Parasite

[I have a lot of chunks and bits of stories floating around in mind, so I’m going to start posting story fragments here–and I do mean fragments. I have a few other pieces lying around that I’ll post soon. However, actual complete stories will be rare, assuming I manage to complete any at all. Everything will be posted in the ‘story fragments’ category.

I don’t know where this story came from or if it’s going anywhere. I doubt you’ll be surprised to learn I’m midway through a Stephen King book right now.]

He rose from the toilet, hitched his paints, and glared sullenly at his leavings: a thick black tarlike substance oozed from one piece of feces, and a sprinkling of bright red blood dripped down the sides of the bowl. They confirmed his suspicions: the black was old blood from high in the digestive tract, and the red was new blood from very near its end. The host was still fighting him and tearing itself apart in the process. He stared for a moment longer, then flushed.

Dammit, he thought angrily. I thought this one would last longer.

He opened the stall door and paused in front of the truck stop restroom’s mirrors. A gaunt, pale young man looked back at him through haunted, sunken eyes.

Shit. Hadn’t this one been a linebacker, or tight end, or quarterback, or some other damn thing a few months ago?

He tried to search the host’s memory, but the degrading brain returned only bleary, incoherent responses. This one had never stopped screaming, and he could still feel it feebly clawing at the edges of his mind. That would probably account for the steep decline in health since he assumed control.

Bitter, hateful, ancient memories taunted him.

It wasn’t always like this. They used to give themselves willingly and submit completely.

He pushed them out of mind and left the restroom. Staring at the floor to avoid the eyes of other travelers, he shuffled into the rest stop lobby and outdoors. He crunched through dirty brown snow to a stolen, rusted-out ’89 Ford Festiva. The bitterly cold winter air stung his lungs, and he choked back one of the hacking fits that had started last week.

He plopped down behind the driver’s seat and cranked the ignition. The engine coughed, shuddered briefly, and died. Punching the dash split open his hand and the heater controls, but did little to help the engine start. He cursed for a while in the old tongue, then tried the key again. Pumping the gas pedal finally jerked the engine to life, and he slowly accelerated toward the on ramp.

Father, he thought. I’ll go see Father. He’ll know what to do. Father always knows what to do.

His broken, bleeding right hand dripped on the center divider. It was hard to shift without screaming. It didn’t matter, though. He’d have a new car and a new host soon enough.

Father would see to that.