Insult to injury

It started as an annoying, persistent cough, and then became a battle of might between my lungs and some stubborn piece of phlegm holding sanctuary somewhere deep, deep down. Somewhere near the beginning I pulled a muscle in my back from the heaving. Supporting myself on the sink, my body defiantly went into convulsions trying to cough up something that I was starting to think didn’t actually exist. The pain was amazing and the convulsions and choking made me start to vomit. I tasted the spit and salty tears in my mouth and I had a kind of nostalgia of youth and sickness and heartbreak, then I looked in the mirror. Apart from the zigzag of dozens of tiny, red veins, the colour in my eyes was gone, my mouth was all distorted, I looked like the corpse of a man who had drowned – you could see the struggle and panic, but the battle was long lost.
Then the doorbell rang. I didn’t think and obediently answered it, putting on my mask, partly to hide myself, and partly as an explanation I was sick without having to talk much. It was Josie, delivering the banners we’d ordered for Japan. She came in and started to arrange them, saying “I’m sick too” between sniffles, then she took a clear look at my face and said “You’re really sick” and pretty much bolted out the door, telling me I can pay her later.
I’ve never been a monster before. I quite liked it, striking terror into people by my mere appearance. I can see myself, the monster on the third floor, up all night, making poisoned candy to give to unassuming children in the park. People will pity me sometimes, and I will abuse them and cackle with laughter as they run away. I won’t have any visitors, apart from one well-dressed man from the bank who visits on the first Wednesday of every month. I will cultivate an obsession with Natalie Wood and all my plants will be dead.