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September 13, 2018

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Lump

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

It started as a growth on his neck.

 

Nothing overt, like a wart or mole, but as a lump.

 

He didn’t notice at first, mostly because he was a portly gentleman who rarely checked over his body for new lumps. He was a busy man, with a busy life after all. But when he found it, shaving one morning, he stayed his razor and ran a finger over it.

 

“Huh,” he had mumbled, “I wonder what this is?”

 

Seeing no cause for alarm, he merely finished shaving and went about his business getting ready for work. But as he sat in his car, driving to work, his mind drifted to the strange lump he’d found. It wasn’t a zit, or an ingrown hair. When he’d pressed it just above his windpipe, it didn’t hurt. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it really…

 

After work that day, he made an appointment with his local physician for the earliest possible date, next Tuesday, and tried to put his mind at ease. He went home and began to make dinner, when his hand went up and brushed over the lump once more. He jolted when he found that the lump, still present, was bigger! Turning off the burners to his oven and moving his steak onto a plate, he went to the dinner table, all the while feeling the lump, poking and prodding it as if it were some animal on display.

 

Over the next several days, he began to notice the lump growing a little each day, and growing a darker shade of red. Now this could be because he was messing with it consistently, but his mind wandered to the horror movies he’d seen and the terrors that lurked in the darkness that could have infected him with some sort of welt, or egg! What if it was an egg that he had in his throat?

 

Or not one egg, but thousands of them? Some creature, a spider perhaps, had injected eggs into his throat, forming a small goiter that was only growing with each passing day as the eggs slowly reached maturity.

 

This was all that he could take, upon thinking of this, and phoned in sick for the following day of work. He went into the bathroom and, with a shaky hand, lifted up his head to where he could see the red lump in the mirror, and he squeezed it.

 

At first nothing happened, but as he continued to squeeze it, he began to run out of air he could breathe, as it was pressed against his esophagus. Choking for air, he glared in the mirror at the lump, which only seemed to be laughing at him, taunting him.

 

He searched through his drawer, moving aside clippers and ear buds in search of something to aid him in his quest to discover what was on his throat. Laughing out loud once he found it, he pulled a thin sewing needle out from the drawer and slammed it closed. Taking a lighter to it, heated the tip and lifted his head once again, exposing his throat. Slowly, he brought the red hot needle closer to his neck, hovering just over the lump. He pressed it against his skin, hissing at the pain, before he pushed the needle in.

 

Hot blood spurted out, along with a mixture of green and yellow pus. He moved the needle around, wiggling it about in the lump, until he’d drained it dry of all blood and pus he could find. But there was still something inside the now baggy area of skin, something… hard.

 

“I knew it!” He cried, tears forming at the edges of his eyes from the pain. “There is an egg in there!”

 

He dug in with his needle, but all he could do was slide the hard object back and forth within the confines of the skin. Defeated, he took the bloody needle and tossed it onto the side of the sink, next to his razor.

 

His razor… aha! Of course!

 

“Why worry about what’s inside if I simply cut it out? No need to poke and prod, just gently slice and wipe away the mess!” He said triumphantly, picking up his razor and unfolding it. This too he heated with a lighter until it was hot to the touch. Slowly, pulling back his neck until the bloody and beaten stretch of skin was taut, he held the razor up and gently laid it at the tip of his neck, before he started slicing.

 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

 

The front door was beat upon by a meaty paw, causing the man to jump and his fingers to slip, his hand and razor racing across his throat in one singular motion, a curtain of red emerging to cover the pristine white walls of the bathroom, to slide like warm molasses down the mirror, as the man fell to the ground, dead by his own hand.

 

At the front door, a pair of men stood in white dress shirts and pressed black slacks, one holding a copy of the bible in his hand.

 

“I don’t think he’s going to answer,” said one of the men, one with short blonde hair.

 

“Well he should!” Spouted the second, holding the bible up proudly. “This is the good book, he needs to hear about it.”

 

“Maybe he wouldn’t be interested anyway… that last lady turned us away before we could finish telling her what church we’re from.”

 

“That’s no excuse! A little dose of religion into your daily lives will hardly kill you!” The second seethed, before turning and heading towards the street to walk down to the next house, the blonde in tow. 

 

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