Never Too Late!

Never Too Late!
any resemblance to anyone real or imaginary is mere bad luck
we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are trying to get up


The sick

Yesterday I heard the machine grinding in the depths of my ruined abdomen. It’s bolted to my spine and supported by wires riveted to the inside of my lower ribs. Sometimes it spurts corrosive waste through my bleeding rectum, to drip down my legs and burn open sores on the insides of my thighs.

I don’t even know what its function is. If I carefully pry open the cracks in my stomach I can see parts of it, cogs and wheels and valves and tubes, gurgling and grinding. I think it’s expanding, pushing steel cables down into my legs and up into my arms.

The two bones of my forearm are slowly moving apart. The flesh between them is stretching and will soon tear, and I can feel metal parts moving around inside. My hands are almost useless, now, and starting to turn blue and nerveless. What am I turning into?