The Bump
“It looks like it has a face.” There wasn’t a hint of disgust in her voice. Bree was like that. She was curious, but she would stay.
“Shut up,” Kenan adjusted his collar and covered the bump, just in case.
It grew a little, the bump, everyday, until one day it spoke. Kenan couldn’t understand the words, but the little mouth had opened up, and God help him a voice had come out. There was never a time when jumping out of his skin would have been more welcome.
But, the skin stayed, and the bump grew. It got in the way when he tried to play sports, so he quit and stayed inside.
“It’s better inside,” the bump whispered, spitting little flecks of pus into his ear.
Bree stayed, like she said she would. She soaked rags in warm salt water and cleaned the thing, too big to be called a bump now. It talked to her about Kenan and she laughed.
“How can you love that thing?” he asked one night as she embraced them both.
“It’s yours,” she replied and kissed it.
The thing was heavy, obnoxious and loud. Its breath was rancid and thick. It whispered to him about the people he could never be, places he’d never go, dreams he would never reach. It exhaled venomous lies that his friends couldn’t unwind, and consorted with his enemies to detail his weaknesses.
He tried to kill it once. Stabbed a jagged knife through it, deep into his shoulder, and woke up on his side in a hospital bed, the thing twice the size it was before. He laughed. It wouldn’t die then.
So, they lived. If you could call it that. The world didn’t want the thing, even if they wanted Kenan. It was ugly. He hid it under big coats and hoodies, but people saw the shape.
He went out to get groceries. Bree was at home. He wandered the aisles thinking about killing himself, looking for cereal. Outside the store, an old man sat leaning against the bricks. Beside him, panting like a dog was a thing.
“How did you get it off?” Kenan sputtered, and the old man didn’t need context.
“I looked at it in the mirror and figured out how to put it down.”
“Can you help me get mine off?”
And the old man laughed and shook his head.
“Does it still talk?”
“Not the same way.”
Looking at it head on was revolting. Crusted ooze, twisted face, hideous scar where the knife had pierced the flesh. He stared at the mirror, disgusted. The protruding veins throbbed, and for once the thing was quiet. He touched it.
It was nauseating, but touching it felt good. Like scratching an itch or seeing an old friend. It bucked under his hand and bit him. Two dots of blood formed below his knuckles and he raised a hand to strike, then realized the futility.
“How do I get rid of you?”
It shrugged.
“I didn’t ask to be here.”
Kenan nodded. Neither had he. He laid his bloody hand on the Thing’s head, and looked at it again in the mirror. Maybe Bree was right. It wasn’t so bad. Not that he’d tell her that. It wriggled under his touch. He smiled, then frowned. Just behind the thing’s neck he felt a piece of jagged metal. He followed the seam searching for something he wasn’t sure of until he found it.
He pulled at the zipper, and felt a weight drop away.
