One
You wake up. Sunlight is streaming into your bedroom through the holes in your curtains. Dust glitters in the light. Although beautiful, your mind considers the dust mites entering your lungs through your nose and mouth.
Groggy-eyed, you push away your blankets and look at your hateful alarm. Ten minutes ‘til eight. It is cold. You really should put the heating on a timer. You are surprised that you can’t see your breath clouding in front of you.
You put your bare feet on the cold and dirty floor. Grit scratches the delicate skin between your toes. You really should invest in a broom. More than dust mites probably live in the dirt on your floor.
Your face feels like it is crawling, not with insects but under the skin and occasionally erupting in a volcano. You are tempted to scratch. You resist by digging your fingernails into your naked thighs.
But your face itches. It is becoming painful. You stand up and walk across your wooden bedroom floor. You feel the blood slowly begin to circulate down your legs. You can feel a splinter entering the soft skin of your foot. You ignore it – the painful itching of your face overrules your fear of the possibility of infection. It is becoming worse.
You open the door to the plush carpet of the hallway. It is the only nice thing to be found inside your house. You take a step on it pausing to feel it between your dirty toes. It’s soft and luxurious. You wish you purchased a vacuum cleaner when you bought it. You don’t want your filthy feet to ruin it.
Another volcano erupts on your face sending you running into the bathroom. Automatically you pull the string to turn on the light. It goes on with a click. Without closing the door you rush to the mirror to see what’s wrong. There’s a dull ache in your bladder. But you ignore it, until you see your reflection staring back at you.
You feel warm liquid running down your leg as your bladder releases. You hear it dripping on the cold, uneven tiles. You feel it puddling under your feet. You don’t look at the mess you are making; you stare transfixed at the face looking back at you. You hardly recognise yourself.
Distantly you feel the face watching you aching and itching. Absently you raise your hand to it; urine still spilling out of your bladder. Your face hurts more when you touch it, but you can’t resist. With your eyes squinted, you raise the index fingers of both hands to one of the erupting masses of pus on your chin. You brace yourself for the pain.
Your urine slows to a trickle. The nails of your index fingers are jagged and broken from years of chewing; they scratch your skin slightly on the way to the first erupting mass. You bite down on your lip in anticipation of pain. You squeeze. It hurts. Your lip starts to bleed slightly.
Your bladder is empty. You are standing in a puddle of your own piss. It is steaming. Your teeth are clenched. The front ones are protruding out and drawing blood from your lower lip. Your chin is pointed towards the round mirror.
Lumpy yellow pus sprays out of the erupting volcano on your chin. In an odd way, you enjoy the pain. You push your fingers closer together in an effort to get all the pus out. You are vaguely aware of the strong smell of the first piss of the morning entering your nostrils. Your eyes water. Your lip isn’t bleeding enough to drip. The little bit of blood is moistening them slightly, but you only faintly register this somewhere in the recesses of your brain.
Pus hits your mirror. But you continue squeezing. The lumps change in colour from yellow to green. You were expecting blood to be leaking out by now, but so far, there’s none. The yellow pus oozes down your mirror but it isn’t as runny as you expected.
You try to move your feet out of the cooling puddle of your urine but in order to do so, you’ll lose sight of the mirror. You can’t peel your watery eyes away from it. Even to save your toes from becoming wrinkly in your own piss. The oozing pus is fascinating. It’s hard to believe it came out of your face.
A particularly large green lump breaks some of your skin on an erupting mass on your forehead. Your fingers move from the volcano on your chin to the new one. As your fingers pass your eyes you notice pus under your fingernails from the first mass. You don’t pause to clean it out, even though it stings slightly and you can feel it piercing the skin, like a tiny green and yellow wasp.
The green lump is slowly moving down your face in a stream of pus. You let it drip, believing your eyebrows will stop it before it lands in your eye. Although the pus is clearly not experiencing any problems leaving that particular spot, your index fingers find it in the same way they found the one on your chin.
With your forehead pointed towards the mirror, you squeeze. Pus sprays. Surprisingly, some gets in your hair. You ignore it and squeeze out a large green lump, which splats onto the mirror. Shortly followed by some smaller green pieces oozing out and dripping down your forehead. The pus feels warm and sticky on your face. The green lumps scratch. You can feel your skin breaking in the places exposed to them.
Just when you were beginning to think no more green pieces were going to come out of that particular spot the largest one yet splats onto your mirror. You let out a yelp of pain upon seeing it and watch it drip, leaving a pus-trail in its wake. It wasn’t painful on the way out. Only upon seeing it, did it hurt. Odd.
But still, you cannot stop squeezing. Thin yellow pus is seeping out. As of yet, there’s no sign of blood, even your lip has stopped bleeding. You can feel bumps underneath it. Every time you try to bite down on one, it moves, like the lumps are alive somehow.
Your back itches. Only slightly. You ignore it. On your right cheekbone another spot is erupting. You allow the thin yellow pus of the second spot to trickle its way into your thick eyebrow. You tilt your right cheekbone towards the mirror. With your fingers poised to attack the new volcano and wreck havoc upon the families of microbes who make their home on your face, your back itches more. Isolated itching underneath the skin between your shoulder blades. A tingle here; a pang there. It is annoying and interrupting your spot squeezing.
You move to scratch the itches; bending and stretching to reach. But you can’t quite get at them. You don’t care, you still try. You remember the pus beneath your fingernails. You don’t really care that you’re going to scratch pus into the nude skin of your back. Your alarm goes off; you left it on snooze. It’s a loud, ear-piercing sound which sends spooked shockwaves through your body.
In a rush to shut it off so you can return to your zit popping, you slip in the puddle of urine. Your back hits the cold porcelain sink. You feel a volcanic spot erupt where it hit. That explains the unusual itching. Violent itching beneath the skin is pushing up and out. You can feel pus exploding onto your naked back. It’s warm and sticky. Spots beneath the oozing pus surface and erupt adding more.
You lose your footing entirely. Your ankles slide through the piss, followed by your calves and the back part of your knees. Your back scrapes against the porcelain sink, which would be smooth and gentle except for the fact that you haven’t cleaned it in several years. It even has crusted on vomit from when you had an awful tummy bug six months ago. Years of grime and gritty dirt scrape against the back of your neck as the upper part of your naked thighs slide their way through the urine puddle. Your alarm is still going off.
You want to tear the batteries from it and throw it out the window. The noise seems to go right through you to the central part of your brain. Your head bashes against the sink as your bare arse enters the puddle, resulting in the buzzing of your alarm becoming worse. Much worse.
Your eyebrow cannot withstand the deluge of pus. It seeps into your eye. It doesn’t exactly hurt when compared to the erupting volcanoes or the searing pain in the centre and now back of your head. But your eye doesn’t like foreign objects in it. Pus continues entering it in a river of yellow with the occasional yellow or green boulder (you thought all the green ones were gone). One of the chunks scratches the surface of a mass just below your eyebrow, causing it to erupt and join the river flooding your eye.
Both your hands have urine on them. But you must do something about your eye. You’ve already lost vision in it. You wipe with a piss-soaked hand. It seems that the more you wipe, the more pus there is.
All the while, your bloody alarm just won’t shut the fuck up. You fling your hand in disgust; piss and pus hit the bathroom wall. You don’t care and you have no intention of cleaning it. Ever. Pus is still running into your eye. But you decide to ignore it in favour of picking yourself off the floor so you can do something about that goddamn alarm.
You twist ’round and use the gritty porcelain sink to heave yourself up. At the same time that a volcano erupts on your back another explodes on your face. You push it to the back of your mind, ignoring the dripping pus and the painful way in which the chunks break the skin. You are once again standing in your own urine.
It’s slippery. You are careful not to fall again as you make your way across the uneven bathroom tiles, which have become like an ice skating ring. A smelly and steamy one. You pause before stepping onto the soft carpet of the hallway. You don’t want to get piss on it. Urine could seep through and it will forever smell of piss. But that alarm is driving you mad.
Two
You skip across the carpet on your toes, not wanting to put too much of your urine soaked feet onto it. You pray piss isn’t seeping into the heavy, natural fibres. You open the door to your bedroom and step onto the cold wooden floor. You dive for your alarm. Just as you reach it, the cursed thing stops buzzing. You jump up once and scream in midair. You land with a thud on your splintery bare floor. You feel little splinters of wood penetrate the skin on your feet.
No worries. You rip off the back of the alarm while gritting your teeth. You tear out the batteries and throw them to the floor. You feel intense, localised pain in your mouth. It seems you have chipped a tooth. You decide it is unimportant; you aren’t even registered with a dentist. You’ll buy a bottle of whisky to numb the pain once you take care of the volcanoes that are now erupting all over your body, including one in your arsecrack. You’ll get drunk and help them all out.
You briefly wonder if spots are growing on your internal organs. There’s no way you’d be able to reach them. The thought is too unpleasant. You push it far away where you hope it will stay.
You walk over to the window with the alarm clock. Your hand is still covered in urine and pus. You decide it would be a bad idea to add cobwebs, dust and nicotine to this. As much as you want to see the clock smash onto the frosty concrete below it isn’t worth getting your hand any dirtier. And the nicotine would act like a sticky seal, locking all the urine, pus, cobwebs and dust to your hand and trapping it there where it can seep beneath your skin.
You throw the clock on the floor. It is made of a supposedly strong plastic but you notice cracks have appeared in it. You stamp on it with your bare foot as your groin breaks out in volcanoes.
Plastic shards penetrate the damp skin of your foot joining the wooden splinters. Urine lubricated the way. You push your foot down harder and it is again raped by tiny pieces of plastic. It hurts, but you ignore the pain and at this very moment in time you are unconcerned about the risk of infection. As long as you don’t become dirty, you don’t mind.
Absently your fingers move to your groin. Your foot continues its crushing crusade. Your two index fingers find an erupting mass and begin to squeeze. More pieces of plastic violate your foot.
You can pop two spots at the same time if you use your thumbs in conjunction with your index fingers. Your thumb and index finger of one hand squeeze one spot while your other does the same. Team work. Finally, something is going right for you this morning. And in an odd way, you get a weird, near-sexual gratification from squeezing those ever-erupting volcanoes.
You break the pink head and pus leaks out into the untamed jungle that is your pubic hair. Even though it hurts, you squeeze harder. You grit your teeth and let out a cry as you hit the chipped tooth. You bite the insides of your cheeks instead. The biting causes masses to break the skin and erupt in your mouth. The taste is horrific. Vomit bubbles in the back of your throat before burning back down your oesophagus. You can feel the boulders swishing around in your mouth. They are hard and scratch the inside resulting in more explosions. There’s so much pus in your mouth that it’s now leaking out your lips in a steady yellow stream. A boulder enters the hole created in your tooth when you chipped it sending shivers of pain up and down your entire body. Your hands quickly move away from your groin and move to your mouth. But it won’t open. Your fingers dance in the sticky, gooey pus stream.
A green boulder breaks the head on another spot. Your eyes watch it fly out of your narrowed range of vision. You find it odd you registered that considering the pain your tooth is causing you. You open your mouth. Pus and green chunks rapidly flow out and land on the floor. You watch it. It’s disgusting and fascinating at the same time. You wonder if it will seep out of the floor and through the ceiling. You feel sharp pain in your tooth as the boulder wedged in there comes loose and rips away more of it. Your saliva glands swell and release due to the pain. Spit sits on top of the pus as it exits your mouth, like oil on top of water. The amount of pus leaving your mouth is unrealistic. You should be swollen like an over inflated balloon. But you’re not. And that much pus would mean a bad infection. An infection all over your body. Which should come with a high fever. But you feel fine, if in pain and grossed out.
The pus shows no signs of slowing down. But your fingers find their way back to the spots north of your pubic hair jungle.
Hunched over, naked, cold and alone. Your mouth is a fountain of yellowish pus. You are slightly turned on. You ignore the tingling in your groin. And hope masturbation won’t be required. It takes too long when you have volcanoes to aid in their eruptions.
Absently you register the pain in your back caused by being hunched over. A draft from the window is violating your arse; sending a shiver of sexual excitement through your loins and up your spine. The shiver causes more pus to spout from your mouth. You vaguely think that your irritable colleagues may see this as some sort of improvement on the verbal diarrhoea that you normally spew. The arsemonkeys you work with would probably love to see you like this. But you don’t give a shit about them or anyone else.
You are fascinated by the green chunks being squeezed out of your spots. They remind you of something. Your mind chases the thought but can’t catch it. Even the horrific taste in your mouth reminds you of something you’ve tasted before. But you haven’t a clue what.
Pus, headed by an extremely large chunk of green, hits your open eye. Your upper body snaps up. A bit too fast. You swallow the pus leaking out of your mouth. It burns on the way down and the boulders scratch the inside of your mouth and your throat. Your stomach bubbles but the contents don’t travel up. For this, you are grateful.
You fall back. Your arms fly up in an effort to maintain your balance. More volcanoes begin erupting all over your body, you can even feel them breaking through the skin on the bottom of your feet. Some of these push the plastic that raped your feet outwards. It is a weird feeling. You wonder if the exit wounds look like bullet exit wounds. That would be pretty cool if they did.
Mercifully you don’t fall on top of your nightstand, but hover in limbo with your pus leaking arms flapping about. Mimicking the movements of a bird with a broken wing, pus and boulders are spraying everywhere. The stuff coming out of your arms is projectile enough to hit the walls. The insides of your mouth are still leaking. Luckily for you, it has stopped travelling down and is again coming out of your mouth. You regain your balance. You lower your arms.
You take a minute to catch your laboured breath. Who would have thought loosing your balance would leave you struggling for air. A fresh volcano, erupting on the back of your knee, startles you with the noise it makes as it pushes through your skin. You can feel a slow moving, warm and sticky liquid dripping down your leg. Boulders gouge out canyons on your skin. The landscape of your body is being changed dramatically.
As you catch your breath you concentrate on the feel of the slow moving river of pus dripping down your leg. You cough. Spittle and pus fly out of your mouth. Fascinated, you watch the projectile bodily fluids move through the air. You hold your laboured breath as gravity starts to work on the pus and spit. Your brain sends the signals to your lungs that they need to take in air. You can feel the electronic signals travelling along your network of nerves. Forcing spots to surface on your skin as the signal travels down from your brain and to your lungs.
Air forces its way out of your lungs and defying gravity upwards and outwards. A fountain of pus spouts out of your mouth with the air. It mixes with the airborne bodily fluids so you loose sight of them. Maybe the spittle will separate before it hits the floor.
You wake up. Sunlight is streaming into your bedroom through the holes in your curtains. Dust glitters in the light. Although beautiful, your mind considers the dust mites entering your lungs through your nose and mouth.
Groggy-eyed, you push away your blankets and look at your hateful alarm. Ten minutes ‘til eight. It is cold. You really should put the heating on a timer. You are surprised that you can’t see your breath clouding in front of you.
You put your bare feet on the cold and dirty floor. Grit scratches the delicate skin between your toes. You really should invest in a broom. More than dust mites probably live in the dirt on your floor.
Your face feels like it is crawling, not with insects but under the skin and occasionally erupting in a volcano. You are tempted to scratch. You resist by digging your fingernails into your naked thighs.
But your face itches. It is becoming painful. You stand up and walk across your wooden bedroom floor. You feel the blood slowly begin to circulate down your legs. You can feel a splinter entering the soft skin of your foot. You ignore it – the painful itching of your face overrules your fear of the possibility of infection. It is becoming worse.
You open the door to the plush carpet of the hallway. It is the only nice thing to be found inside your house. You take a step on it pausing to feel it between your dirty toes. It’s soft and luxurious. You wish you purchased a vacuum cleaner when you bought it. You don’t want your filthy feet to ruin it.
Another volcano erupts on your face sending you running into the bathroom. Automatically you pull the string to turn on the light. It goes on with a click. Without closing the door you rush to the mirror to see what’s wrong. There’s a dull ache in your bladder. But you ignore it, until you see your reflection staring back at you.
You feel warm liquid running down your leg as your bladder releases. You hear it dripping on the cold, uneven tiles. You feel it puddling under your feet. You don’t look at the mess you are making; you stare transfixed at the face looking back at you. You hardly recognise yourself.
Distantly you feel the face watching you aching and itching. Absently you raise your hand to it; urine still spilling out of your bladder. Your face hurts more when you touch it, but you can’t resist. With your eyes squinted, you raise the index fingers of both hands to one of the erupting masses of pus on your chin. You brace yourself for the pain.
Your urine slows to a trickle. The nails of your index fingers are jagged and broken from years of chewing; they scratch your skin slightly on the way to the first erupting mass. You bite down on your lip in anticipation of pain. You squeeze. It hurts. Your lip starts to bleed slightly.
Your bladder is empty. You are standing in a puddle of your own piss. It is steaming. Your teeth are clenched. The front ones are protruding out and drawing blood from your lower lip. Your chin is pointed towards the round mirror.
Lumpy yellow pus sprays out of the erupting volcano on your chin. In an odd way, you enjoy the pain. You push your fingers closer together in an effort to get all the pus out. You are vaguely aware of the strong smell of the first piss of the morning entering your nostrils. Your eyes water. Your lip isn’t bleeding enough to drip. The little bit of blood is moistening them slightly, but you only faintly register this somewhere in the recesses of your brain.
Pus hits your mirror. But you continue squeezing. The lumps change in colour from yellow to green. You were expecting blood to be leaking out by now, but so far, there’s none. The yellow pus oozes down your mirror but it isn’t as runny as you expected.
You try to move your feet out of the cooling puddle of your urine but in order to do so, you’ll lose sight of the mirror. You can’t peel your watery eyes away from it. Even to save your toes from becoming wrinkly in your own piss. The oozing pus is fascinating. It’s hard to believe it came out of your face.
A particularly large green lump breaks some of your skin on an erupting mass on your forehead. Your fingers move from the volcano on your chin to the new one. As your fingers pass your eyes you notice pus under your fingernails from the first mass. You don’t pause to clean it out, even though it stings slightly and you can feel it piercing the skin, like a tiny green and yellow wasp.
The green lump is slowly moving down your face in a stream of pus. You let it drip, believing your eyebrows will stop it before it lands in your eye. Although the pus is clearly not experiencing any problems leaving that particular spot, your index fingers find it in the same way they found the one on your chin.
With your forehead pointed towards the mirror, you squeeze. Pus sprays. Surprisingly, some gets in your hair. You ignore it and squeeze out a large green lump, which splats onto the mirror. Shortly followed by some smaller green pieces oozing out and dripping down your forehead. The pus feels warm and sticky on your face. The green lumps scratch. You can feel your skin breaking in the places exposed to them.
Just when you were beginning to think no more green pieces were going to come out of that particular spot the largest one yet splats onto your mirror. You let out a yelp of pain upon seeing it and watch it drip, leaving a pus-trail in its wake. It wasn’t painful on the way out. Only upon seeing it, did it hurt. Odd.
But still, you cannot stop squeezing. Thin yellow pus is seeping out. As of yet, there’s no sign of blood, even your lip has stopped bleeding. You can feel bumps underneath it. Every time you try to bite down on one, it moves, like the lumps are alive somehow.
Your back itches. Only slightly. You ignore it. On your right cheekbone another spot is erupting. You allow the thin yellow pus of the second spot to trickle its way into your thick eyebrow. You tilt your right cheekbone towards the mirror. With your fingers poised to attack the new volcano and wreck havoc upon the families of microbes who make their home on your face, your back itches more. Isolated itching underneath the skin between your shoulder blades. A tingle here; a pang there. It is annoying and interrupting your spot squeezing.
You move to scratch the itches; bending and stretching to reach. But you can’t quite get at them. You don’t care, you still try. You remember the pus beneath your fingernails. You don’t really care that you’re going to scratch pus into the nude skin of your back. Your alarm goes off; you left it on snooze. It’s a loud, ear-piercing sound which sends spooked shockwaves through your body.
In a rush to shut it off so you can return to your zit popping, you slip in the puddle of urine. Your back hits the cold porcelain sink. You feel a volcanic spot erupt where it hit. That explains the unusual itching. Violent itching beneath the skin is pushing up and out. You can feel pus exploding onto your naked back. It’s warm and sticky. Spots beneath the oozing pus surface and erupt adding more.
You lose your footing entirely. Your ankles slide through the piss, followed by your calves and the back part of your knees. Your back scrapes against the porcelain sink, which would be smooth and gentle except for the fact that you haven’t cleaned it in several years. It even has crusted on vomit from when you had an awful tummy bug six months ago. Years of grime and gritty dirt scrape against the back of your neck as the upper part of your naked thighs slide their way through the urine puddle. Your alarm is still going off.
You want to tear the batteries from it and throw it out the window. The noise seems to go right through you to the central part of your brain. Your head bashes against the sink as your bare arse enters the puddle, resulting in the buzzing of your alarm becoming worse. Much worse.
Your eyebrow cannot withstand the deluge of pus. It seeps into your eye. It doesn’t exactly hurt when compared to the erupting volcanoes or the searing pain in the centre and now back of your head. But your eye doesn’t like foreign objects in it. Pus continues entering it in a river of yellow with the occasional yellow or green boulder (you thought all the green ones were gone). One of the chunks scratches the surface of a mass just below your eyebrow, causing it to erupt and join the river flooding your eye.
Both your hands have urine on them. But you must do something about your eye. You’ve already lost vision in it. You wipe with a piss-soaked hand. It seems that the more you wipe, the more pus there is.
All the while, your bloody alarm just won’t shut the fuck up. You fling your hand in disgust; piss and pus hit the bathroom wall. You don’t care and you have no intention of cleaning it. Ever. Pus is still running into your eye. But you decide to ignore it in favour of picking yourself off the floor so you can do something about that goddamn alarm.
You twist ’round and use the gritty porcelain sink to heave yourself up. At the same time that a volcano erupts on your back another explodes on your face. You push it to the back of your mind, ignoring the dripping pus and the painful way in which the chunks break the skin. You are once again standing in your own urine.
It’s slippery. You are careful not to fall again as you make your way across the uneven bathroom tiles, which have become like an ice skating ring. A smelly and steamy one. You pause before stepping onto the soft carpet of the hallway. You don’t want to get piss on it. Urine could seep through and it will forever smell of piss. But that alarm is driving you mad.
Two
You skip across the carpet on your toes, not wanting to put too much of your urine soaked feet onto it. You pray piss isn’t seeping into the heavy, natural fibres. You open the door to your bedroom and step onto the cold wooden floor. You dive for your alarm. Just as you reach it, the cursed thing stops buzzing. You jump up once and scream in midair. You land with a thud on your splintery bare floor. You feel little splinters of wood penetrate the skin on your feet.
No worries. You rip off the back of the alarm while gritting your teeth. You tear out the batteries and throw them to the floor. You feel intense, localised pain in your mouth. It seems you have chipped a tooth. You decide it is unimportant; you aren’t even registered with a dentist. You’ll buy a bottle of whisky to numb the pain once you take care of the volcanoes that are now erupting all over your body, including one in your arsecrack. You’ll get drunk and help them all out.
You briefly wonder if spots are growing on your internal organs. There’s no way you’d be able to reach them. The thought is too unpleasant. You push it far away where you hope it will stay.
You walk over to the window with the alarm clock. Your hand is still covered in urine and pus. You decide it would be a bad idea to add cobwebs, dust and nicotine to this. As much as you want to see the clock smash onto the frosty concrete below it isn’t worth getting your hand any dirtier. And the nicotine would act like a sticky seal, locking all the urine, pus, cobwebs and dust to your hand and trapping it there where it can seep beneath your skin.
You throw the clock on the floor. It is made of a supposedly strong plastic but you notice cracks have appeared in it. You stamp on it with your bare foot as your groin breaks out in volcanoes.
Plastic shards penetrate the damp skin of your foot joining the wooden splinters. Urine lubricated the way. You push your foot down harder and it is again raped by tiny pieces of plastic. It hurts, but you ignore the pain and at this very moment in time you are unconcerned about the risk of infection. As long as you don’t become dirty, you don’t mind.
Absently your fingers move to your groin. Your foot continues its crushing crusade. Your two index fingers find an erupting mass and begin to squeeze. More pieces of plastic violate your foot.
You can pop two spots at the same time if you use your thumbs in conjunction with your index fingers. Your thumb and index finger of one hand squeeze one spot while your other does the same. Team work. Finally, something is going right for you this morning. And in an odd way, you get a weird, near-sexual gratification from squeezing those ever-erupting volcanoes.
You break the pink head and pus leaks out into the untamed jungle that is your pubic hair. Even though it hurts, you squeeze harder. You grit your teeth and let out a cry as you hit the chipped tooth. You bite the insides of your cheeks instead. The biting causes masses to break the skin and erupt in your mouth. The taste is horrific. Vomit bubbles in the back of your throat before burning back down your oesophagus. You can feel the boulders swishing around in your mouth. They are hard and scratch the inside resulting in more explosions. There’s so much pus in your mouth that it’s now leaking out your lips in a steady yellow stream. A boulder enters the hole created in your tooth when you chipped it sending shivers of pain up and down your entire body. Your hands quickly move away from your groin and move to your mouth. But it won’t open. Your fingers dance in the sticky, gooey pus stream.
A green boulder breaks the head on another spot. Your eyes watch it fly out of your narrowed range of vision. You find it odd you registered that considering the pain your tooth is causing you. You open your mouth. Pus and green chunks rapidly flow out and land on the floor. You watch it. It’s disgusting and fascinating at the same time. You wonder if it will seep out of the floor and through the ceiling. You feel sharp pain in your tooth as the boulder wedged in there comes loose and rips away more of it. Your saliva glands swell and release due to the pain. Spit sits on top of the pus as it exits your mouth, like oil on top of water. The amount of pus leaving your mouth is unrealistic. You should be swollen like an over inflated balloon. But you’re not. And that much pus would mean a bad infection. An infection all over your body. Which should come with a high fever. But you feel fine, if in pain and grossed out.
The pus shows no signs of slowing down. But your fingers find their way back to the spots north of your pubic hair jungle.
Hunched over, naked, cold and alone. Your mouth is a fountain of yellowish pus. You are slightly turned on. You ignore the tingling in your groin. And hope masturbation won’t be required. It takes too long when you have volcanoes to aid in their eruptions.
Absently you register the pain in your back caused by being hunched over. A draft from the window is violating your arse; sending a shiver of sexual excitement through your loins and up your spine. The shiver causes more pus to spout from your mouth. You vaguely think that your irritable colleagues may see this as some sort of improvement on the verbal diarrhoea that you normally spew. The arsemonkeys you work with would probably love to see you like this. But you don’t give a shit about them or anyone else.
You are fascinated by the green chunks being squeezed out of your spots. They remind you of something. Your mind chases the thought but can’t catch it. Even the horrific taste in your mouth reminds you of something you’ve tasted before. But you haven’t a clue what.
Pus, headed by an extremely large chunk of green, hits your open eye. Your upper body snaps up. A bit too fast. You swallow the pus leaking out of your mouth. It burns on the way down and the boulders scratch the inside of your mouth and your throat. Your stomach bubbles but the contents don’t travel up. For this, you are grateful.
You fall back. Your arms fly up in an effort to maintain your balance. More volcanoes begin erupting all over your body, you can even feel them breaking through the skin on the bottom of your feet. Some of these push the plastic that raped your feet outwards. It is a weird feeling. You wonder if the exit wounds look like bullet exit wounds. That would be pretty cool if they did.
Mercifully you don’t fall on top of your nightstand, but hover in limbo with your pus leaking arms flapping about. Mimicking the movements of a bird with a broken wing, pus and boulders are spraying everywhere. The stuff coming out of your arms is projectile enough to hit the walls. The insides of your mouth are still leaking. Luckily for you, it has stopped travelling down and is again coming out of your mouth. You regain your balance. You lower your arms.
You take a minute to catch your laboured breath. Who would have thought loosing your balance would leave you struggling for air. A fresh volcano, erupting on the back of your knee, startles you with the noise it makes as it pushes through your skin. You can feel a slow moving, warm and sticky liquid dripping down your leg. Boulders gouge out canyons on your skin. The landscape of your body is being changed dramatically.
As you catch your breath you concentrate on the feel of the slow moving river of pus dripping down your leg. You cough. Spittle and pus fly out of your mouth. Fascinated, you watch the projectile bodily fluids move through the air. You hold your laboured breath as gravity starts to work on the pus and spit. Your brain sends the signals to your lungs that they need to take in air. You can feel the electronic signals travelling along your network of nerves. Forcing spots to surface on your skin as the signal travels down from your brain and to your lungs.
Air forces its way out of your lungs and defying gravity upwards and outwards. A fountain of pus spouts out of your mouth with the air. It mixes with the airborne bodily fluids so you loose sight of them. Maybe the spittle will separate before it hits the floor.
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