waste

She felt the wispy touches of thin, fast-moving legs on the tip of her tongue wriggling their way to touch on her lips. Frozen, she registered the sensation for a few seconds, in the hopes that it was one of those phantom sensations. When it did not stop, but increased, as if something was trying to get out (or in), her fingers picked and pulled, clumsy in their anxiousness. She was still calm on the inside, and when the sensation fled with no evidence of impossibly thin legs on her hands, she breathed a sigh of relief. Until a weight fell upon the side of her tongue.

Sitting up, thoroughly panicked, she moved her tongue rapidly, desperately, swallowing convulsively and sweeping fingers throughout her mouth. The horror was muted but climbing as every attempt to get rid of the mass was unsuccessful. It kept making its way lightly up her tongue when she swallowed. She tried to drown it with her spit and when it reached its favored corner, bit down viciously. A crunch was audible and the rancid taste of waste and guts hit her as slimy liquid seemed to fill her mouth in waves, her throat seizing, her heart jolting and her breathing absent.

She stood shakily in front of the mirror and stared at herself; tears tracked a trail down her face and she was sickly pale. She heard herself whimper and saw herself open her mouth. The stomach was next to seize as she watched, motionless, an impossible amount of fluid drain out of her; dark, rotten blood mixed with the juices of innards. With a cry, she fell on her knees and emptied into the toilet, feeling the horrific amounts of fluid flowing out and despairing, wondering how she had managed to hold in so much waste.