Self-Proclaimed

I began to lose days.

Time no longer moved in a straight line. Sometimes I was convinced I had spent three consecutive nights in the swamp, only for the calendar on the wall to say otherwise. Sometimes I discovered notes written in my own handwriting—notes I had no memory of writing.

Do not bring a flashlight.

It interprets light as an invitation.

I read the sentence over and over. I did not know who it referred to. But I obeyed the warning.

My body changed slowly, almost politely. I lost weight at an alarming rate. My skin paled, veins standing out like roots beneath thin soil. The smell of the swamp clung to me no matter how often I scrubbed myself with harsh soap. Nothing truly washed away.

My mother stopped asking when I planned to apply for work. She began locking her bedroom door every night. When I passed people on the road, they turned their faces aside, as if there were something about me they did not want to examine for too long.

I recorded all of it.

I became increasingly convinced: this was the early phase of contact.

I spent more time in the swamp than at home. Sometimes I sat motionless at the water’s edge for hours, listening to something that never appeared on recordings. Sometimes I waded in until the water reached my knees, stopping only when I felt something brush against my ankles from below.

The touch was not rough.

It was careful.

On a moonless night, I finally saw it.

Not its complete form—only a portion. Something resembling a spine that moved independently, still coated in slick tissue. It surfaced briefly, opening and closing like a massive lung that had forgotten how to breathe.

The stench made my eyes water. Metal. Rotting earth. And something sweet—far too sweet to be natural.

I vomited into the mud.

When I lifted my head, the creature had not retreated. It drew closer. Each of its movements disturbed the water, leaving small whirlpools that did not immediately close. I saw structures that resembled eyes, but they were placed incorrectly. Too many of them. Too aware.

I laughed.

It was the most honest reaction I had left.

In that moment, I understood something: there is no such thing as pure fear. Curiosity always exists within it, like a small bone that cannot be removed.

I wrote with a bleeding hand:

The specimen displays interest in the observer. A symbiotic relationship is possible.

I did not know whose blood it was.

When I returned home, my fingernails began to peel off one by one. I collected them on the table, arranging them neatly like evidence. I photographed them. The images corrupted themselves by morning.

From that night on, I began to dream not as myself.

I dreamed of being something that waited.