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Larval Stage |
| Written by mike counselman | |
| Sunday, 17 August 2008 | |
Larval Stage 8,000 words Mike Counselman
Allen stepped off the scale, finished drying off and used the damp towel to wipe the steam from the mirror. Ten more pounds, this diet was starting to pay off. Twenty pounds in five weeks, at this rate he'd be at his ideal weight before summer was over. He backed as far from the mirror as the small bathroom would allow. Turning back and forth, he caught glimpses of his nakedness in the partially occluded glass. He frowned at his image and leaned closer until only his face was contained in the glass, huge and frightening this close, every blemish glowed pink in his livid white skin still flushed from the shower. Hair was plastered to his forehead in thick, dark ropes. When dry, it refused to be contained, and bounced about his head like a mop. Large, deep-set eyes peered from under dark and heavy brows. Thick full lips protruded from two days worth of stubble. Cleaned up he was passably handsome in a brooding peasant sort of way. Then the bad news started. His chin had been joined by a small, but growing little brother just above his Adams apple. When buttoned into a shirt and tie it bulged and rubbed until simply turning his head was agony. He ran his hand over his chest, hating the way his nipples jiggled. He had breasts for God's sake. His chest and stomach were covered with coarse dark hair, made even more prominent by the paleness of his skin. He'd been too embarrassed to take his shirt off in public for years. At last he came to the crowning glory of his obesity. He grabbed his belly with both hands and shook it until it bobbled obscenely. It started just below his breasts and arced out grandly, obscuring his view of his feet. It curved out round on both sides until it disappeared into the towel around his waist. His legs extended thick and soft from the bottom. He turned from the mirror in disgust. He was bloated and obscene. Still, he had lost another ten pounds, it'd have to show soon. He stepped back on the scale to reassure himself. He'd lost those twenty pounds, and damn it he'd lose the rest. On impulse, he went to his bedroom and plunged deep into his closet, rummaging about in the dark before he found the pull string for the light. Blinking in the sudden brightness, he found what he was looking for. What had his brother called them? "Sausage Pants" he said aloud, holding up the pants. Yellow, big bell, polyesters, hopelessly out of style, this was one of the last vestiges of his skinny wardrobe. He stepped into them and frowned before they reached mid-thigh, still two sausages in polyester cases. He stripped off the pants and threw them onto the bed in disgust. He caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door; naked, fat, and ugly. Twenty pounds, he'd lost TWENTY POUNDS, but it didn't show at all. He turned the door so he wouldn't have to look at himself, and took his grey sweat-pants from the hook on the back. Sweat-pants, the fat man's friend. He tied them high on his belly and pulled an old shirt over his head. Some exercise wouldn't hurt the process any. He pulled the basketball off the shelf and headed out the door. The schoolyard was three blocks south of his apartment. He figured a little warm-up jog, and then some hoops. He re-figured after a block and walked the rest of the way. At the school a pick-up game was going hot and heavy on the main court. Allen went to one of the adjacent baskets and did a few desultory lay-ups, distracted by the slapping feet and ragged shouts of the game of three-on-three, he sat on his ball and watched the lean, hard bodies running up and down the court. Three of the players were younger than he, but two were at least his own age, and one was decidedly older, in his late to mid forties. All of them were thinner. At 6'4", Allen had been a pretty fair basketball player in high-school, making the varsity team as a sophomore. He was ashamed of the shape he'd let himself get into. He went back to shooting, forcing himself to run after all missed shots. It was nice to know all his skills hadn't left him. He made four in a row from outside the three point circle, and seven out of ten from the free throw line. Now winded and sweaty it was time for the big finale. He dribbled out to center court and turned to face the basket. He feinted left past one imaginary defender, and spun past another. Spotting an open lane he drove for the basket, holding the ball high over head in both hands, his legs pistoned off the ground. He flew in his best Michael Jordan style, slamming the ball through the basket at the height of his jump. Except the rim of the basket was a good twelve inches higher than his outstretched hands. The ball hit hard against the bottom edge of the rim and caromed back right on top of his head. His jaw snapped shut on his extended tongue and the coppery taste of his own blood filled his mouth. At first he thought he'd severed his tongue, so excruciating was the pain. His hands flew to his mouth, his tongue was still there, but his hands came away covered in blood. He heard the sound of play on the next court stop. "Hey, you okay, man?" Allen nodded his head causing the pattern of drops on the cracked asphalt to elongate. "You sure, man?" They walked over to where he stood, head bowed, blood dripping from his mangled tongue. Dazed and bloodied, he just wanted to get out of there. "Could thumbody hanth me my thacket," he mumbled. He felt it thrust into his hand, and held it to his mouth. The soft cotton felt like sandpaper. He straightened up, and the still flowing blood started to fill his mouth. The older player stood in front of him, a look of concern and ill-concealed amusement on his face. Allen surmised he'd witnessed his attempted dunk. "You want us to call somebody," "No, thanth you, I'll be othay," he said and turned to spit out a mouthful of blood. "Okay, man, here's your ball," he said, and stuffed it under Allen's free arm, "You take it easy." Allen nodded and walked away on unsteady legs. The rest of them returned to playing, the older one watched Allen walk away and shook his head, he couldn't help grinning, that fat boy going up like he was gonna' dunk, Man. He shook his head again and went back to the game. Allen trudged home, embarrassed and bloodied. In the mirror his tongue had a thick gash top and bottom, the blood slowly oozing out. He rinsed his mouth with a cup of warm water and spat in the sink.
Work the next week was as odious as ever, the children seemed even more belligerent than usual. During recess one of the little darlings had erased teacher's name from the corner of the blackboard and written in Mr. Lardbutt. Allen had calmly erased it and wrote in Laudamann, amidst giggles from his class. This group of fifth-graders had to be the cruelest and least interested class he'd ever had the displeasure of teaching. Yeah, ol' Lardbutt Laudamann, he heard it behind his back on the playground frequently. Even the teacher's lounge was no escape. The lounge was a former storeroom, now cramped with a threadbare sofa, two tables, and a handful of mismatched plastic chairs. A low table held a small microwave, a coffee pot, and an apartment sized refrigerator. Ethan Hoff, the blond, muscled gym teacher sat at the nearest table, next to Miss Cooper, the English teacher. From the bags under her eyes, and the tremble in the hand that held her cigarette, they'd had their usual wild weekend. That the two were shacked up, was the worst kept secret on campus. Ethan showed no ill effects at all. He made a big act of moving his chair to give Allen room to get by. "Dieting again, Huh Al," Ethan said, watching him slip his "Lean Cuisine" lunch into the microwave. "Doing any good?" "Twenthy pounds tho far." "What's wrong with your lip?" "I bith my tongue," Allen said, willing the microwave to hurry. "What happened, run out of "Lean Cuisine?" Miss Cooper choked out a cloud of smoke, trying to laugh behind her hand. Ethan gave her a wink. "No really, just kidding, sorry to hear that," he said, his eyes showing not a hint of compassion," Twenty pounds though, I'd have never guessed it." he said looking Allen up and down." But hey, keep up the good work." **** you too, Allen thought to their receding backs. They paused at the door to let Miss Cooper take one more desperate drag on her cigarette. She ground it out in the ashtray, and Ethan gave her ass a quick pinch as the closing door shut off Allen's view. Assholes. He poked morosely at the bland diet food, and dumped most of it in the trash.
The next Sunday he reversed his routine and shot hoops before he weighed himself. He definitely felt lighter on his feet. He'd jogged all the way to the school this time, and he doubled the time he spent shooting. The regular pick-up game was going on the main court and Allen recognized some of the players from the week before. He stood at the sidelines wishing they'd invite him to play. He knew he'd make an ass of himself, but it would be nice to be asked. He was improving though, and that was a small victory. His last shot of the day, was his slam-dunk, no theatrics this time, just a straight forward run, jump, and release. He winced as he let go of the ball, but it bounced harmlessly off the rim and into the grass at the back of the goal. His finger tips brushed the net. Not yet, but better. He went home in a good mood, showered, and weighed. Six more pounds, Allen was ecstatic. He looked in the mirror, still no noticeable change. When would it start showing? He hungered to have anyone notice his weight loss. It had to start showing eventually.
The third Sunday they asked him to play. His breath caught in his throat a bit when he saw a game of two-on-two going, with the odd man acting as referee. Allen started shooting in the next court, casting an occasional glance their way. At a break between games they asked if he wanted to play. Actually they'd said. "Hey Slim, you wanta' sit in for a game until Reggie gets here?" "Sure" he said, ignoring the insult. They were playing Shirts and Skins, and Allen gave silent thanks when he was chosen by the Shirts. The one who'd asked him to play stuck out his hand. "Hiya' Slim, I'm Dennis, this is Bud, and this is Bob. Those two are both Mikes." "Allen," he said shaking hands with each. "You guard the old guy," Dennis said, "They're outs." "Who you calling old?" the guy Allen was guarding said, then took the incoming ball, drove neatly around Allen, and sunk a lay-up. "Two points, youngster." he said. Allen looked back sheepishly. "It's okay Slim," Dennis said," Just try to stay with him." And that's what he tried to do for the next ten minutes. The old guy, "Bob," was a good 4 inches shorter than Allen, but man was he fast, good ball control too. At one point, to Allen's chagrin, he dribbled the ball between Allen's legs to get to the basket. Still, he hadn't done as badly. He'd passed well and made a few good shots, but he'd really shone on defense. After that embarrassing start, he'd stayed with him as best he could and even managed to block a few shots at the net. He was disappointed when Reggie had shown up. Bob shook his hand as he left the court. "Good "D" man." "Thanks." Allen said. As he walked under one of the other baskets, he jumped as high as he could and felt the ball just clear the rim. "Alright Slim," he heard Dennis yell as the dunk went home. He couldn't help but turn and grin.
The weight continued to slide off, or so his scale said. In the mirror, he couldn't see an inch of difference. At school Ethan had asked him how his diet was going. He'd lied and said, " Still only twenty pounds, Ethan." This was ridicules. He'd lost a total of 34 lbs., but still looked as fat ever. He'd really have to adjust his goal weight down. Appearances otherwise, he felt a difference in the way he moved. For the last two weekends he'd played ball with Dennis and the guys at the school. His play had definently improved. He moved quicker and with more authority than he had since high school. His dunk was one of his best shots now. Given a clear lane he made it consistently. He started getting picked before some of the regulars, and even Dennis had stopped calling him Slim. He felt good but he still looked fat. To be honest he thought he looked fatter than ever. When he'd lost 40 lbs. he went back to see the doctor. "How's the diet going?" Dr. Marks asked, looking up and down Allen's still portly frame. "Pretty good, forty pounds so far." "Forty pounds," the doctor said incredulously. "Wasn't fifty the goal we set for you?" "Yes it was." "You mean to tell me your within ten pounds of your goal weight?." "I'm not saying it, the scale is." "We'll see." he said, eyeing him over the top of his glasses. "Strip and get on the scale." Allen took off his clothes and stepped on the scale. The doctor adjusted it and shook his head. "Please step down." Allen got off the scale; the doctor stepped on and adjusted the weights. "Okay now, back on the scale please." Allen stepped on the scale. Again the doctor scratched his head. After the doctor weighed himself again he absently told Allen to get dressed. Allen waited in Doctor Marks' office, admiring the view. A floor to ceiling window made up the far end, looking out onto a wooded courtyard. A large, incredibly healthy or fake fichus tree sat in front of the window, flanked by bookcases on either side. An ornate wooden desk filled most of the remaining space, leaving just enough room for a chair. The obligatory framed diplomas hung on one wall in neat rows. Facing these were pictures of flowers, orchids from what Allen could see, and a picture of the good doctor standing in the middle of an impressive greenhouse. Horticulture was an apparent hobby. The fichus was probably real. "What's your exercise program like." the doctor asked, as he settled in behind his desk. "Well, I've been walking to work and playing a couple of hours of basketball on Sunday." "Good, that's good." the doctor said, obviously puzzled. "How do you feel though, any chest pains or labored breathing?" Allen shook his head. "Any tiredness or lethargy?" he said, making marks on Allen's chart. "No, actually I've felt better lately than I have in years." Saying it, Allen realized that it was true. He couldn't remember when he last felt this good. His mind seemed clearer and less troubled than it ever had. He could almost feel the old synapses firing. "Really Doctor Marks, I feel great." The doctor shook his head. "Allen, I don't understand it, you've done admirably on your diet. Your weight is within ten pounds of where we said it should be two and a half months ago, but your measurements have changed hardly at all. I'm afraid we're going to have to adjust your goal weight down at least twenty pounds. I want to encourage you to keep exercising. See me in two weeks." He made an appointment with the receptionist and walked home. The lowering of his goal bothered Allen not at all. Lately the weight had been coming off with surprising ease. He'd even taken to treating himself to a forbidden beer or two with the guys after the games on Sunday. Still he lost weight. In the two weeks between appointments he'd lost the twenty pounds Dr. Marks had wanted and five more to boot. He was getting seriously worried. The doctor didn't help matters. "Allen, I want you to end this diet now. You haven't been fasting or doing anything dangerous have you?" Allen assured him he'd done nothing but stay on the prescribed diet, adding that he'd even cheated on it quite often. Still he lost only pounds, not inches. Dr. Marks admitted that he was as puzzled as Allen, and checked him into the hospital for tests. A week later the test all came back normal. Allen ended his diet, but continued to lose weight. The only positive thing in his life was the Sunday pick-up games. He was a star. He came home on Sundays with bruises from elbows to wrists. His dunk was working like never before. Not even in high-school had he been able to get this far above the rim. On defense, he denied shot after shot. It was an incredible sight to see his chubby body soaring high over the heads of the other players. They'd started to call him Michael and Magic. He loved his new found status. He had to worry when he stepped on the scale at night however. He'd lost almost half his body weight, and was still losing. He ate like a pig now, indulging himself on any food that struck his fancy. He ordered large pizzas and ate the whole thing himself. He stuffed himself on chocolate shakes and fries. It was a glorious eating binge. Still he lost weight, but not inches. In fact he'd bulked up by several sizes, even his fat man's pants were starting to get tight. But he felt great, better than he'd ever felt in his life. Ethan's jibes at work just rolled off his back. Whatever was happening to him felt good. Things just felt right. After the last series of tests, he hadn't returned to Dr. Marks. The Doctor had been talking about hospitalization, and confinement was something he knew he couldn't tolerate. He hadn't driven his car in weeks. It was just too small and cramped. He'd even held his classes in the outdoors under an oak tree until the principle had insisted that he move back inside. During the day it was tolerable, but at night he had to be outside. He slept on the roof of his building when he slept at all. Mostly he stared up at the stars. Astronomy had always been one of his hobbies, but now it consumed him. He dragged his telescope to the roof and spent countless hours gazing into the sky. Not at anything specific, just at an area in the Milky Way. When his total body weight reached fifty pounds he stopped going to work. He stopped playing ball the day he'd barked his shin on the rim. It was a particularly hard fought game and his adrenalin was running high. He felt virtually weightless, and when Dennis had shouted for him to go up he'd pushed off with all his might. He rose higher and higher over the court until his hip grazed the rim. He nonchalantly tossed the ball over his shoulder and returned lightly to the ground. The other players stared open-mouthed. He gathered up his things and walked off the court, Dennis' "What the hell?" hung unanswered in the air. He knew that something was wrong, but he couldn't force himself to give a damn. He'd never felt this good. The only thing lacking was someone to share this feeling with. He felt exalted, powerful. Whatever was happening to him was meant to be. He gave up eating altogether, and still he felt fine. He spent his days restlessly pacing the floor of his apartment. As his weight continued to drop, he resorted to wearing an old scuba divers weight belt to keep his head from hitting the ceiling. He kept the drapes drawn and the lights off. He discovered he was incredibly sensitive to light. He was literally drawn to it like a moth to a flame. When he dared to poke his head out during the day, the sun filled him with a humming vibration. It was like standing near high voltage transmission wires, crackling with ozone. He was both repelled and fascinated. The nights though, the nights were magic. He spent from dawn to dusk staring at the heavens. The five flights of stairs were no longer a burden. He didn't use them. He just stood on his balcony and jumped to the roof. It was quite an incongruous sight, a portly superman soaring up the side of the building. He hoped no one saw him, but frankly he didn't care. He'd always been a loner, and after his parents died, there was really no one he cared to talk to. The other tenants thought him rude and stand-offish when they thought of him at all. It was his encounter with Mrs. Naughton that snapped him out of his reverie. He'd been on the roof star-gazing until the threads of dawn had stolen the last fading glimmer of starlight. He stepped casually off the parapet of his building and was drifting lightly down, aided by the weight-belt he was forced to wear at all times now. He must have pushed off a little harder than usual, because his balcony floated by just out of reach. Damn, he thought, trying to swim through the air. He'd have to land and jump back up. He failed to see Mrs. Naughten open the door to the alley as he wafted down right in front of her. She stood dumbfounded as he gently drifted the last few feet. The cat box she'd been about to empty fell from her nerveless fingers, drifting a mound of litter and feces unnoticed over her pink satin house slippers. Her mouth formed a noiseless O. Allen was as shocked as she was. His first instinct was to leap to his balcony and disappear. Her silent scream held him rooted to the spot. At last she found her voice. "Mister Laudaman," she stammered," d-d-did you just f-fly?" Allen just stood there, not knowing what to say. He muttered something about her drinking so early in the morning and pushed past her through the still open door. His heart pounded in his ears as he took the stairs a flight at a time, his hair just brushing the ceiling. He fumbled for his keys, opened his door and slammed it behind him, throwing the bolt in one motion. God, what had he been thinking the last few weeks. He collapsed into an easy-chair and undid the weight belt that was digging into his back. He drifted several inches off the chair and had to pull himself back down. He draped the weight belt across his lap to keep from drifting about the darkened room. Had he gone insane? He was weightless! It was impossible, but without this belt, he'd be floating around the room. He shuddered to think what would happen if he lost the weight belt outside. He had a terrifying vision of himself floating helplessly off into the wild blue yonder. He needed help, but who to call. He stood suddenly, the weights fell to the floor, and he bumped his head on the roof. The feeling of peace and serenity he had been feeling for weeks had vanished completely, replaced by near panic. Suddenly nauseous he pushed off toward the bathroom. Ducking under the door header he held the rim of the sink. The porcelain felt cold and real in his hands. In the mirror he saw his pasty, bloated visage. He looked terrible. He pried one hand loose from its grip on the sink and pinched his cheek. The skin felt hard and waxen under his fingers and the pinched flesh stayed distended like a huge pimple. He pushed it back into place. What was happening to him? He pulled up his shirt and looked at the size of his belly. In the last few weeks it had grown obscenely. No wonder Mrs. Naughton had reacted with terror. He was a sight. He rubbed the hard, smooth flesh of his stomach. How had he not noticed sooner? His stomach jutted out huge and round, the skin stretched as tight as a drumhead. He looked as if he was ready to deliver the worlds largest baby. He turned to sit on the toilet and bumped his head again. My God, he thought, I am insane. On the edge of hysteria, Allen groped his way back to the easy chair and buckled the weights tightly below his ridiculous mid-section. He sat there shaking as the warm, morning light filtered through the drawn curtains. He felt as if he'd been dreaming and woke to find that the nightmare had continued into reality. He had to get to a hospital. Not now though. Not during daylight. Whatever was happening to him included an irrational fear of light. It just seemed entirely too bright and intense, even through the curtains. He couldn't imagine actually going outside. So he sat, and waited, and worried through the interminable day. At one point he heard a faint knocking on his door and Mrs. Naughton called out his name. "Mr. Laudaman, are you alright?" Allen froze in his chair, unable to answer. He willed her to leave, and at last heard her footsteps retreat down the hall. Would night never come? He sat in the darkened apartment and listened to the myriad of sounds around him. He heard the Lopez children troop noisily upstairs and the sound of cartoons as they settled in front of the T.V. He heard a vacuum cleaner running downstairs, and the sound of the couple next door arguing loudly, and then making up even louder. The normal sounds of life brought a feeling of nostalgia. Like something dimly remembered. After an eternity, the light in his western window began to change to a golden color. The approaching darkness had a calming effect. He checked to make sure the weight belt was secure, and got ready to leave. Just stay cool, in another hour it'd be dark enough to get out of here. He pulled on his largest, baggiest jacket and checked his look in the mirror. Still rather bizarre, but in the dark it should be alright. He'd have to call a cab, though. Looking down at his belly he knew he'd never fit behind the wheel of his own car. Hopefully, a cabby was used to odd looking fares. He'd just picked up the phone, when a shrill siren sounded from the apartment upstairs. Shocked, it took him a second to recognize the fire alarm. Allen dropped the phone and shuffled out onto the balcony. Thick smoke billowed from the window of the apartment above. As he watched, it thickened and darkened, turning an angry black. He hurried back in and dialed 911. He could hear people in the hall and someone pounded on his door. "Fire!, Fire!, everybody out!" Allen finished reporting the fire and went back out on the balcony. The smoke was really boiling out now, and he heard a window shatter in the front of the building. He could hear the Lopez children screaming and crying in the burning apartment. Below, a crowd had started to gather. Allen heard them gasp and point. He looked up in time to see the door on the Lopez' balcony slide open and one of the children came crawling out, soot covered and gasping for breath. The balconies were offset enough for Allen to see a boy about ten years old, huddled as far from the fire as he could get, sobbing and crying in Spanish. "It's okay, the firemen are coming," Allen said, straining to hear their sirens. At the sound of Allen's voice, the boy switched to English, sobbing, "Help me!, Help Me!" The child's cries tore at Allen, he looked frantically for a way to reach the boy, nothing to climb, no way to get to the other balcony. Where the hell were the firemen? He saw the curtains on the other side of the window from the boy catch fire, and knew they'd never reach him in time. Allen had never felt more helpless. Realization dawned in him like a starburst. He didn't need to climb, he could fly. He took a good grip on the railing and released the weight-belt. Okay, careful aim, a little push. In full view of the crowd below, he floated between the balconies, pulled himself over the rail, and scooped up the child.
At his touch, the boy grabbed him in a death-grip, and buried his tear-streaked face in the hollow of Allen's neck. The heat from the burning apartment was a blast furnace. Gathering the boy tighter, he stepped off the balcony. The weight of the child carried him to the ground and he bent his knees slightly to absorb the shock. The screaming crowd was stunned into silence as he landed lightly from the three story drop. They looked at him in horror and amazement. He was about to set the child down when he realized his weight-belt was still on the balcony where he had dropped it. People looked unbelievably between him and the still blazing building. Denying what their eyes had seen. The spell was broken when Mrs. Lopez came screaming out of the building, disheveled and hysterical with two other children in tow. She gave a cry of relief when she saw the child in Allen's arm. Instantly, it was replaced with a scream of anguish as her eyes swept the crowd. "Maria!, donde es Maria?!!" In horror, Allen realized that there was still a child missing. He thrust the boy into his mother's arms and launched himself back up to the balcony. The crowd stood open mouthed as he soared over their heads. In his excitement, he pushed off too hard and nearly overshot the balcony. He threw out his arm and managed to grab the iron railing. Pain echoed from wrist to elbow as his arm hyper-extended, but he managed to hold on. One look and he knew it was hopeless. If Maria was in there, she was beyond any rescue. The entire apartment was engulfed. Flames and smoke roiled out in a choking cloud. The railing was a hot poker in his hands, and he could feel the hairs on his arms shriveling and crisping as the heat came from the building in palpable waves. Not knowing what to do, he looked down in time to see a small dark-haired girl come running around the corner of the building and fling herself into her mother's arms. Thank God, everyone had gotten out. He'd jump down and get his weight-belt and head for the hospital. Without warning the glass door to the balcony shattered. Instinctively, Allen threw up his hands. The blast of super-heated air and glass shards hit Allen square in the chest, blowing him off the balcony and imbedding thousands of razors of glass into his exposed skin. He tumbled across the narrow alley, and slammed his injured shoulder into the building next door. He screamed as white torrents of pain ripped through his arm. He could feel the warm blood on his shredded arms and face. His senses diminished to a single point, and he stopped feeling anything.
Engine company 51 received the call. Captain Ted Mullins was the first to arrive on the scene. He screeched to a halt in Unit 1, a yellow Ford LTD, and started to clear the crowd back to give Unit 10, the engine, a clear shot at the alley. They obeyed, but slowly, seemingly dazed. Hearing the sirens closing, he had to literally push people out of the way. Crowds were always a problem, but this one was different. They stared upward, but not at the fire. They were strangely quiet. Captain Mullins could hear the flames crackling loudly from the third floor. He cornered a portly teen in torn shorts and a sleeveless shirt. "Hey buddy, did everybody get out." The youth looked down, noticing the fireman for the first time. "What?" "Is there anyone left in the building?" he shouted. "Uh, no, I mean I don't think so. Superman got them out, but man, has he put on weight." Captain Mullins shook his head and went back to clearing the crowd from the alley. He could see the lights of Unit 10 flashing from the bricks, and was soon too busy to give the teen's comment another thought.
Allen came slowly back to consciousness. He was rising rapidly. Tumbling, and choking on acrid smoke. Oh my God, he thought. I'm floating away. Panicked, he tried to see through the thick smoke. The pain from his shoulder and the glass shards were forgotten. If he didn't find something to hang onto, he was going to drift helplessly into space. Frantically he looked for something to grab. Through watering eyes he glimpsed something just above him. A wire ran between the two buildings. Someone's clothesline, he was saved. He twisted and reached as far as he could. The wire brushed his blood slicked fingertips and was out of reach. Allen stared in blank amazement as he drifted upward in the thinning column of smoke. Hopeless, he was doomed now. He knew he was going to die, but strangely he felt no sadness. The serenity that had surrounded him for all these weeks had returned, and he welcomed it. Below he could see the arriving fire trucks and the crowd. Now that he was above the buildings, he could see the lights of his town coming on in the gathering dusk. He was rising faster now, and the breeze was blowing him towards the setting sun. Orange and russet flares filled the horizon, fading even as he watched. It was incredibly beautiful, and he knew it would be the last sunset of his life. The city got smaller as he drifted upward. Gone forever. Tears filled his eyes and he could look no more. Turning, he gazed at the welcoming stars. Their beauty was overwhelming. He picked out the constellations. In the clear air they burned hard and bright. At least his last views in life would be beautiful. Allen wondered how it would be to die of oxygen starvation. He envisioned a slow, cold suffocation. A thinning of the air until his lungs would struggle and convulse, trying to draw sustenance from where there was none. It sounded horrible, but he was totally calm. Not even a hint of fear. The certainty of his own death must have freed his subconscious mind, freed him to ponder his own demise as he drifted up into the heaven. The thought of heaven turned his mind back to his too short life. Not that it flashed before his eyes, just a calm self-introspection, a review of the highs and lows of his 34 years on Earth. He came away satisfied. Totally unremarkable, but not a bad life either. He'd had an effect. Not all of his classes had been as bad as his last. Whenever a student had got an idea, had caught on fire about learning, that was when he remembered why he'd become a teacher. That was the best reward. He remembered his long dead parents, and decided he'd keep their images fixed in his mind as long as he was conscious. It felt like a good memory to die with. If the preachers were right, he'd be seeing them soon enough. He looked back over his shoulder to see how high he had drifted. He must be rising faster now, the lights of the city were small and distant. And still he drifted up. Surely he was nearing the ceiling of breathable atmosphere. How long till unconsciousness? The winds this high blew much stronger, but he felt no cold. In fact, he realized, he could not feel his body at all. He existed only in his mind. This must be the beginning of the end. He looked down at his distended belly. It seemed to have bulged even more in the hours he'd been aloft. He could move his eyes, but the rest of his body was totally unresponsive. Soon even his vision began to fade, the stars growing dimmer as he watched. He strained for one last look at the earth. He saw it dimly before the darkness closed in completely. At least it wasn't painful, he thought. He drifted ever upward in total darkness, content and unafraid. Yet still his mind refused to quit. Was he already dead and didn't know it? Was he doomed to drift through blackness for eternity? If this was true, than madness was inevitable. An unknowable time later, he sensed a lessening of the blackness, a slight graying at the edges of perception. No longer was it just thoughts and blackness. A light was slowly dawning all around him. Not enough to see by, just a lessening of the blackness. And feeling was returning, an uncomfortable and confining feeling, but feeling nonetheless. The only thought that came to him was that he wished he gone to church more often. It seemed he was about to meet his maker. The churches had been right, for he had surely died, and now he was alive again. With returning feeling, came the sensation of confinement, unbearable confinement. As much as he struggled, nothing moved. He was swathed in some kind of binding garment. Nothing moved. The light was getting brighter; he was able to see areas that were pools of shifting, muted color. A frustrating opaqueness kept him from seeing any details. His eyes refused to focus. He had to see better. Here he was entering the kingdom of Heaven, and he couldn't see a thing. He struggled against his invisible bonds, unable to gain an inch. This confinement had become intolerable. He had to be free. An eternity of struggling later, he felt his knee move a fraction of an inch. Something had given a little. He wiggled his knee feeling a bit more room each time. He put every ounce of his being into moving that knee. A massive knot tore into his thighs, the mother of all Charlie horses. Convulsively his legs straightened out. Allen felt the ripping of whatever was holding him and his legs were free. He breathed a huge sigh of relief as the pain slowly subsided. He flexed experimentally, luxuriating in simple movement. His lower half was free, but his arms were still pinned to his chest. He struggled against the binding, feeling like a cocooned butterfly. Unpeeled to mid body, he had to rest. He drifted amid swirling colors. Whatever held him still obscured any details, but even muted the colors were beautiful. Each small area of light had its own pattern. He had to see them better. After the first tear, the wrap lost some of its strength and he was able to work his left arm free. He used that to force the rest over his head. He froze, star-struck, one hand still holding the binding over his head. He was adrift in a sea of amazing colors. Each star in the heaven danced and shimmered with a riotous display of colors so deep and full they seemed solid. He turned slowly, full circle, just drinking in the beauty that surrounded him. It did indeed look heavenly. Each star filled the blackness that surrounded it with color. One gave off reds and violets in violent flares, while its neighbor floated in a sea of blues and greens. Amazing beyond comprehension, each star was breathtaking within its own right. Together they were soul stirring. Below drifted the Earth, it too was covered with color gone mad. He could discern the land masses and the oceans, but everything else had changed. The equatorial regions seethed with warm reds and oranges, fading to a cool light blue in the coastal seas. The poles showed a deep, midnight blue, cutting a knife edge through the crystal backdrop of stars. An area in the South Atlantic glowed white against the blue of the ocean. He recognized the shape of a hurricane. Somehow he was seeing its energy as a color. Now that he knew what to look for, he was able to make out cities. They glowed a dim and artificial yellow. The Earth was beautiful, but he felt no sadness at his leaving. He felt his future crowding close. His thoughts turned inward. What had he become? He remembered the binding and pulled it free from where it was snagged behind his back. It drifted in front of him, a pink mass of cloth and flesh; it turned slowly, drifting at arms reach. It was a moment of stark terror when he saw his own face swim into view. His former body floated with outstretched arms, still dressed in sweats and an old flannel shirt. The buttons were popped on the shirt and the skin of his belly lay flayed and open. The cavity inside was smooth and pink with no sign of internal organs or blood. He gazed in horrified fascination. Rebirth was a basic tenant of most religions, but he hadn't thought it was quite this literal. He had just been born out of his own belly, but as what? He held his hands in front of his face, three fingers and a thumb, gently tapering with an extra joint in each. They were covered with interlocking silver scales that ended in a thick strong nail. He made a fist and they curled obediently, the scales flexing with oiled precision. He ran his hands down his chest. Hard, leathery scales like a turtles belly covered him from neck to crotch. His legs too were covered, the scales becoming smaller near the joints to allow for movement. The scales on the front were a black chrome, dark and hard, barely reflecting the swirling stars. On his back they were a glittering silver. He craned his neck to get a better look and was startled to see a wrinkled mass of black and silver floating behind him. It was slowly unfolding. Gossamer panels, black on one side, silver on the other. He tried to get a better look at what was taking shape but it turned with him. By craning his neck, he could see it getting larger and tauter. What the hell was going on? He stopped, closed his eyes, and offered up a quick prayer. The Allen Laudaman he'd been for 34 years had ceased to exist. He felt the same, but the floating form of his old self right in front of him belied that. He'd evolved, into what he didn't know. He gazed about with his new eyes, seeing energy as well as mass. His new body felt different. Light, yet strong, it felt more right than his former body had ever felt. He felt alive. He gazed at the Earth. What a sad and mean little place. He felt sorrow for the blind and planet-bound masses. Would they too evolve into what he had become he thought. "No, you'll be the last," he heard clearly in his mind. "They've become too aware." "Who's there?" Allen screamed. "Don't be afraid, I'm here to help." Allen felt a touch on one of the gossamer panel and he realized they were part of him. At the touch, they folded neatly into place against his back. "Is that better?" Allen nodded yes, and turned to look at his visitor. She hovered just above him, her huge wings blotting out a large area of the sky. She gracefully trimmed and adjusted them. She appeared identical to Allen, but her touch in his mind was definently feminine. As she drifted closer he could see a small oval face overwhelmed by a pair of huge almond shaped eyes, black with silver pupils that glowed from within. There were signs of vestigial mouth and nose. The face scales were tiny and supple lending a surprising mobility to her face. Above those incredible eyes soared a crest of silver spines that flowed to her shoulders. Allen raised his hand and felt a similar crest on his own head. "Yes, we're of the same people," she said smiling. "My name is Jalene, and I'm your mother." Allen's brain swam, too much information in too short a time. She sensed his confusion. "Please, Allen, relax. You nearly waited too long, but you're safe now." "What am I? Who are you? Did I die?" Allen stammered out. She smiled again, her alien face beautiful. "You are my son. And I am your Mother." she took him gently by the hand. "And you haven't died. You've just matured." Allen just stared, overwhelmed. "We are the Checki." she continued. "Had your host parents not died, you would have been here over 15 Earth years ago. They would have prepared you, and this shock would be much lessened. We were saddened to learn of their death. Of greater concern was what would happen to you. No nymph had ever gone unaided through the larva stage. We feared you would not survive." "You've waited here 15 years?" "We are a longed-live race, and you are my son. I would have waited 15 more if there was any chance you would survive the hatching, and indeed you have. Have you overcome your shock enough to grant me what every mother desires?" Without waiting for an answer, she folded her arms and wings around him and held him close for a very long time. To Allen, it felt wonderful. Too soon she let go and held him at arms length. "Are you ready to come home, Son?" He felt the love and emotion pour out of him. At last he understood all the frustration and loneliness he'd survived as a human. He really was different, wonderfully different. He was a starchild. "I love you Mother." "And I you, Allen." Hand in hand they unfurled their wings. Allen watched the way his Mother manipulated the panels, letting light pressure push them towards the cluster of stars that was their home. He mimicked her movement and felt the inexorable push of the Sun move him towards the stars. He was going home He was reborn. Mike Counselman THE END
Copyright 2008 mike counselman |
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