Chapter 2:

For How Long

From The Inside

I doubled over from the churning in my guts and knocked the camera over in the process. How long had it been since I drank that shit? Twenty minutes? Thirty? How had I already lost track of time? How much time did I lose on the climb?

However long it was, it was too soon for whatever effects I was going through. I wanted out. I wanted to quit. I wanted it to be over already.

I crawled along the floor towards the camera, fighting the sliding sensation that filled my throat and threatened to break free again. I swallowed over and over again to try and keep it down.

It was difficult to tell, but I was fairly sure the camera was still working. There was a blinking red light I hoped was the camera being on at this point. Every thought was an exhausting burden.

I set the camera back up. I can’t be sure if anything I said was coherent, but I said what I thought were words. “Feeling… really sick… like I’m gonna hurl for the rest of my life…” I gagged as more of the mass forced up my throat and practically latched on to my uvula.

I looked to the window. It looked… bright outside. Was it day time, or was it the street lamps? How long had it been now? It can’t have been more than a minute.

My stomach felt like it had a mind of its own, one that hates. It hated me most of all. I felt like it was planning to turn itself inside out to escape from the prison of my body. It fought against the cage of its surrounding organs, threatening to break me. I felt like I could pass out at any moment. Maybe I did. It was so hard to tell what was real.

After a while, it seemed like the light outside had changed again. I slumped against the wall in front of the camera, legs sprawled on the floor. I felt an intense sweat oozing from my pours. It didn’t feel natural. It felt thick, slimy, sticky, like mucous. I’d never felt more unclean in my life.

All the while, I could do little else but breathe and swallow to fight back against the viscous citric menace inside me. My vision warped and blurred. I can’t be sure of anything I saw.

I looked at the back of my hand after wiping my brow. A string of orange slime lingered between my knuckles and forehead like aged snot. I almost vomited on the spot. As the strand dangled there, it seemed almost to move on its own. It refused to break and slid down my face.

The strand finally released my head and slapped wetly against my arm. The sensation sent a chilling shock through my entire body.

Time probably passed again, it was hard to tell and becoming harder to care. It was getting harder to breathe. On top of the feeling that something was growing in my throat, it felt like I wasn’t even able to take in as much air. It was like something was squashing my lungs from the inside. I swore I could feel something wringing them out… like something inside me was making room however it could.

Despite the lack of air, or maybe because of it… there was a sense of… euphoria. I wheezed out a laugh… and laughed… and kept laughing. The sensation of gagging had become… pleasant. The writhing, wriggling, churning, boiling, twisting, sliding, and slamming in my stomach and throat was… good. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

I keeled over again and could feel the corners of my mouth turn up. Even as I vomited the citric sludge, even as it blocked what little air I could get, I felt that spasm in my gut of laughter. I could feel myself fading. I could see sparking lights and blobs of color fill the room, but the color I saw most of all was orange. I passed out.

I woke up again some time later. It was hard to breathe still, and my guts felt like they were stuffed with nails and razors, but I was alive. I looked around, I didn’t see the spot where I threw up. Maybe it was a fever dream.

How much time had passed? Twenty minutes? Thirty? It can’t have been too long, I just set the camera up… right?

How long did it take to climb those stairs?

How long had I been here now?

How much time did I have left?

I looked at the camera. I wondered what it had seen, but I couldn’t think straight enough to operate it.

The nausea had subsided a little bit, but that sliding feeling in my throat was still there. Hopefully I was past the worst of it.

I felt the itching feeling coming back even stronger. It was in my legs, in my arms, in my face. Maybe I just didn’t notice it because I was fighting the nausea. I scratched at my thighs to alleviate what I could. It was like the pins and needles tingle of intense heat digging into my skin, stretching, clawing, biting sensations of burden.

I kept running my fingers up and down my legs, back and forth for some relief, but it did not come. It felt like I was dragging my fingers over… holes… an uneven, pocked road with liberal bumps and divots.

I scratched harder, and it felt as thought my fingers would catch on the edges of deeper holes. No matter how I tried for relief, it was like the pins drove themselves deeper and deeper into my flesh to avoid my fingers. It was almost as if I could dig my fingers into my legs and never reach the pins.

The prickling and digging feeling was maddening. I became angry. I scratched harder. The pins dug deeper and drilled into my bones. I screamed out in rage. And slammed my fists hard into my legs. I beat my own legs over and over and over and over again. Each blow of fist to thigh was accented by a visceral scream of rage.

I ripped at my pants to reveal my legs to open air, and I saw them full of holes… holes barely big enough to slide my fingers inside. I felt an intense panic replace the rage as I started screaming and crawling to try and escape my own legs, just as my stomach was so desperate to escape me.

I could see an orange slime building up inside my legs and bulging slightly from the holes. Some of them bubbled. I kept screaming until I ran out of breath and passed out from the lack of air.

I woke up again and immediately checked my legs. My pants were intact, and I ran a hand across my leg. It felt normal… but my legs didn’t have any feeling in them. I bent forward to pull up my pant leg… my leg looked fine.

What the hell was in that medicine?

What time was it? How long had it been? How much time was left? Had any time passed at all?

I looked at the camera. The red light was blinking. I hoped that meant it was recording. I had better get my damn pay for this shit.

I started to feel hungry. I couldn’t remember if I’d brought anything to eat. Did I have a backpack? I think I did, I remembers carrying it up the stairs. I couldn’t remember where I put it. I looked around the room, but I couldn’t see straight. Nothing looked like anything past arm’s length.

My stomach growled and churned. I felt that sliding in my throat and gagged. Maybe I didn’t need to eat after all.

Despite that feeling, something was still telling me I was hungry. I looked around again. I didn’t see anything.

What time was it? It was hard to tell. The light outside seemed to keep changing.

The hunger kept growing.

How long had I been here? Had it been an hour? Had it been a day?

I was so hungry.

I needed to eat.

I was going to starve.

How much longer was I going to be there?

A panic washed over me again. I couldn’t breathe as I convinced myself over and over that I was going to starve to death.

It felt as though something was steadily gnawing its way out of me, demanding that I eat or be eaten.

I looked around again frantically. A fell over on my stomach, and though it felt bloated and overfull, my mind was frenzied and desperate to eat something, anything.

I pulled myself along with what strength remained in my arms to search for something, anything to quiet the screams of starvation.

I managed to find my backpack by the door. I struggled with the zippers, unable to navigate them in my altered state. I bit into the bag and started ripping into it with my teeth. There were some protein bars inside. I ripped into them and barely chewed.

More.

I ate the entire lot of them.

More.

I drank every drop of water I brought along.

More.

There wasn’t any more to eat.

I bit my fingers on nerves.

And then I thought.

I’m going to die if I don’t eat.

I held my own finger between my teeth.

I’m going to starve.

I’m going to die.