Morbus

Morbus was still thirsty. It seemed like the more it drank, the thirstier it became. It never gets tired of ensnaring prey and seeing its precious delicacy ooze out. It must have hit a growth spurt, because it’s happened a lot more often recently. And it’s my job to harvest more with that wicked, silver fang. Every. Damn. Time.

“How much more do you want?” I asked half consciously.

“Keep going,” was its only response.

“Where do I make my next mark? Maybe this spot will do. Nobody will notice if I cut here. I just need to cover it up later,” I said to myself.

Its webs contracted and tugged on my bones, bringing the fang down on its familiar victim. Thus began the harvest. The strings pulled tighter, and then released, over and over again. Contract and extend. Pull and push. Back and forth. Scars and treats. Perpetual motion.

“Why are you cutting so slowly? Are you scared? You’ve done this before. Go faster,” it ordered.

I know. I’ve done this before, but I still hesitate every time. I always take forever to prepare myself, no matter how routine it’s become. Then Morbus gets impatient and climbs up to my ear, sinking its boneless legs into my skin along the way. But that carnage isn’t enough; its legs don’t cut deep enough. He needs the fang. My fang.

“Let the fang bite.”

I pressed the fang against the flesh of its prey to give Morbus a little taste. It approved, and its palps sank in. I suppressed a gasp and pressed harder. The fang sent a chill down to the bone, enough to constrict victim, and a subsequent streak of red broke through. This fresh, nutritious fluid consisted of everything Morbus needed, as well as everything I had left.

"Go do your thing and be done with it." I said through clenched teeth with slightly moist eyes and a forced smile. As much as it hurts, this is my favorite victim to torture. They're the only person whose blood I'm so used to seeing that it doesn't bother me anymore.

The fang has been stained yet again. I thought I had washed it for the last time the last time this happened, but once you let it strike for the first time, you're bound to use it again. And as time goes on, the pain from its bite becomes less and less relieving, so you let it take a larger bite in a new spot. Before you know it, there are to many bite marks to hide from everyone, and when they see them, they avoid you as if Morbus is contagious. Then, when it's your only friend left, it drags you through a hallway with walls woven so tightly that you can't see past them. At that point, you don't even feel like resisting. It's usually the only one who bothers to stick around through all the chaos. You'd probably welcome that bloodsucker with open arms just to have someone to call a friend.

Together, you retreat to its web, away from anyone who could reach in and take you back. It's just you, Morbus, and the fang. No one can reach you. There's nobody there who would truthfully call you a friend. All you can see is a river of red in a sea of black.

I only know of one other person who ever fell victim to Morbus, but I never realized it until just now. Morbus has been preying on him even longer than it's been preying on me. Instead of accepting his fate though, he tried to escape, not just once, but repeatedly. One time he even managed to reach me and tried to show me what Morbus had done to him, bit I was too blind to understand. That was ages ago anyways. He's probably forgotten about me by now. It's been forever since the last time we actually spoke face to face.

"Here, could you open this up for me?" he asked from behind me. Expecting a jar, I extended my hand behind me. He only placed a small popcorn seed in my hand.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked.

"Open it up," Daramic repeated.

I went into the kitchen to retrieve a knife. I never expected to have to dissect a popcorn seed, but here I was. I used to do this to frogs all the time back in biology class. This shouldn't have been too different. Maybe I could finally do something correctly for once. Holding the seed on the cutting board, I pressed down. It slid out from beneath the knife and flew off onto the floor.

"Your kids are gonna be terrified of you," Daramic noted from behind me. I spun around in surprise with the knife still in my hand and accidentally made a small incision in his upper right arm. "Careful there, that's my good arm. I still need it." he said nonchalantly. He grabbed a paper towel with his right hand and awkwardly twisted his wrist to wipe the blood off his arm.

I never understood why he only ever used his right hand for everything. He even cut off his hoodie's right sleeve to "let his arm be free," as he put it. His left hand, on the other hand, always hung limply at his side, completely sheathed under his sleeve. I asked him a few times why he always used his right arm when his left was right there, and every time he simply responded with one of two answers: either "I've got to have a bit of freedom somewhere," or "my right is more nervous." If it's apparently anxious, shouldn't it be kept under control with a sleeve?

At this point, he should just wear the hoodie backwards so his left arm can move freely and his right is in check. I told Daramic he should do that, but he said that his left arm "doesn't want to be seen," and that he might as well abandon his hoodie for a new one, which apparently wasn't a viable option. That hoodie was all he ever had on. He probably even keeps it on in the shower for all I know. Whether his right arm would freeze, or his left arm would burn, he always wore it like a character out of a cartoon and refused to listen to what anyone else said about it.

"That seed won't open up to you if you're constantly trying to kill it. While you're at it, open these up, too," he requested, handing me a bag of popcorn seeds.

"Oh," I murmured, feeling like an idiot. I put the first seed in the bag, made my way over to the microwave, placed the bag inside, and set it for five minutes. Soon we heard popping, followed by sniffling. I looked back and saw him crying. I didn't realize such a small cut hurt him so much.

"Do you want me to get you a band aid?" I offered.

"No thanks," he replied, still strangely nonchalant about everything. He took the right string of his hoodie and tucked it inside his shirt, leaving the left string to loosely dangle in front of him.

"Are you sure? I can tell you're crying," I said, feeling guilty again.

He smiled and looked at me, saying "It would hurt more if I wasn't crying." I couldn't for the life of me understand what he was talking about. How does emotional pain on top of physical pain hurt less?

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You'll figure it out eventually," he said. "Anyways, we've got seeds popping now."

He was right. I still felt bad about the cut, but maybe the popcorn will help make up for it. Each individual kernel popped about as sporadically as the sound of an elementary school student's pencil frantically tapping on the paper over and over again when the teacher tells the class that there are only five minutes left to finish their test that they barely understand the content of before Morbus catches up to them…

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

I snapped out of my daydreaming and took the steaming bag of popcorn out of the microwave. Daramic already had two bowls out on the counter. I poured an equal amount of popcorn into each bowl and we ate in silence. Both of us only used one hand to eat every piece, just as we always have. Sure, it's childish, but it's fun to let a bunch of residue gather on your fingers and lick it off afterwards.

Upon finishing, I made my way over to the trash to throw away the remaining seeds in my bowl that still had not popped. There were quite a few of them this time.

"The dishwasher is over there," said Daramic, gesturing in the opposite direction.

"I'm throwing the seeds away."

"Why?"

"Because they didn't pop."

"Then put them back in the microwave."

"It's only a few seeds."

"And you're just one person," he observed. "What about the seed I gave you?"

"It got lost in the mix. I'm pretty sure it already popped," I retorted.

Daramic stood up, looked inside my bowl, and picked out a seed that had a distinct dent in its side. "Are you sure about that?" he asked, holding the seed up in front of me. I sighed and put my bowl with the eleven remaining seeds in the microwave. I set the timer for another five minutes and waited patiently. We heard ten pops coming from inside before the microwave beeped again. I took the bowl out and we split the ten popcorn kernels. The dented one still hadn't popped. I went to throw it away, but Daramic stopped me again.

"Your seed still hasn't popped," he noted.

"I know, and it never will," I said.

"It's gonna take longer than that for the seed to open up to you after you almost killed it," he reminded me.

"What's the point if it's gonna take so long?" I complained.

"It's still gonna be a popcorn kernel," he said.

"I already ate enough popcorn. Besides, it's just one seed," I said.

"And? So are you," he said, raising his eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes and tossed the seed into the microwave again. We stood watching it in silence again for the next five minutes. It still hadn't popped. So much for the third time being the charm. I held it up to Daramic and said "Well, what am I supposed to do with this now?"

"Maybe it just needs a different kind of nourishment," he suggested while giving me a half smile. He opened a drawer and pulled out a matchbox. He took the seed from my hand and held it just above a newly lit match.

"Daramic, we're gonna be here forever," I complained.

"I don't mind," he responded right as the seed popped and shot up into the air. Daramic caught it and handed it to me. I had no choice but to take it now. I put it in my mouth and savored the taste. "Well, how does it taste? Good, right?"

He was right. Despite the wait, that kernel was delicious.

Another stroke of the fang cut my memories short. Morbus always knew when reality would cut the deepest. Every fiber of my body screamed for it to stop, but Morbus was the one in control. The fang broke through the skin and started biting the fat.

Tears built up around my eyes, but none fell down. They stayed put and blurred my vision. I slowed down to make sure I was cutting in the right spot, but Morbus tugged on the webs again. I quickened my pace once more.

It's easy to cut through fat. For a protective structure, it's pretty flimsy. Even so, it took forever for me to cut through it. I wasn't ready to move on to the next layer. Morbus knew what I was doing, so he tugged again and sped up my hand. The fang loves adipose, but it never savors the taste. It craves the next layer even more. That's what gives sustenance. That's what makes it stronger. That's where scars start to form.

Morbus tugged yet again, but I tugged back. I wasn't ready for this. Not again. I didn't care how manyMorbus was still thirsty. It seemed like the more it drank, the thirstier it became. It never gets tired of ensnaring prey and seeing its precious delicacy ooze out. It must have hit a growth spurt, because it’s happened a lot more often recently. And it’s my job to harvest more with that wicked, silver fang. Every. Damn. Time.

“How much more do you want?” I asked half consciously.

“Keep going,” was its only response.

“Where do I make my next mark? Maybe this spot will do. Nobody will notice if I cut here. I just need to cover it up later,” I said to myself.

Its webs contracted and tugged on my bones, bringing the fang down on its familiar victim. Thus began the harvest. The strings pulled tighter, and then released, over and over again. Contract and extend. Pull and push. Back and forth. Scars and treats. Perpetual motion.

“Why are you cutting so slowly? Are you scared? You’ve done this before. Go faster,” it ordered.

I know. I’ve done this before, but I still hesitate every time. I always take forever to prepare myself, no matter how routine it’s become. Then Morbus gets impatient and climbs up to my ear, sinking its boneless legs into my skin along the way. But that carnage isn’t enough; its legs don’t cut deep enough. He needs the fang. My fang.

“Let the fang bite.”

I pressed the fang against the flesh of its prey to give Morbus a little taste. It approved, and its palps sank in. I suppressed a gasp and pressed harder. The fang sent a chill down to the bone, enough to constrict the victim, and a subsequent streak of red broke through. This fresh, nutritious fluid consisted of everything Morbus needed, as well as everything I had left.

"Go do your thing and be done with it." I said through clenched teeth with my eyes wide open. As much as it hurts, this is my favorite victim to torture. They're the only person whose blood I'm so used to seeing that it doesn't bother me anymore.

The fang has been stained yet again. I thought I had washed it for the last time the last time this happened, but once you let it strike for the first time, you're bound to use it again. And as time goes on, the pain from its bite becomes less and less relieving, so you let it take a larger bite in a new spot. Before you know it, there are too many bite marks to hide from everyone, and when they see them, they avoid you as if Morbus is contagious. Then, when it's your only friend left, it drags you through a hallway with walls woven so tightly that you can't see past them. At that point, you don't even feel like resisting. It's usually the only one who bothers to stick around through all the chaos. You'd probably welcome that bloodsucker with open arms just to have someone to call a friend.

Together, you retreat to its web, away from anyone who could reach in and take you back. It's just you, Morbus, and the fang. No one can reach you. There's nobody there who would truthfully call you a friend. All you can see is a river of red in a sea of black.

I only know of one other person who ever fell victim to Morbus, but I never realized it until just now. Morbus has been preying on him even longer than it's been preying on me. Instead of accepting his fate though, he tried to escape, not just once, but repeatedly. One time he even managed to reach me and tried to show me what Morbus had done to him, but I was too blind to understand. That was ages ago anyways. He's probably forgotten about me by now. It's been forever since the last time we actually spoke face to face.

"Here, could you open this up for me?" he asked from behind me. Expecting a jar, I extended my hand behind me. He only placed a small popcorn seed in my hand.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked.

"Open it up," Daramic repeated.

I went into the kitchen to retrieve a knife. I never expected to have to dissect a popcorn seed, but here I was. I used to do this to frogs all the time back in biology class. This shouldn't have been too different. Maybe I could finally do something correctly for once. Holding the seed on the cutting board, I pressed down. It slid out from beneath the knife and flew off onto the floor.

"Your kids are gonna be terrified of you," Daramic noted from behind me. I spun around in surprise with the knife still in my hand and accidentally made a small incision in his upper right arm. "Careful there, that's my good arm. I still need it." he said nonchalantly. He grabbed a paper towel with his right hand and awkwardly twisted his wrist to wipe the blood off his arm.

I never understood why he only ever used his right hand for everything. He even cut off his hoodie's right sleeve to "let his arm be free," as he put it. His left hand, on the other hand, always hung limply at his side, completely sheathed under his sleeve. I asked him a few times why he always used his right arm when his left was right there, and every time he simply responded with one of two answers: either "I've got to have a bit of freedom somewhere," or "my right is more nervous." If it's apparently anxious, shouldn't it be kept under control with a sleeve?

At this point, he should just wear the hoodie backwards so his left arm can move freely and his right is in check. I told Daramic he should do that, but he said that his left arm "doesn't want to be seen," and that he might as well abandon his hoodie for a new one, which apparently wasn't a viable option. That hoodie was all he ever had on. He probably even keeps it on in the shower for all I know. Whether his right arm would freeze, or his left arm would burn, he always wore it like a character out of a cartoon and refused to listen to what anyone else said about it.

"That seed won't open up to you if you're constantly trying to kill it. While you're at it, open these up, too," he requested, handing me a bag of popcorn seeds.

"Oh," I murmured, feeling like an idiot. I put the first seed in the bag, made my way over to the microwave, placed the bag inside, and set it for five minutes. Soon we heard popping, followed by sniffling. I looked back and saw him crying. I didn't realize such a small cut hurt him so much.

"Do you want me to get you a band aid?" I offered.

"No thanks," he replied, still strangely nonchalant about everything. He took the right string of his hoodie and tucked it inside his shirt, leaving the left string to loosely dangle in front of him.

"Are you sure? I can tell you're crying," I said, feeling guilty again.

He smiled and looked at me, saying "It would hurt more if I wasn't crying." I couldn't for the life of me understand what he was talking about. How does emotional pain on top of physical pain hurt less?

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You'll figure it out eventually," he said. "Anyways, we've got seeds popping now."

He was right. I still felt bad about the cut, but maybe the popcorn will help make up for it. Each individual kernel popped about as sporadically as the sound of an elementary school student's pencil frantically tapping on the paper over and over again when the teacher tells the class that there are only five minutes left to finish their test that they barely understand the content of before Morbus catches up to them…

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

I snapped out of my daydreaming and took the steaming bag of popcorn out of the microwave. Daramic already had two bowls out on the counter. I poured an equal amount of popcorn into each bowl and we ate in silence. Both of us only used one hand to eat every piece, just as we always have. Sure, it's childish, but it's fun to let a bunch of residue gather on your fingers and lick it off afterwards.

Upon finishing, I made my way over to the trash to throw away the remaining seeds in my bowl that still had not popped. There were quite a few of them this time.

"The dishwasher is over there," said Daramic, gesturing in the opposite direction.

"I'm throwing the seeds away."

"Why?"

"Because they didn't pop."

"Then put them back in the microwave."

"It's only a few seeds."

"And you're just one guy," he observed. "What about the seed I gave you?"

"It got lost in the mix. I'm pretty sure it already popped," I retorted.

Daramic stood up, looked inside my bowl, and picked out a seed that had a distinct dent in its side. "Are you sure about that?" he asked, holding the seed up in front of me. I sighed and put my bowl with the eleven remaining seeds in the microwave. I set the timer for another five minutes and waited patiently. We heard ten pops coming from inside before the microwave beeped again. I took the bowl out and we split the ten popcorn kernels. The dented one still hadn't popped. I went to throw it away, but Daramic stopped me again.

"Your seed still hasn't popped," he noted.

"I know, and it never will," I said.

"It's gonna take longer than that for the seed to open up to you after you almost killed it," he reminded me.

"What's the point if it's gonna take so long?" I complained.

"It's still gonna be a popcorn kernel," he said.

"I already ate enough popcorn. Besides, it's just one seed," I said.

"And? So are you," he said, raising one eyebrow.

I rolled my eyes and tossed the seed into the microwave again. We stood watching it in silence again for the next five minutes. It still hadn't popped. So much for the third time being the charm. I held it up to Daramic and said "Well, what am I supposed to do with this now?"

"Maybe it just needs a different kind of nourishment," he suggested while giving me a half smile. He opened a drawer and pulled out a matchbox. He took the seed from my hand and held it just above a newly lit match.

"Daramic, we're gonna be here forever," I complained.

"I don't mind," he responded right as the seed popped and shot up into the air. Daramic caught it and reached out his hand, prompting me to take it.

“How’d you do that?” I asked.

Daramic shrugged his shoulders and put the kernel in my hand. I had no choice but to take it now. I put it in my mouth and was surprised by the flavor. "Well, how does it taste? Good, right?"

He was right. Despite the wait, that kernel was delicious. That sneaky bastard.

Morbus cut my memories short with another stroke. It always knew at what time reality would cut the deepest. Every fiber of my body screamed for it to stop, but Morbus was the one in control. The fang broke through the skin and started biting the fat.

Tears built up around my eyes, but none fell down. They stayed put and blurred my vision. I slowed down to make sure I was cutting in the right spot, but Morbus tugged on the webs again. I quickened my pace once more.

It's easy to cut through fat. For a protective structure, it's pretty flimsy. Even so, it took forever for me to cut through it. I wasn't ready to move on to the next layer. Morbus knew what I was doing, so he tugged again and sped up my hand. The fang loves the taste of fat, but it never savors it. It craves the next layer even more. That's what gives sustenance. That's what makes it stronger. That's where scars start to form.

Morbus tugged yet again, but I tugged back. I wasn't ready for this. Not again. I didn't care how many times I had done it before. I'd never be ready to go this far again. But it still somehow felt relieving. I couldn't help but smile while sabotaging my own body.

I felt the fang graze the muscle, and I instinctively stopped. The next stroke would make a permanent scar. I wasn't ready, but I wasn't in control either. I cut deeper and instinctively shut my eyes, still not allowed to let my tears fall. Morbus wouldn't let them fall. He wanted blood, not tears. Tears are for people who truly suffer. This was trivial. This was something I put myself into. This was what I deserved.

I severed the first muscle fiber. Unlike fat, muscle actually puts up a decent fight. Morbus loves this type of resistance. It always fights the strongest enemies, but only fights them in their weakest state. It makes it think it’s powerful. I don’t know why he targeted me, though. I’m probably the weakest target he could’ve gone for. What the hell did it see in me that was worth conquering? I don’t even have much of the delicious muscle that he craves so much. Maybe he just wanted to take a break and go for an easy target.

What little muscle I had fought back on its own. It twitched and tugged alongside me against Morbus. Morbus lost its grip, letting the fang fall to the floor. My scar seared like a bullet wound, but at least I was free. I stumbled back and my head collided with the wall behind me. Something fell off of a shelf above me that I hadn’t touched in several years.

In that moment, it didn’t matter what it was. I released my tears and felt the pain slowly fade. For every crimson drop that left my new scar, a clear one left my eyes. I massaged the scar and thanked the muscles for their reflexes. They relaxed, leaving me alone to cry and breathe at my own pace.

I finally looked down at what fell from the heavens to find a matchbox next to my most recent wound, perfectly in the middle of all of my scars. Each and every one of them seemed to point to it. It had a note taped to the front that said "I put you in this box with all the tools you'll need. Use them while you're still nervous."

I opened it up and found two items: a match, and a dented popcorn seed.

I smiled stupidly and whispered "You sneaky bastard."