Tracheostomy

It’s a small wound, really, a splinter that had held tight to the flesh in the hard of my jaw. I did not know how long it was until it finally dislodged, in length as if a spear being withdrawn from the flank of the boy Jesus. A pop in my right ear, the hatch of a space shuttle blown. Once there was oxygen to feed those tendrils of nerve and blood this wound is now a blossom. From the right angle in the mirror, I can almost see through to the other side. Perhaps it is quantum physics, the low hum of a supernova.
We found filigree in the wound, almost like a trichobezoar. As if this hole had teeth, the appetite of a housewife under pressure, always eating small strands of her hair yanked out, indirect reply to abusive husband or unfulfilled sex life or secret affair with neighbor or bratty rebellious child. Hair swallowed en masse until presto! you have a Gordian knot. I’m told these things are coveted by witches and sorcerers for their magical properties—
anyway when the surgeon started extracting the filigree from my jaw we found it had spiraled into a tunnel down my throat. The filigree so fine a nurse cut her finger on it and was ushered away for stitches and I’d imagine testing. What if I’m contagious?
When the head of surgery was called in, he dropped a few stones into the tunnel and we never heard them hit bottom. A curious thing. My neck now with a permanent ache, the way I have to tilt my head so they can shine headlamps down into me, test sonar, colleagues called in from other departments to take a look. One such person, so dour I tried to come up with a joke to break her mood, got light-headed when looking into the tunnel. Her eyes rolled up and she fell sideways. Smelling salts were needed.
Weird thing is, the nurse who had cut herself on me passed out at the same time. On a different floor and different wing of this hospital. So I’m probably onto something with my whole quantum theory. Whatever’s at the end of my throat is another world, I bet. Makes me kinda want to swallow one of these doctors, see if they come back, what they might report. But then I think of the small skeletons of rodents found in owl shit, and I get scared. My neck has been ratcheted open about 12 inches, it feels like. They have to keep hydrating my tongue to keep it out of the way.
I can feel scales in my belly. Not mine, I think they belong to others, my accidental guests, you might say. They kind of ripple, like breathing almost, but not in tune with my own. They feel feral, possibly malignant. I haven’t said anything of course. I am already an experiment, a subject of medicine. I don’t want to become a monster or a ward of the state.
Head of surgery gets a call: the nurse is now speaking in tongues. Luckily there’s those translator apps, and turns out she’s not speaking gibberish. Some kind of saxon dialect. Saying things like, “There. There are the antlers. Get under the skin. You need needles for the eyes. Careful not to eat too much.” Weird, right?
Doctors are considering just stitching the whole thing up and keeping close watch on me. Good luck, I think. Whatever is at the other end has smelled us, I can tell. It’s coming. It knows here is a world fresh, unexploited, possibly delicious. It’s already in the nurse, her blood, her dreams. She’s probably gonna become my wife. I get that feeling, anyway. We are the Adam and Eve to this mutant garden of eden. That’s what the scales are telling me. Hard to understand, at least, the alphabet and consonants so alien, but I’m getting the hang of it. They’re saying something like we will consecrate this world for their entrance. Even though we’re the ones getting married we’re more like the flower girls for the things to come. We are to scatter their mutagens before them so that the humans will marble correctly. Not like how you want a good grain and marble in beef, but something like that. It makes consumption better. The nurse and I are the children at the union of them and us. We are lucky, they say. We get a seat at the table, not a plate for our organs.
The head surgeon is beginning to suspect something isn’t right. Humans are like that. If only they followed their instincts more. I read once about how some of Ted Bundy’s victims knew he was bad but still they went with him. I don’t think he is the pinnacle of human suffering for delight. He might be a good pre-game, like maybe he might have had what I have. Maybe he brushed against the spores as well. Maybe he heard them like I do. Maybe he could smell human fear. The head surgeon reeks of it. You could almost peel his fear off of him with a blade, like a second skin, except thicker, rubbery with fat and tissue. Then take the blade to his skin itself. He smells like burnt iron and moldy water. It is both salivating and an acquired taste.

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Jesse Caverly was born an hour outside of Boston but he and his mother quickly became nomads. He doesn't remember much about Tucson and everything about Hawaii. There, he had a small white terrier as a pet. There, he collected comic books and ate guavas fresh off the branch. Then they moved to California, high school was all right, college didn’t happen but life did. He is now a storyteller, proud father of a wilding, and an occasional poet. He resides in Arcata, Humboldt County. He can be found here.