Week 5, Title: Pupate

The outside only worsens Gordon’s troubled stomach and he stumbles back in. Forgoing his guests he staggers upstairs. He’ll need to apologise to them later. His room is different, odd smells spring from every surface. He wonders briefly if something crawled in and died, but knows it’s not that. Gordon has never noticed before how utterly lacking in smells of any kind his room usually is. Now it’s alive; the pulpy wood of his desk; the soft feathered down; the socks in his hamper are a nightmare. He doesn’t recognise most of them scents, they are new.

Gordon sits on his bed, holding his hand over his nose. Time only makes it worse. He hears the people downstairs leaving. He should go down and say goodbye. He doesn’t. Gordon looks at the bandage on his leg. Maybe it’s infected and that’s causing his sickness. He delicately pries away the white gauze. He stares in shock. No evidence of the bite remains. Not even a notion of a scar.

It must have been smaller than he thought. Just a little scratch and now it’s healed. He throws the bandage in the bin and goes back to the bed, curling up and rocking slightly. Night falls but the fullness of the moon casts a luminescent hue over the room.

His beard has grown, hair engulfs his face. And his arms. And his legs. What is happening? Something is wrong, very, very wrong. He should call an ambulance. Something was in the bite, he’s hallucinating. He doesn’t call. A kernel deep down tells him it’s something else. His teeth are suddenly too large for his mouth, white shards jockey with themselves for position, pushing outwards.

What is going on?

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