it was whispering at him like–like some lover, and it was touching him, his mind, like one would lovingly pet an animal. Another involuntary hurl folded him in half over the bowl and he sobbed, keening, half-mad at the idea and nearly losing himself to hysteria. “Take it out, take it out.” The thought was barely formed in his mind that his hand was already reaching, lighting-quick, for the protuberance. He had barely scratched vicious nails against it when his hand suddenly veered from its path in a violent arc and swung around to land a smack on his face. Face into the bowl, mouth wide-open in horror, he breathed harshly and nearly choked, the smell of his own vomit wafting up to him. His eyes fell on his right hand, now resting near the left, and he took in the bloody bite mark on his finger. He had the sudden and oddest thought that this was not his hand. He felt the tingle and the heat of the hit, the warmth spreading in his palm, yet it didn’t feel like his hand. He tried to clench it. It remained poised on the edge of the toilet bowl, oddly still considering the fact that he was a shaking mess.

Something giggled at the back (inside) of his skull.

Wild eyes fixed upon his unresponsive right hand and his breathing quickened to the point he was on the verge of hyperventilating. Mark lifted his left hand with the slowness of a prey hoping to avoid the attention of a swift predator. He raised it up and pressed it on the top of his head.

Something took a breath at the back (inside) of his skull.

Mark flinched violently, nearly pitching forward onto the edge of the toilet seat, lips quivering as his eyes filled with tears. But he took a quick and shaky steadying breath and soldiered on. His hand slowly slid further down, reaching the upper edge of the growth.

Something tensed in anticipation at the back (inside) of his skull.

Skittish digits mapped what disturbingly felt like a malformed forehead, a lopsided eyebrow ridge, two orifices that felt oddly wet, fluttery and hot, a squishy misshapen triangle of flesh beneath and… wet sharp teeth.

Something at the back (inside) of his skull licked his fingers…

And all of a sudden, Mark could taste the salt of his skin. He felt the raised pattern of his fingerprints. Traced the raised and rough protrusion of a callus. This was and wasn’t his skin. This was and wasn’t his tongue.

“Feed me,” the monster inside-out whispered.

And Mark’s face was unmade, his mouth opening wide as a shriek tore through him and curdled in his throat, bursting out in an unending, unintelligible wail.