A Divine Purpose

By the time John noticed lose skin hanging like small ocean waves from his stomach to his hips, and his muscles were languid as rotten mangos, too weak to walk upstairs without trembling, he made the appointment. By day, he gorged on anything with yeast and gluten, steamed buns, bagels, dinner rolls, sandwich bread. By night, he writhed in a sleepless void, malnourished and cold, his body thrumming with hunger; it did not make sense.

They assigned him a new physician, Dr. Frevont, a bald man, smelling of stale breath and coffee. He hovered over John’s shoulder, listening to his heartbeat, pressing fingers into his throat. John went home with instructions to collect three stool samples, one from each day, and then return to the clinic on the fourth. John would have done anything to understand, he obeyed the instructions, his head pulsing for the next three days, his stomach pinched up against his ribs. When he returned, Dr. Frevont grinned at John, his eyes glassy, leaning forward, as if beseeching him. John scooted his chair back, wanting to dodge the beam of Dr. Frevont’s liquid gaze, his shadow seemed to reach for him, fingers stretching.

“We have wonderful news.” he said, gripping John’s shoulder.

“There’s nothing… wrong?” John asked, moving to be free of Dr. Frevont’s hand. Was there something else he should tell the doctor? But no, he expressed the relentless hunger, despite eating constantly, losing weight at a rapid pace, the pains at night, again, the intense need to eat. John could not express that compulsion enough, the cravings for food were intense enough to make him rage like a drunk, or weep like a child.

“Not at all, the opposite. Something miraculous.” Dr. Frevont seemed to levitate, inching closer to John, as if he wanted, desperately, to embrace him.

John blinked. “I am miraculously cured?”

“No, no, my dear Boy. You are in better health than I would ever dream of.”

“So, what’s going on, then? Are we saying these symptoms are normal?”

“You carry life inside you. Praise Bob.” Dr. Frevont raised his hands in unmasked joy.

“Life?” John asked, frowning.

“Life.” Dr. Frevont confirmed and handed John a pamphlet. It was black, the pages cold and glossy, with white lettering. GOD HAS BLESSED YOU. It belonged to the Church of Bob, an old religion that recently experienced a revival. Its popularity had been exploding all over the country, something John felt exhausted by, another religion to suddenly enamor congressmen and homemakers alike. Beneath the words was a worm coiled in a cartoon drawing of the stomach organ. John’s own stomach lurched.

“I have a parasite?” He felt woozy, like he might vomit or pass out.

Dr. Frevont bristled as if John had slapped him, his back straightened, making the old man appear to grow several inches. “Life, is what you have, growing inside you. A true blessing. Praise Bob.” John scanned the pamphlet.

“It’s a tapeworm,” John suddenly felt like worms were wiggling beneath his skin, writhing like riverweeds in his stomach, his thoughts raced into a not so bright future. Drugs. There were drugs for this. His heartbeat slowed a fraction.

“Don’t use that foul language with me, young man!” Dr. Frevont shouted so fast and forcefully, the scent of sour coffee washed over John. The doctors’ face glowed with pink and red splotches, he reminded John of a matchstick.

“Right,” John said, not wanting to enrage the doctor further while in need of medical care. “Well, I must have medicine to pass it, the life, whatever you wish to call it. What treatment is available? I know there’s a pill of some sort people take when dealing with this situation.”

“That’s murder, my boy. I am a doctor. I cannot help others conduct murder.” Dr. Frevont chuckled, his face still bright red. John waited for Dr. Frevont to continue, but he did not.

“I will murder a hundred parasites, sir, if it means I am free of one. I do not believe they are viable life forms.” John felt like he was arguing with something in a dream—what a thing to argue about!

“Your beliefs do not sway reality,” the Doctor looked down on John, smiling as if John was a child. “That life exists, just because you don’t belief its life has value does not give you the right to murder it.” John would have laughed at the doctor’s idiocy if it weren’t for the emergency of having a specimen dwelling in his bowels.

“We are having trouble understanding each other.”

“Your life has a heartbeat; did you know that?”

“I’m sure it does, it’s making me very sick. I have lost thirty-seven pounds in two weeks. I need to pass it, if it stays inside me any longer it could give me complications.” John paused-- did people die from parasites?

“This is Bob’s will, young man. We cannot know his plan, we are too human to understand it.”

John’s voice shook. “That may be your belief, sir, but it is not mine. Now, if you please, I need some information, a prescription.”

“I know you’re afraid; God’s love can frighten many. Please, son, look on your purpose and be amazed. Bob, our God, has chosen you for a divine purpose.”

John considered seizing Dr. Frevont’s head and bashing it on the desk until blood sprouted from his collapsed face. Instead, John stood. He would get a lawyer and sue Dr. Frevont, but in the meantime, he needed to speak to a new doctor and get treatment before any lasting damage was done. Dr. Frevont could not enforce his religious views on him, and he certainly could not force him to be a host to a parasite. At the front desk John asked to speak to another doctor at once.

“Today?” The receptionist looked puzzled. Her eyes moved back and forth, reading John’s chart on her computer. “You were just with one of our doctors.”

“Dr. Frevont is denying me care in leu of his own, personal religious beliefs.” John added with satisfaction.

“Oh, not again.” The receptionist sighed.

“I know, it’s outrageous.”

“Another selfish man wanting to murder because he’s inconvenienced.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want to murder so bad, you belong in prison.”

“Ma’am.” John’s vioce sounded remarkably calm. “I would never murder a human, or an animal. But this is a parasite.”

“Do you know how inhumane and torturous removing the life will be? It’s life, and you want to inflict needless suffering, all because you are inconvenienced.”

“What of my suffering? Am I to die because of these odd belief in the Bob Church?” John’s voice rose until he was shouting. The entire waiting room was staring.

“That life has a heartbeat?” She said.

John left the clinic, deciding it was foolish to argue. At home he could not relax, every time he did, he imagined a worm slithering throughout his organs. He looked up this situation of doctors enforcing parasites on patients. Instead, he found an unsettling slew of articles depicting parasites as people. Last week a man in Ohio was arrested for abuse of a corpse because he tried flushing his worm. John read the article in full, knowing how click bait could be misleading, but no. The man was arrested, now awaiting trial. The worm he tried flushing was Tactile 67, a mutated form of taenia saginata, a beef tapeworm. This mutated specimen would not stop growing, like it’s brother species did. Once tactile 67 grew too large for the body, it will exit through the rectum, growing legs to survive outside the host, and teeth sharp enough to eat its way out of John via the rectum when it reached maturity. Now, John was sick, and he vomited into his kitchen sink.

That night John read more. The Ohio man on trial claimed he did not kill the specimen, it died naturally. The police confiscated the man’s toilet as evidence. John backed out of the article and researched if there were laws in place keeping people from getting rid of parasites. It was only illegal to do so if the parasite in question was Tactile 67, a protected class due to its importance to the Church of Bob.

John stood up, his heartbeat pressed sharply into his throat. Twenty-four states were enforcing this, and the mutated tape worms were being contracted at a high rate, one in twenty men. For the first time he felt fear. He looked through the absurd Church of Bob pamphlet, again. This religion believed that hosting this parasite was a sacrifice that paid homage to Mary, the alleged mother to their god.

The hysteria and fear were sweeping around the country, and John needed to pass the tape worm before it ate its way out. He looked up other countries online, seeing if this mindless hysteria was taking in Canada or in Mexico. His chest relaxed a fraction. Canada was offering free praziquantel, an anthelmintic drug that would rid the body of tapeworms. He called a clinic in Toronto to confirm they would help him.

A week later, John checked in at the airport, thankful he had a passport already, and could make a quick trip to Toronto with relative ease. The ticket was expensive so short notice, but John would have paid anything. The contaminated feeling, the weakness from lack of nutrition, the insomnia, were nothing compared to the new set of symptoms that emerged. He could feel the worm now if he pressed on his lower abdomen, a slight lump that, at times, would squirm or quiver. He read up on Tactile 67. They could lay dormant in the intestines for months before the host experienced symptoms. The evident girth of the tapeworm in John indicated he had been infiltrated long before he experienced symptoms. John could die within the month if he didn’t get treatment. The beast had enough teeth when it was ready to decant, it would bite and eat its way out through the rectum. The survival rate for the host when this happened where low, less than ten percent. John couldn’t understand why it was called a tape worm at all- it started like a tape worm, sure, but it grew legs, so not a worm at all. John sat by his gate after he went through security, and gnawed on his cheek.

He told no one about the worm, not even his parents. The Ohio man was tried and convicted of his charges. The man didn’t know he was a host to tactile 67, the worm simply died of natural causes, and people still believed he was suspect of murder. Murder? John could not fathom it, and yet, it was so. The Ohio man was not, in fact, charged with murder, as it was proven the tape worm died naturally, but he was charged with abuse of corpse after trying to flush the large thing. The tape worm passed through the rectum along with blood and feces and the authorities expected the man to sift through the fecal matter and blood. To what, John could not understand. To bury it? Would they expect John to purchase a headstone for the tapeworm and have a memorial service? The thing was, John no longer felt alone. Ever. He had a terrible companion dwelling within him, and then there was his government, it felt as though they were always with him, watching.

The sooner he put this behind him the better. Judging by the sheer size of his worm already, it was clear it was nearing the final phase, and if he did not receive treatment, John would die once it hit its adult phase and grew legs.

Thirty minutes before boarding, two police officers came and stood at the gate with the flight line attendants. They spoke together, smiling, one cop leaned against the desk. John sweated heavily between his legs and under his arms. His parched throat felt like a fist. As soon as he got on the plane, he would feel much calmer. The police couldn’t be there for him, there was no law keeping him from traveling, but still, the two men seemed to grow larger the longer John waited. Finally, group E was called, John was nearly to the door, the police didn’t move, they didn’t seem interested. He checked his watch twice within a minute. One Policeman spat in the trashcan and yawned, the other played a puzzle game on his phone. Neither were looking at him. Everything was fine, John was, obviously, paranoid. No one even knew he was infected except Dr. Frevont.

The attendant scanned his ticket and smiled. John smiled back, suddenly so relieved he could cry. He thanked the man and walked to the door leading to the plane. The line boarding staggered, a baby cried a few places ahead of him, it was a slow process, but John didn’t care, he felt lighter than he ever had in his life. Had the sky always been so beautiful? The sun was rising. The line picked up, John was nearly to the final door, to freedom, to life, but the two officers blocked his way, coming from either side, stopping John mid step. It felt like the plane had just crashed on top of him.

“Johnathan Moore?”

“We’re going to need you to come with us.”

“What’s this about?” John asked, stepping out of the line, appalled to hear his voice shaking.

“We just have a few questions.”

John swallowed. “I see. But I am boarding an airplane, I’ll miss my flight.” The bones in his face and ribs were melting, his chest was a sinking land mass.

The first cop smiled. “They’ll hold the plane for you. This won’t take long.”

“Gentlemen, I must insist I board my flight.” His voice quivered, he felt sick.

“We can arrest you and drag you, or you can walk with us.”

John went with the officers, following them down a STAFF ONLY hall. They had him wait in a small room with a stiff couch and a stiff chair. They left him alone inside, but outside the door John could hear their voices. After an hour of sitting, he poked his head out of the door.

“What’s the meaning of this? Will I be reimbursed for my flight? Am I being detained?” John was too tired and frustrated to feel fear.

“It won’t be much longer.” One cop said, and John saw these where two different police officers than the ones that brought him here. He went back into the small waiting room. He checked his flight line’s website. His flight had been in the air for one hour and forty minutes now. A man in a brown suit entered the waiting room, a police officer was with him, carrying a folding table. Brown suit sat down in the chair and sighed. The cop unfolded the table, placing it before brown suit.

“My name is Gregory Dawson,” he said, laying a file and stack of papers on the table as the officer left the room.

“Am I being arrested?” John demanded.

“No, sir. But there are a few precautions we are taking to ensure everyone’s safety.” That made John feel a little lighter, maybe this was a random terrorist prevention screening? “Now,” Gregory Dawson opened his file and wrote on the top of a page. “Were you attempting to travel to Toronto, Canada today, sir?”

“I— yes. Yes, I was.”

“May I ask why you were attempting to travel there?” Gregory Dawson’s voice was slightly high and lilting, as if he was speaking to a child.

“Just a quick getaway.” John said.

“A quick trip, when you consider travel time. What were you planning on doing in Canada?”

“Sightseeing.”

“What exactly?”

John knew nothing about Toronto. “I was planning on going to tourist centers, and seeing what was best. I don’t know much about Canada, but I am interested in the culture. Poutine,” John added wildly. “I want to try poutine.” The mention of food reminded him he had not eaten in two hours, he ached for bread.

“I see. Is it true you were preparing to visit Toronto Medical Relief Society?” John said nothing. “We have record of you speaking with staff there.” Gregory Dawson smiled indulgently. “John, let’s not lie to each other. You were flying to Canada to murder the life inside you, weren’t you?”

John’s chest tightened. He spoke clearly, “Am I under arrest?”

“As I said before, no. But, I must wonder, if you don’t want to be a host for this life, why wouldn’t you simply be more careful?”

“Careful?”

“Yes, careful. Why eat so much meat? Why indulge in meat at all if you wish to not host life? It’s astounding.” Gregory Dawson laughed to himself, rolling his eyes. “The selfishness of it, honestly. Simply stay away from meat if there is a risk you don’t wish to take. You can’t kill things as a precautionary measure.” He sighed and stood up.

“There is a travel ban on those hosting life, of course, this must be news to you.” He smiled, the warmth did not meet his eyes. “You need to report back to the original medical facility where you discovered the life and go from there. We are monitoring all with life, to aid them in this journey, safely, healthily. Dr. Carl Frevont was your original care physician, was he not?”

“Yes,” whispered John.

John had no choice but to leave the airport, dejected, and cold with disbelief. California, he reminded himself, there is still California. But, how could he get there if he was being monitored? John needed to speak to others hosting this terrible worm, they could ban together, possibly find a solution. There was strength in numbers. He got home and drank a glass of gin, his arms and fingers trembling, ignoring the bright, sharp stabs of hunger. Surely, there were home remedies? What could he do? John searched online for social groups, Blessed Men Within the Church of Bob, came up multiple times. He drank a second helping of gin and messaged with someone running the Blessed Men Within the Church of Bob group, feeling tipsy and excited. John decided finding other tapeworm hosts was his best bet of getting help, so he agreed to attend the church’s meeting and dinner that night. It was at the largest Church of Bob in the city, one of the first congregations to form in the country.

John slept off the gin until the late afternoon, and then borrowed a pack of cigarettes from his downstairs neighbor. He stood in his kitchen and coughed, smoke curling around him in heavy bands of iron. He wasn’t a regular smoker, but he needed something to take the edge off. He would not feed the worm anymore, despite how intense and painful the craving for bread was. He would find others tonight, and together they would find a remedy. John set out for the church at dusk, an end to a day that felt like three, leaving his phone at home. As he walked, the sun burned like a white-hot hole in the sky, pulsing. John was soon damp with sweat, and exhausted, his rapid weight loss left his muscles shriveled, his bones weak.

He smoked another cigarette, they stank terribly, but his body rumbled for food, for bread, and the nicotine felt like bursts of energy. He would play along at this meeting, find some likeminded victims, and go from there. Surely, there was something they could do short of yanking the tape worm out, though John would decidedly do that if he needed to. Nothing was going to eat and rip its way out of him. When he arrived at the large church he waited in the lobby until he saw a man come in, carrying a casserole dish.

“Can I help you?” The man asked.

“I’m here for the blessed men’s meeting and dinner thing.”

“So am I.” They shook hands awkwardly, the casserole dish momentarily going to the man’s hip.

“Terry.”

“John.”

“Glad to have you, John. I take it you’re blessed.” He nodded toward John’s face, and indeed, John had now lost a total of forty pounds. His hollow cheeks and frail frame were tokens, evident of his situation. They walked down a well-lit hall. Everywhere in the church had a teal carpet.

“Congratulations on your blessing. My wife and I wish I could be chosen, have it bring honor to our family and everything, but what can you do?” Terry shrugged. John could not tell if he was being serious or not.

“Well, you can have mine.” John said and the men laughed, a good sign. Maybe, Terry would help him.

“I’m sure my time will come. It’s the man of the house’s duty to his church.” The man spoke earnestly.

“Would you really call it a blessing?” John asked, testing the waters.

“Well, absolutely, I would, Bob works in mysterious ways.” The man turned into the church’s sanctuary, a high ceiling room large enough for four hundred people. The congregation’s chairs were stacked beside the stage to make room for a dozen round tables assembled around the room. Terry went to a wall length table where more casserole dishes and platters of food were being set. The sight of it made John’s legs weak.

“I take it you’re feeling a bit frightened, John? It can be scary.” Terry led him to a table in the front, with food already set out. Terry frowned. “I’m glad you’re here tonight, there is a special speaker coming.”

John sat down at a table where three men, who looked frail and exhausted, where gorging on sour dough bread. John didn’t want to join them, but his cursed worm in his guts made him so hungry he could do nothing but obey the impulse. He sat down and bowed his head over the bread, tearing into it with ferocity and volition. His table was the only one with a teal table cloth and silverware. A little card read, For the blessed, in the center. Someone was speaking at the front of the room, but John could not stop eating, he paid him no attention. It was like he and his three companions could do nothing but be lost in the thralls of their feasting. When John came up for air, there was no more bread on the table, his heart was beating fast, he felt lightheaded. A round of applause picked up, bouncing around the high-ceilinged room. Someone brought John a glass of water and he sipped it, feeling shaky.

“I want to, first, give our Blessed Ones a loving round of applause.” The man at the front said. A spotlight beamed on Johns table. The man across from John waved like an automaton, his face slack, another one rested his head on the tabletop, moaning. John drank his water, the man directly beside him bent at the waist, resting his head in his hands, and promptly wept. “They are truly blessed.” The speaker said into the microphone.

John turned to the sobbing man. “Do you want to step outside and talk?”

“I don’t want to pray, man,” he said.

“Nor do I. We can figure something out, a solution to our mutual problem.” John gave him a pointed look.

The man’s tears slowed. “Yeah.” They both stood and exited the room through a side entrance, walking down the hall until they were back in the lobby. They went outside, facing the deserted parking lot. The world was dim with twilight, the lamps lining the walkway to the entrance blinked on.

“Fuck,” the man said, dragging his hands down his face. He had shoulder length, curly hair and tan skin, he dressed like he lived at the beach or surfed for a living. His face was gaunt, though, and he had the same look of malnutrition as the rest of the hosts did. The man was young, perhaps in his early twenties, and John felt slightly protective of him.

“Are you a follower of this, this, Bob church fellow?”

“No, man. I’m here cause, cause, I don’t know what to do,” the young man’s chin trembled, as if tears were returning. “Man,” he moaned.

“I’m not either, this whole thing is insane. Listen,” John said, and this steadied the man. “There must be something we can do, some type of poison or home remedy, something to take that will kill it.” John spoke in a hush.

“Don’t look it up on your phone,” the young man warned, he spoke in a vocal fry. “They’ll take you to Bethlehem Place.”

“What is that?”

“It’s where they take you so the worm can grow it’s legs.” The young man’s skin tinged a delicate shade of green. “If they think you’re trying to kill it, they take you there and lock you up until it’s grown. Face it, we don’t have a way out.”

“Don’t say that. There is something we can do.”

“Gentlemen?” Both John and the young man jumped in surprise. A man from the service leaned out the door, half his body outside, half in. “They’re waiting on you.”

“For what?” John asked, reflexively stepping toward the young man. There was strength in numbers.

“For a toast, and a prayer by our special guest. He wants to meet you.”

They walked back through the lobby and down the hall. The young man looked dejected and hopeless. John wanted to shake him and shout, don’t lose hope! It felt as if they were comrades in arms, partners in this fight for survival, and his was cracking under the pressure.

Back in the room, the entire group of men were assembled around something in front of the stage. When John reached it, the men dispersed to give him room, their excited whispers like swishing grass. The spotlight above burned down on an emaciated man in a wheelchair, wearing a collared shirt and a bandage wrapped around his groin and buttocks, like a diaper. The sight of his exposed legs, thin as femur bones, gleaming, made John step back, disturbed, as if he was coming upon something private and slaughtered. The man’s head was resting back, a serene smile on his face, his eyes slit open. The men crowding around him leaned in, their eyes feasting, hungrily beseeching him. Their bodies were bathed in warm light, shadows swallowing the edges of their cluster. It was a scene in a Baroque painting, grotesque and biblical. A bloom of fresh crimson soaked the bottom of the man’s gauze dressing.

“He’s bleeding.” John said, and indeed, the blood stain was gently spreading, dripping off the chair.

“If only we could be blessed!” One man yelled, and half of the congregation echoed him.

The bleeding man’s eyes fluttered, as if in ecstasy, the light burned above him.

“This man could be dying!” John raised his voice, outraged. Another man burst into the room from a side entrance by the stage, holding something aloft, the crown of his bald head reflected the spot light in a small diamond shape. The other men, not surrounding the bleeding fellow in the wheelchair, rushed up to meet this newcomer. Though there were no more than thirty men in the room, John felt like he was among a hoard. He turned to his young fellow, wanting to flee with him.

“What’s your name?” John asked hurriedly, just as the bald man holding the aloft bundle began to chant.

“Chandler.” He was crying again.

“I think it’s best we go.” More men entered the room, they rushed to the stage, it was difficult to exit.

“We can’t leave now.” Chandler blubbered like an infant. John gripped his arm and pulled him along, but it was too slow and cumbersome, so he released him. The man with the bundle reached the front of the stage to stand beside the wheelchair. It was Dr. Frevont. Before John could reconcile this surprise, more bodies pressed in, tight together, jostling John forward. Dr. Frevont held up the bundle, the man in the wheelchair appeared to have passed out or died, his diaper bandage looked soaked in wine.

“Behold!” Dr. Frevont bellowed. “A deliverance has been made, moments ago! Both lives alive and well!” The man in the wheelchair slumped forward, blood streamed down his legs like roots of a tree. Dr. Frevont removed the blanket covering the bundle, and brandished an enormous bug, fleshy, glistening, a foot long, and thick as a loaf of bread, six legs wriggling from the sudden cold. It was larva like, giant, blind, with a mouth for a face, and rows and rows of needle teeth. Chandler and John both screamed. John pushed people out of his way and burst out of the wall of bodies, stumbling to the carpet. He got to his feet and bolted for the door. His fellows from the blessed table were being loaded onto stretchers, asleep. Large, muscular men appeared and blocked the door. They seized John’s shoulders, pushing him back into the room. “Praise Bob,” echoed behind him, someone began singing. “Praise Bob!”

“Release me!” John screamed, but the burly men wrapped their arms around his torso, his arms, his legs, lifting John into the air. John thought, distantly, how light he must be for them now. John kicked and bucked and struggled, but it did nothing, he was weak from the parasite, and even if he wasn’t, they were hulking men. They carried John past the wheelchair man, who had slipped out of his seat to the ground, the chair rolling away. The hoard fought to hold the giant, wriggling larva, they trampled over the half-naked, bleeding man, his blood-soaked bandage crumbling, his face appeared to be smiling even as it was stepped on. The parasite in John’s intestines squirmed.

***

Sara Doty has been published in Excerpt Magazine, Querencia Press, and Crosswinds Poetry Journal. She received her MFA in creative writing from Stetson University. She is a United States Marine Corps veteran.