Shards by Shane Jiraiya Cummings

as
a parasite contracted in the Congo. It took six weeks, and just as
many toes, for him to realise the worm was more than a
parasite.
    The boy in Lagos had been a
diversion. A piece of arse, willing or otherwise. So were the ones
in Kinshasa. And the little boy from the village near Kisangani.
The worm whispered of those sins when it chewed through his ear
canals.
    He rolled onto his back,
feeling the worm tunnel around his bowels and towards his
stomach.
    Its curses flowed like acid
through his veins, declaring the next target. After weeks of
hosting the prick, he'd learned how to tune into the creature's
rage.
    Its voice was that of the Congo
boy's mother, the village shaman---the Bone Mother. It screamed her
curses, from the day she had found him with her son's carcass. The
worm now screamed of all the naked boys, the debauchery; the evils
his eyes had seen.
    His eyes. Next.
    He knew it. His dick would be
saved for last.
    The worm wriggled along his
stomach and into his chest. It bulged his skin, dipped below a rib,
bulged again. A sliver of fire burning his chest.
    He eased the bloodied knife to
his side. Clumsily at first, he clasped it again between his palms.
Ragged breaths punctured the room.
    Blade poised below his eye, he
waited for the worm to claim its prize.
    He'd get the bastard this
time.
    * * *
    R U OK?
    I wake with my cheek pressed
into the quilt. My chin is plastered with drool, but when I try to
raise my head and brush it away, nothing happens. Inexplicably, I
can smell peanuts, and there is a high-pitched whine in my ears. My
world is reduced to three items that swim in my vision: the
pathology referral letter from Dr McEvoy about the tumour, the
tribal pattern of the quilt, and my mobile phone.
    The mobile flashes in front of
me. It takes a few moments for me to realise what's happened, but
then the agony flares again above my left ear, and the world
shudders and fades to black.
    The flashing phone greets me
when I wake. With effort, I can read a text message from Terry on
it: R U OK?
    Am I OK? Are you kidding? I
don't think I can fucking move! I strain my head until the blood
hammers in my ears, but I can't move a muscle. I strain to move
until the strain itself becomes too great, and I black out.
    When I return to consciousness,
I spend what must be hours staring at the quilt's pattern. It's
faux-African with swirls and sharp hexagonal lines, but from my
perspective, the lines angle together to form a skull that grins at
me.
    Again, the phone flashes to
life before me, with Terry's message still front and centre: R U
OK?
    Terry is on the first night of
his week-long footy trip with his mates, so he'd be well and truly
plastered by now. He wasn't much for checking in with me,
anyway.
    The quilt skull continues to
grin as I struggle to call out to the neighbours. Fat lot of good
that would do, though. With the exception of Terry, all my
significant interactions are online: work, friends, even shopping.
The one time I spoke to the neighbours, it was to tell them their
son was a dickhead for revving his car too loudly.
    Over the next hours, I drift in
and out of consciousness. I mistake the stickiness on my lip as
more spit, but when the coppery taste reaches the corner of my
mouth, I realise what it is. Must be from my nose.
    My phone drifts in and out with
me. The power saver switches the screen black for half an hour and
then powers back to life for 60 seconds, every time asking me: R U
OK?
    The quilt skull grins and
stares at me with sightless eyes. It knows the time bomb finally
went off in my head---a tumour nourished by all the radio waves spat
out by that goddamn phone over the years. It knows no one will
check on me for eight days.
    The phone flashes again. R U
OK?
    Funny that the phone shows such
concern after it's already doomed me.
    My eyes mist and a tear
meanders down my cheek.
    R U OK?
    No, I'm not. I don't want to
die alone.
    * * *
    Itch
    It begins as an idle rub. A
calloused palm. Friction