synthesize

by Emily Theresa

The pain is bad today. Sitting, standing, walking—it doesn't matter. It just never goes away. I can feel a clot coming, or at least I think I can. After working here long enough, I just know that it's either too late to care or my body is lying to me.

I wonder when was the last time my period was normal. Middle school? No, maybe back in high school. Back then, my flow was so light that running on the track was no problem. Even at twenty-three, the cramps were just a pinprick tracking through my back, but now it's this. This constant waiting for something to slip out. But the world doesn't stop for my uterus.

My manager, John's sharp whistling cuts through my thoughts. My period is already unbearable, and John's unrecognizable whistling makes it torture. Watching him move smoothly as he works, everything for him is fine. No cramping, no bleeding through his khakis. Nothing.

"Carmen!" John waves me over.

I shift my weight to the tips of my toes, feeling a familiar pain bubbling low in my abdomen as I head toward him. "Let me guess," I say. "The popcorn machine's broken?"

"Maybe."

"What do you mean, 'maybe?' What's wrong with it?"

"Don't know," he responds.

John's been my shift manager for eight months now, and I don't think I've ever seen him actually fix a single thing. So it's no surprise why he’s asking for my help. When I lean over to look into the machine's pit the popcorn looks burnt. Wait, that's not quite right. The popcorn looks rotted, covered in something thick and red. Dark smears coat the glass too, flaking off like rust.

"John,” I say, “what did you do this time?"

"Hey, I didn't call you over just to get judged." John walks past me shoving me closer to the machine. The smell hits me. My stomach turns. It smells like rotting trash, digging into my nose. I try to breathe through my mouth, but breathing deeper only makes it worse. Another cramp pulses through me, this one is strong, like burning lava splashing through my body. As it pools down my legs, it melts away at my muscles and bones.

"John, look normally I'd be fine with doing it, but you know what I'm dealing with—"

"Seriously?" His mouth scowls. "Carmen, I already took heat from the boss about covering for you disappearing all those times. Said I'm being too lenient about your monthly situation, and I can't keep getting an earful for something that doesn't affect me. I mean, take Sarah, for example. She has the same issues that you do, and she doesn't need to run off every other minute or make everyone else pick up her slack. So just..." His eyes squint as his nostrils flare. "Please clean it up, alright?"

"Fine." I force the smile back on my face, clenching my teeth before my true thoughts can spill out. These kinds of things aren't worth fighting about—not when this same scene played out last month and the month before that, and the month before that month and—

“Oh no.”

Hours of nothing. Not a single clot all day. But of course, now, right now, my body decides to betray me.

"Carmen." John's hands curl into fists. He's staring down at me. What should I say? "Carmen, hello? Are you going to help me, or not?"

Answer him. "Yes. Yes, of course. Can I just use the restroom?"

"Carmen." He takes a step closer. "Guests can't see this mess. Understand?"

"Yes. I... I understand."

"Perfect. Now get to work."

It's a miracle that disassembling most of the machine only took about thirty minutes. The machine is emptied of all its gooey popcorn, and the pieces are laid out on the counter waiting to be washed and sanitized, well not all of them. I still need to remove the base plate, but I can't, not when another cramp hits. I have to brace against the counter. I glance up. John is standing there. Arms crossed. Watching.

I wish I could just ignore him. I need to ignore him, but his stare feels like pressure on my skin. A weight tied to my waist, pulling me down.

I ask, "Am I doing something wrong?"

"No."

"Well then, if you want to continue staring at me, maybe you should just help me instead."

"Yeah sure, fat chance." His eyes track down my body lingering on my shaking legs, my chest huffing air, my eyes trying to roll upwards.

I feel lightheaded. It's fine, though. Everything is fine. I just need to hold out a little bit longer. Just get this machine cleaned up and then clock out. However, I forgot I still needed to get the base plate out.

I brace my weight on the lip of the popcorn machine, leaning over to look inside. The pit is too deep for anyone to just reach down and snap the bottom into place, and when whoever designed it made it, they for some reason didn't think of adding a door for easy access, which means the only way to do this properly is to actually climb partially into the machine's body.

I take a breath. Then I lower myself in. My torso disappears into the machine, my hips resting on the rim, my legs dangling outside. It's dark in the pit. Whatever happened to the popcorn has left a sharp smell of metal and ash.

There are bumps, small ridges where the plate locks in, near the middle of the machine. I can't really see them, but they stick up and poke my fingers, so it's easy for me to feel where they are. However, what I'm not supposed to feel is something slimy. No, wait. It's furry. It's breathing. It's looking at me.

I lift my arms, which is a stupid decision because that just makes me fall deeper into the machine. My body is flailing—if I can just get my arms straightened out, I can get out of here. But then there is more cramping. Bolts of pain render my muscles useless.

The thing wraps around my hand... Some kind of snake? A rat, maybe? Crap, I don't want tetanus. But it is warm. Steady. It's kind of nice. I feel its liquid fur crawling up my arms. It slithers around my armpit up to my neck. Its beaked mouth is... chirping—no, singing. It's next to my ear now. It's so relaxing I can hardly tell that my clot is finally escaping.

"Carmen," John says, "are you okay? Look, I'm going to help you out of there." He's grabbing my waist carefully. Even if I hate him, I can't deny he has a gentle grip. But so does this thing.

It has tendrils. They're tickling my eyelashes. They glide over my vulnerable eyeball. It's hugging me. It's chirping at me. It's... It's rushing into me. I think—no, it is breaking away at my skull. I can feel it slither through the thick layer of bone, widening its way in. Its grip now rests within the folds of my brain, but it goes deeper and deeper, pulling at the very cells that make me. Am I going crazy?

John is finally able to lift me out. He says something; I can see his lips moving. "What are you saying?" I ask, but there's this buzzing circling my head—no, chirping. It takes hold of all my thoughts, every pulse in my skull, all screaming out one single word: pain.

Pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, blood.

Blood is on my face. It's on my pants. Oh god, I'm bleeding; it's dripping onto the floor. John is staring. "Carmen." He can see MY BLOOD. "Carmen, you should go home." It's clear he thinks I'm weak. He can see I'm weak. This is it. I'm being sent home, and I'm standing here not knowing what else to do.

But I do. The voice parts the screams, like words forming on the tip of my tongue but lying low, waiting, but it's not my voice. It's low and methodical, going over every syllable so that there is no confusion in what it's saying. It tells me, You will be fine; just go clean yourself up.

So, I say, "I'm fine. I just need to get cleaned up."

"Carmen, no, you're not—"

"Trust me," I snap back. "I know how to deal with this."

"Yeah, well, it looks like you actually don't." He gestures toward my face, eyes wide. My reflection wavers in his shaken pupils. What is he so scared of?

Wait—is that blood on my face?

I bring my hand to my jaw and feel it, thick on my skin. I trace the trail up to the corner of my eye. The stream drips down to my lips. I taste it. The blood is metallic, but with a sweet note, almost like milk chocolate. Intoxicating. A taste that makes you want more—Oh, God. What am I saying? I need to get out of here.

"I-I'm fine,” I say. “I just need to use the restroom. I'll be much better after."

The restroom is just down the hall, between theaters five and seven. A straight shot. But my legs won't cooperate—each step they tilt sideways. The walls blur and sharpen, blur and sharpen. My stomach lurches.

Don't worry, the voice says. You'll make it. Just keep going.

I can, and I do make it to the restroom. I'm pretty sure I slam the door behind me, but I can't even hear the hinges squeak. All I hear is pain, pain, pain. My vision blurs, my legs give up, and I fall to the ground.

"Carmen?" John's voice filters through the door. I don't care what he's saying—all I care about is why my eye is itchy. No, it burns.

I keep scratching. John is still knocking, still yelling. He cracks the door open, but my weight pushes it back. The skin around my eye starts peeling apart, edges curling like paper. It's almost like this eye isn't mine anymore. "This eye... it's not mine." My tears sting as they fall. "This eye is not mine."

Knock knock knock. "Carmen, I need you back out here."

My hand finds the lock.

Pressure builds behind this... intruder. It wants out. How can I set it free? The voice answers: Rip it out. I obey. But it's hard—the bone's edges make it difficult to get my fingers around, though the blood loosens things. Like snapping strings, the small muscles break. I grind it free from the socket, twisting, pulling, until finally the intruder is gone.

Painlessly.

Knock knock knock knock knock.

"Carmen, seriously, what are you doing—" His voice thins. Stretches. Fades like someone turning down a dial. The fluorescent buzz goes next. Then the dripping faucet. The rattle of the vents. Everything peels away until there's only one sound left. A heartbeat. Deep. Steady. Wet. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It fills everything. Drowns everything. God, it's—

"Peaceful, isn't it?"

"Who just said that?"

"Here let me show you."

My body is being puppeted off the floor toward the mirror. The muscles are contracting with a will that is not mine. Pain spasms through my legs and arms shaking my very bones into action. "Look," the voice says. I do. In it, I can see the blood on my hand. It is gloved with what I assume are rags of my own ripped skin.

"Keep looking." I look closer, at my bloodied clothes, at my tangled hair, at my eye—no, the intruder—squished between my fingers.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"Carmen, would you stop ignoring me and just listen!"

I can't look away. I move closer to the mirror, my tongue sliding over my lips—then splitting like a snake's, fangs pushing through. But this person staring back isn't me. She looks happy, standing tall, fangs jutting where the eye should be.

"Well, congratulations, Carmen." The mouth struggled to curve into a smile while constrained to my eye socket. "You found me."

The only thing I can say is, "I'm a monster."

"You're—we are not a monster. We are in a new dawn."

"I’m going to die, aren’t I?"

"What, no. It would be such a shame to have you die this early before anyone is able to see who you really are. Besides, if you died, I would die with you, and no one wants that.”

“Then what is happening?”

“Well, what will happen is that both of our minds will remain, but our bodies will synthesize together to create the vessel for a new life. I'm sure you can feel it happening now. My flesh has already bonded with your neurons in your brain; now it works its way through the rest of your nervous system. Can you feel me crawling down your arms, slipping into the muscle fibers of your legs, as I devour the sponge in your bones? I am inside every part of you. I am now the very nucleus in every cell of your fingernails. Listen to me move through you."

BANG BANG BANG.

"Carmen, I swear to god—"

I tune him out.

It's faint, but it's there—underneath my rushing heartbeat, a slower rhythm pulsing through my body. It wraps around me like a tight embrace, and at the center of this symphony sits an empty hole in my chest, growling for release.

"Carmen, you're crying again." The mouth—her mouth—softens. "It's all right, dear. I'm here now."

"Who even are you?"

"Nothing you would know. Not yet." She tilts her head, fangs catching the light. "You humans never like to acknowledge what crawls beneath your own planet. But to you? I'm your savior. I saw your pain. I saw your fear. That's why I came—to save you from your sad little life."

"What?"

"The point is..." Her smile widens. "You should focus on that feeling you've been holding onto for so long. That hunger."

I push myself away from the mirror. It is as if this thing already knows everything I do. Maybe it knows what I need?

"What do I do to make these feelings go away?"

"Ah, yes, that delightful hunger that is ripping our torso in two. Well, now part of that is because of your natural reproduction cycle, but that other part, the one that is hissing for more. That is the hunger we need to feed."

"Hunger for what?"

"Let me show you." The rhythm moves my blood-soaked hand, but I guess it is our hand now. Our mouth, our mind, our hunger. We press our filth-covered fingers inside, feeling around our sharp teeth. Saliva is quick to put a thick layer around the mush on them. Our tongue sucks off the chunks of the mashed intruder like it's the leftover of a lamb's rib. And for a second, the hunger goes away.

“Humans are an interesting species. For instance, did you know that during a woman's menstrual cycle she produces higher levels of testosterone. Ah, the delicious chemical that our body craves during this time.”

Knock knock knock knock knock—Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump.

It continues, “Well isn’t that perfect timing. The pain is already starting to come back inside?"

I reply, "Yes."

"So then, are you going to satisfy it?"

“I don’t know.”

It says, "Do you want a new life?"

"I… I think I want to keep this one… Maybe… No, not really."

"Come on,” It says, “let's wash up."

We begin to let the water cleanse our skin. It soothes the irritation that bubbles underneath our skin. As we scrub and scrub and claw at our arms, some of the skin rubs off. Underneath, like a gift, it reveals patches of a newly forming shell, red fragments crystallizing through my flesh. Rainbow skating across it, like a shooting star. Sharp bumps line it, working to grow into long pricks.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"It's beautiful," I whisper.

"We are beautiful," she says.

"No one's ever said that to me."

"That's a shame. You really are a beautiful woman."

My hand moves to where the clot left a stain. It's so small now compared to the rest of the blood painting my face. "I guess there's no reason in trying to clean it, is there?"

"You could if it brings comfort. Though in my opinion, that's just another way for you to cling to a life you hate."

"I don't hate this life." I take a handful of soap and start scrubbing at the stain. It smells divine.

"What even is a life where you're born to work and then die?" she asks. "You work at a theater where people ignore your bodily needs. They treat your pain like an inconvenience. A weakness. Do you really want to keep being what John thinks you are?"

"No." The blood isn't coming off. Why would it when it's just my scarlet letter?" John isn't the worst person ever. He just doesn't understand."

"He doesn't want to understand," she says. "It's easier to call you lazy than to admit your body is doing something he'll never do. Easier to say you're weak than to acknowledge you've been working through agony he couldn't tolerate for an hour."

"Maybe... maybe you're right. But what would I even do?"

"Perhaps it's time you left this job. Have a fresh start, a fresh life with me."

"But if I leave—give in to the life you're giving me—what am I? I've been a worker for so long that I'm scared I might not be anything else."

"Carmen, don't be silly. You, my dear, are now the star of your own movie."

"Don't stars always burn out, though?"

"Yes. But first they explode into supernovas."

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The hunger grows, spreading to every fiber of my being. Tightening around my soul. Not suffocating—transforming.

"Fall into the pain. Find your new life."

A life free from pain?

"A life where pain is power. Where blood is not shameful. Where work is not your only purpose."

THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP.

"CARMEN! I'M NOT ASKING ANYMORE. GET OUT HERE."

Hard shapes expand from within me. I can't move. I let out one long final breath. My heart stops. But I'm not afraid. The exoskeleton ascends, taking command. Taking what was always mine.

I feel lighter—lighter than a feather. Unstoppable.

Clothes rip. Skin slashes. Messy blood and tissue everywhere. I'm not scared, though, because there is no pain. The cramps that once paralyzed me become the force that aids my rebirth. The disdain I held for my life is removed just as my old bones are too.

Loving tendrils guide my hard-segmented body up. In the mirror—I can actually see now. My new form. Red shell, like dried blood made into armor. Segmented plates running down my torso and my limbs. Sharp and beautiful. The tendrils—feeding tendrils—extend from where my mouth used to be. I look in the mirror and I truly am beautiful.

Knock… knock…

We slowly open the door, our blood flowing down our body onto the floor. John looks nothing more than weak.

"Carmen…"

THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP.

That is when we realize that we are finally free.

Photo of Emily Theresa

BIO: Emily Teresa writes for misfits, monster-lovers, and outcasts. She is pursuing a Creative Writing degree at Ringling College of Art and Design. Her work explores monsters, sexuality, and histories rarely discussed in classrooms, filling gaps in representation to help readers understand themselves, the world, and human emotion.