I tell the doctor my appendix needs to be removed.
I can feel it moving inside me. I can feel it nibbling. Eating me from the inside out.
“There’s nothing physically wrong with you.”
This doctor knows nothing. Just like the others.
“The CT scan shows no inflammation–”
I ignore this smug doctor’s droning, rubbing my side where my vermiform appendix is trying to escape. The swelling is the size of a grapefruit now.
“—I really think, and don’t misunderstand me, but I really think you need a different kind of medical attention.”
Outside this examination room, I hear a nurse tell someone to step onto the scale. I hear a baby cry. My appendix hungers.
“Why don’t you see—”
I scream in pain and double over. I vaguely feel hands touching me, the doctor’s voice trying to calm me, but that’s all background noise as I feel ache hurt as my appendix eats through muscle fat skin and erupts with a roar of blood and a scream of delight and I fall to the floor in sweat blood and bile.
The vermiform appendix hits the floor, a large mouth snapping silently, veins of blood roping its white wormy body.
The doctor looks on in confusion.
The vermiform appendix fixes on the doctor and almost leaps forward, snagging the now screaming man by his feet, and begins to consume him.
I try to close my eyes but cannot look away from the sight as the vermiform appendix swallows the doctor, working the man down its gullet like a snake swallowing a mouse.
His screams are dulled, as if through thick cotton, as he thrashes inside the worm-like organ.
I cannot watch anymore. I cannot bear this anymore. I shut my eyes tightly.
The screaming has stopped.
I hear someone in the hallway ask, “Did you hear something?”
All I hear is the vermiform appendix breathing and growing. My eyes are still shut.
It groans with pleasure. It is still hungry.
I hear slithering and wet thwacking sounds as it moves towards the door. I open my eyes.
It has grown to the size of a large dog and it slaps against the door, unable to get out. I hear voices in the hallway and the baby is still crying.
The vermiform appendix is growing and it needs to eat.
It slaps at the door. Ineffectual.
It notices me and it directs its sightless gaze my way.
I feel faint. It reeks of spoiled meat, and I’ve lost a lot of blood.
It whispers to me. Help me.
I laugh hysterically.
It rages and crashes on top of me, gnawing at me, its cavernous maw working, wet and bloody.
I’m still laughing as my head enters its thick wormy body. It swallows me whole.
I do not die. I am inside the vermiform appendix; an obscene skin.
It walks upright now, no longer slithering flopping on the floor. We reach a hand out and its ropy membrane stretches grabs the door handle. Mucus and blood pool around our hand. We turn the doorknob and we make squelching wet noises as we step into the hallway.
The voices in the hallway are stilled and the baby no longer cries. Still hungry, the vermiform appendix makes its way into the world.
© Richmond Weems
Richmond Weems honed his skills writing ransom notes and protest signs. Currently, he’s a layabout with an irrational desire for Cosmic Brownies. Despite these attributes (or, maybe because of them) he’s had work published in Necrotic Tissue, Every Day Fiction, Big Pulp, and The Absent Willow Review.
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