Posted on: April 18th, 2009 Parasite

by Jeremy Shipp

The tick sucks you out of me in a matter of minutes, but it takes three months before you’re born again.

During the waiting period, I scribble down ideas, diagrams, even snippets of dialogue.  I fill an entire notebook with jagged letters and little holes where my pencils puncture the paper.

Finally, I’m standing over the tick, biting my fingernails, watching him push the embryonic sack out his tiny ass.

“Does that hurt?” I say.

“Yeah, a little,” the tick says.  “But it’s worth the $500.”

“What do you need with $500 anyway?”

“What do you need with a little man?”

You emerge, and cut your way out of the sack, coated with green pus.

“Where did he get the knife?” I say.

“It must be made of calcium deposits,” the tick says.

You’re still disoriented, swinging at the air, shouting something about the army.  I stick you in the black bag.

At dinner, my wife tells me about some non-profit organization, and I pretend to care.  She ends up crying—I’m not sure why.  Maybe I laughed when I should’ve frowned.

Later that night, I’m inside the garage, looking into the gerbil cage.  The black bag isn’t moving, and I’m terrified you’re dead.

But then, when I dump you out, you get up and yell, “What the fuck did you do?”

“This isn’t about me anymore,” I say.  Well, recite.  “You always made everything about me, but it was always about you.  Now you’re gonna pay for what you did to me.  And mom.”

You point your knife at me.  “Let me go, or I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

I laugh.  I laugh at your stupid little knife and your stupid little voice.  I used to be so afraid of those eyes, but now they’re mine to play with.

So I open my notebook.  “You can forget begging for mercy.  I have to do this.”

“You could’ve let me stay dead,” you say.

You’re right, of course.  I shouldn’t be here right now.  I should be in bed, holding my wife in my arms, dreaming this nightmare instead of living it.

But it’s too late now.

I reach for the ant farm.

Filed under: bad-ass, stories

--Brain Harvest