I did not like it. Breathing it in. Becoming one with the burnt acrid taste that coats your mouth. I understood, finally. What it meant to be. I did not like it. I do not think I’ll ever be free.

  I am driving back from the factory to the small town nearby. My employer has fixed me with an apartment. The town is nice. In my left hand I roll around the inhaler that I was gifted. The hand that made contact. When I squeeze, I can feel the lump. I hope the hand isn’t infected, past the lump of plastic I can feel gestating in my skin. It is how I imagine an infestation of parasites feels.

  I stopped thinking at one point. Or stopped making memories. I was far away. I was back in the room, my blood intertwined with the chunks of teeth digging into my hand like an alligator's handshake. Or would it be a crocodile?

  There is a bathroom that is not mine, but is mine for the interim. There are stained yellow tiles and no bath and I would kill for a bath. Not a person, something small. I would kill a feeling for a bath. A stranger stands in front of the mirror and I am merely along for the ride. He has taken off all of his clothes. There is a small shower immediately to his left. He cannot take two steps in this room without bumping into something. Too small to waltz. What an odd thing for the stranger to be thinking. His mouth feels funny. Like it is coated in grime. Like he drank sewage. His mouth feels dirty, not funny. Maybe. It is hard to tell what he is feeling, for I am just along for the ride. He looks at the reflection. The toilet behind him that he thought was so useful the morning past. Because you can use it and reach the toothbrush whilst sitting. The toothbrush is all there is in this universe. It is hope, it is salvation. It will not make him clean. He presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and rinses his mouth with saliva. He spits into the sink. He has not cleared the layer of muck upon his soft palate.

  He picks up the toothbrush and begins the grim work. They say you should use a pea sized blob. He squeezes the pod onto the bristles. He brushes his teeth. For a minute. For two. He runs his tongue over them. They are smooth, and minted, and utterly, disgustingly drenched in waste. He spits into the sink. He does it again. His arm is a machine, elbow greased, and piston propelled. He will erode his teeth to their roots if must. He runs his tongue over them. They are smooth, and minted, and doused in scum. He spits into the sink, thin strands of pink coursing through the foam like rivulets of viscera squeezing out of a mountain of refuse. He brushes clockwise. Counter-clockwise. Back and forth. Over and around. It has been much longer than a minute. He runs his tongue over them. They are rough, and blooded, and his tongue must be the problem. Squeezing and coating the marble with a fresh coat of rot. He spits. The sink is the Overlook Hotel. His mouth is the lift. He lathers fresh paste onto the toothbrush, and carves through the muscle at the base of his mouth. The mint makes it burn. The stranger tells himself that that means it’s working. He scours his tongue, his salivary glands, which supply necessary lubrication for the foulness to spread across his mouth. He moves upwards. Scouring the soft palate. He tries not to think about what the toothbrush is made of. He can feel the bristles breaking off into the roof of his mouth. Feel them themselves tear apart into a thousand pieces that worm their way into the pockets of his gums, the ulcers on the side of his tongue. He tries not to think about what the handle of the brush is made from. Or the rim of the mirror. The soft points on the toilet seat. The sealant in the shower. He spits afterbirth into the sink. His mouth tingles. That must mean it’s working?

  He does not stop to look, for he is surrounded on all sides. He gets into the shower. Fully clothed. He turns on the shower. He feels the water pass over him. Spirits don’t like running water. He thinks. He hopes.

  So long as the water flows. It will pass through him and down the drain. As the pieces break off they will be caught within the water. And he will be safe. It is everywhere. He knows he cannot, but he thinks he can see it. Millions and millions of particulates pouring safely past him. A silent cloud of synthetic sea monkeys.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Except for his hand. He presses his thumb into his palm. The lump is bigger. It’s gotten bigger already. He takes the bar of soap off the wall and screams, remembering what it is made of. He stands, elbows at his hips, palms to the heavens, and begs the water to take it off. He does not dare to place his hands on anything for almost fifteen minutes. Not until he is certain that it has all been taken away. He stares at the lump the entire time. It’s definitely gotten bigger. He scrubs the lump with his thumb. He squeezes it with his thumb and forefinger, willing a fountain of plastic to come seeping out. It does not work. So he uses his nails. Layer by layer, until he opens the decay inside him to the world. He picks into the cut and in no time at all it is bleeding again. He squeezes, pushing as much of the tainted solution out of him as he can. He turns the water hotter. To bring open the veins and let it flow faster. He wants to scream. Adrenaline has been spiking at his mind and guts for the last few hours, and panic has finally gotten a hold. He opens his mouth, and bites into his lower forearm instead. A thin, rising groan breaks out of him. He does not even realise that the sound is coming from him. He stares at the blurred plastic head of the shower as water punches against his eyes.

  There is a knock at the door. The shower door.

  You okay in there, love?

  I turned around, teeth coming loose from the divots they had made in my skin. The glass door of the shower is fogged, but I can see the shadow of a man. My boss. It was not possible that he was there. He was back in London. He couldn’t possibly be in this room with me. This happens sometimes. I told him to stay back. I had been bitten. I had been infected by the thing in the slaughterhouse. It had been alive. And it had tried to eat me. Right. He said. My boss. The man who claims to be from so very far away. He continued. Of course, magic isn’t real, is it? So how did that happen? The shadow swirled and danced and distorted. He is a strange thing, my employer. Not wrong, but different. He is oil in a watercolour world. His words are a balm to the soul. He lies of course, wandering lies down the path which gets him what he wants from you. I often wonder why I don't seem to care when he does it.

  Adolfo Costanzo is alive. Everything in the room with the nganga was dead, except for yours truly and the cultists. No clue how, given the state of the place. I did not fulfil my objective whilst I was there. The shadow sighed, running his fingers through his hair. Stretched his arms. Then shrugged. Asked me what I wanted to do. Should he book a flight home for me?

  I sat down upon the floor. Rested my head against the glass door. Truthfully? I wanted to get as far away from Mexico as I could. But they were killing people. I didn't like that. I didn't like Costanzo’s kind words and stupid fucking face. I didn't like the thought of everything in the room aflame. Of aerosolized plastic coasting through the skies. I recycled. I separated the metal cans and cardboard and the bottle caps into their own little piles because the council wanted them that way.

  I felt him lean against the door with me. I told him I wanted to stop this. Even if it meant I didn't do my job.

  Alright. How? He tapped against the glass as he thought. You have a spirit. A mean spirit. A hungry one. And it's gotten big. Bound to a two storey monstrosity of plastic and gore. Can't burn it, they'd just vent the chimney and spread it around early. It's true. All I could think of was nuclear waste. Douse the whole thing in concrete, stick it in the ground. Drop it in the ocean. But that would only delay the release. It would be worn away by the current, cracked by the pressure of earth with enough time. Destroy the plastic, the spirit is free. Destroy the spirit. They will find another. I needed more information. I needed to find out what happened with Adolfo Costanzo.

  A squeak to the side of my head. I looked. A grey gloved finger wrote out a number, an address, from the other side. He said he knew a detective. Local. Find him. Ask for a Gin and Tonic.

  I stood, and I think I was ready. Or at least ready enough to lie to myself. I opened the door. The bathroom was empty, of course. There was only the faint glut of my blood and spit trickling down the drain of the sink.

  I pieced together an outfit from the clutter spilling out of my luggage. I had packed in a rush. Why had I packed a dozen socks with no pairs? None of the blacks had the same thickness. Infuriating. I took blood samples whilst I considered the least offensive complementation. Placed them in the tubes, then stuck the spectroscopy papers inside to check for the levels of plastic in my blood. I dressed as best as I could, and waited, sketching out the nganga. The horns jutting out from Costanza. If there was a weakness. It would be him. It's always the people.

  Twenty minutes later. I didn't want to look. But the lines were good. My blood was clean. The insurance had held.

  I scribbled down the address for the detective, and

  headed out the door. I had work to do.