Archive of Our Own

I couldn’t tell you why I liked listening to the Russian Radio. Maybe it’s the way it scratches my brain. Gives me a gentle sense of nostalgia, while filling the air with stories about the townies.

Jerry and I are going back and forth on what we think the broadcast is, along with commenting on a few of the stranger messages. 

The whole process is oddly calming. Hanging out with Jerry, in a world of our own. No customers for the past two hours. I hadn’t felt the need to so much as read a word from my book of the night.

The rumbling sound akin to an approaching storm fills the otherwise peaceful air.

It takes me seeing the headlights of the hunting party to understand the oncoming danger.

Crutches in place, I’m on my foot rushing to the door and reaching for the deadbolt. 

Jerry is behind me, unaware of the danger he’s in. 

“Hide!” I whisper-yell despite how we’re the only two people in the room. “The terrorists are back!”

“Do what now?”

The mob is a lot faster than a scrawny lady on crutches, bursting through the door with me only halfway across the room.

The rush of icey air blasting my face assaults my sense of smell.

There’s drinking, and smelling the alcohol on a person.

And then, there’s drinking so much alcohol it becomes a part of your body odor.

The first man through the door has a bushy white beard, down to his chest. He makes eye contact with me, turns his head back slightly, and uses his chin to point at me. 

His eyes turn to look beyond me, and two men, one I recognize as a regular, the other I don’t, grab me by either arm, halling me off to the side. One of them takes my crutches, and someone else entirely grabs my wrists from behind. I’m stuck half leaning on my captor, and half leaning on my good leg. It’s more than a little humiliating.

More men pore in, quickly blocking the exit and fanning out around the gas station. Not one of them wearing masks. Fear churns in my gut about the implications.

White Beard yells, “Get the phones!”

The guy closest to the counter, the regular I recognize, yanks the line from the wall, and slams the store phone onto the floor. Smashing it into tiny pieces. 

The growing crowd erupts into cackling, drunk, laughter.

I look for Jerry, hoping he got out okay, only to find him stand about where I last registered him.

“Hey Jack, check out the well regulated militia,” he quips, like these men aren’t out for his blood.

Everyone in the room focuses on him. White Beard points a finger that might as well be a gun, pulls back on the hammer with the words, “Get’em!”

Two of the bigger guys surge forward.

Jerry gets out a quick, “Ruh-row!” before they grab him by either arm.

I pull against the man restraining me, like I’ll be able to help.

My captor squeezes down on my wrists with bruising pressure. He pulls me back against him. I bump into his chest and he holds me there. 

I’m not proud of the whine that escapes my throat, so I’ll be thankful if you don’t mention it.

The two men holding Jerry fling him into the forming circle. 

Jerry lands hard against the floor, and then I lose sight of him in the tightening wall of men.

The terrorists start cheering, and hurling insults. I can tell from the way they move and the “Let me at him!”’s they’re attacking Jerry. The finer details of how are very much lost on me.

“Jerry!” I call uselessly, my voice drowning out by the roaring rodeo of raging rednecks.

White Beard whistles, loud and high enough to break glass and trigger any dog in a three mile radius, and the crowd quiets.

I pull again, trying to catch sight of Jerry.

“Alright, ya’ll did good work. We got the fucker.”

The Terrorists broke out into cheers once more.

“Now, I got one question, who here knows how to tie a noose?”

I choose not to answer, not that it matters, the blood thirsty men’s cheering would block out my voice.

Something about White Beard’s words changes the behavior of the mob. They spread out, begin knocking over shelves, and otherwise raiding the place.

My attention is on Jerry.

He’s curled up on the floor in the fetal position. One arm shielding his face, the other the back of his head. Both covered in swelling red welts.

I pulls uselessly against the man holding me.

“Stop squirming!” He barks, pulling my wrists to the side sharply.

I lose my balance, he doesn’t loosen his grip.

My left shoulder wrenches more than my right in my rapid descent to the ground.

My left leg crumbles while my right leg slides out in front of me.

Pain erupts and shoots up my bones to the rest of my nervous system. Another embarrassing sound, much greater than a whine, but not quite a scream, rips its way out of my throat.

A new man steps in front of me, blocking my already obscured view of Jerry.

“Jesus Brylock, you ain’t gotta be so hard on the little lady.” Two hands snake their way underneath my armpits, slowly lifting me back onto my feet, or foot, in this case. 

He smells like piss and beer, and when I meet his eyes, I recognize him.

Travis Guidry.

We were in the same class in grade school. In a small town like ours, it should place us on friendlier terms.

“I barely touched her,” “Brylock” replies.

“Travis!” I say, not really sure what my next words are going to be. “Jerry-Jerry-He did-“

“It’s okay, Jackie,” Travis soothes. Or tries to soothe. 

No amount of time will ever allow me to tolerate that particular nickname.

“You’re safe now.”

I must have already been pretty close to the counter, because Travis is setting me on top of it.

I shake my head, “Travis-listen-“

Glass shatters-the kind with a heavy thunk-a bottle, loud enough to draw my attention back to Jerry.

I can’t see him through the densely packed mob.

“It’s about time we show this bitch what justice really looks like,” White Beard says, oddly to my relief. 

If they’re still trying to kill Jerry, then they haven’t already beaten him to death yet. Small wins.

“Got some rope, I say we drag ‘em a few miles down the road,” one of the terrorists suggests. 

Everyone but me breaks out into laughter. 

If it’s a joke, it’s gone well over my head.

“I say, we take ‘im to the creek. Tie him to a cinder block and see if ‘ee can swim.”

More laughter. Travis and Brylock-Brian Locke-now that I’ve gotten a look at him, laugh so loud and hard I can smell what they’ve been drinking.

“I say we let them both go!” Jerry throws his idea into the pot, with a fake falsetto.

Brian rushes over and through the crowd, pushing his way through to Jerry.

The terrorists, the ones I can see, are all fighting and swarming over each other to get to Jerry.

I lean forward, my hands gripping the edge of the counter, “Stop!”

It’s useless, I doubt even Travis hears me over his cries for Jerry’s blood.

My eyes dart across the gas station, hoping to find my crutches as though I can physically stop any of this.

I turn to Travis, yell his name a few times before grabbing him by his shirt sleeve.

He turns to me and I pull my hand away. Resisting the urge to wipe off the filmy texture now coating it.

“He didn’t do it!” I shout, “Jerry’s innocent-Travis, please.”

Travis’ big brown doe eyes blink at me a few times, each time a different expression paints his face.

Confusion, concern, and then pity.

He places a hand on either one of my shoulders, angling his body to block my view of the rabid men. 

I move from my torso, trying to peer over him, with desperation I can only describe as frantic. As if I lose sight of the mob-of Jerry- he’ll be beaten to death for a crime he didn’t commit.

“Travis-“

“Listen, Jackie,” Travis cuts me off, moving his head until he finally catches my eyes. “It’s okay. You’re safe, he can’t hurt you anymore.”

I shake my head, “Jerry wouldn’t-he didn’t hurt me. Didn’t hurt Van.”

Travis tightens his grip. “You ain’t gotta lie no more, Jackie. B’sides, I read all ‘bout this. You have some sort of co-dependent relationship with Jerry. You prolly think you can’t do better, so you’ve been tolerating a lotta stuff you ain’t got too. But don’t worry, me and the boys are gonna put him in the ground for it.”

I have no idea what my face looks like. Just that I’m staring at Travis, with my full attention. 

Sure, the stuff about killing my only friend is disturbing. 

But I did not get bullied and harassed throughout middle and high school for being a lesbian for Travis to incorrectly assume Jerry and I are dating.

“It’s alright, Jackie, this is a safe space. You can let it out,” I barely hear Travis say. “Hell, I cry too. ‘Course, I mainly do it in front of my dogs. Not ‘cause they don’t judge, they do-they’re-“

I slowly remove Travis’ hands from my shoulders.

“Jerry didn’t kill Van!” I shout.

And Travis hears me.

The whole room hears me. 

Some time between Travis talking and me yelling, the mob quieted.

My skin crawls at all the pairs of eyes on me. The hungry attention of men ready to enact violence.

“And why do you say that?” White Beard asks.

Travis moves to the left, giving White Beard and just about everyone else a clear view of me.

I barely spot Jerry. He’s tucked away behind White Beard, being held upright from his arms by two separate men. 

His face is marred with forming red bruises. Bits of his hair are hanging limply, weighed down with blood from split skin. One eye already swelling shut, the other squinting to keep the blood from a gash on his brow out of it.

My stomach flips. My blood runs both hot and cold with anger and fear. I feel both painfully present in my body, and dizzy and disconnected.

I swallow.

“I asked you a question!” White Beard demands. He takes a step towards me. “Or are you deaf, too?”

“Jerry and Van are-were friends,” I say quickly, my voice coming out weaker than I’d like.

White Beard snarls, “I bet you’re “friends” with this bitch of a man too.” He points at me with his chin, looking down his nose, “and look how that turned out for ya’.”

I shake my head, the room following suit. Am I really this scared?

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!” Jerry shouts, the room’s collective attention returning to him.

I switch to breathing manually, hoping to recenter my perception. 

I’ve had panic attacks. I’ve had anxiety attacks. The labored breathing, the full body tremors, splashes of black and white dots across my vision. Very rarely as an adult, though.

“I didn’t hurt Jack, and I wouldn’t hurt Van!” Jerry continues.

This feeling is different. The last time I felt like this, Mama and Pops told me the results of Her test.

That She wasn’t likely to wake up. Nothing short of an act of god.

Have I been downplaying my relationship with Jerry? A guy who spent a year trying to get me to join a cult, who’s name I only learned a month ago?

The mob descends into ten vs one. 

I didn’t cry when Tony died. I had a panic attack, sure. But I just emptied the contents of my stomach and dry heaved for about thirty minutes after.

Despite the odds, Jerry’s still standing and throwing punches. He sends one guy flying on his back with an uppercut. A short lived victory. Someone else takes his place, eager to get a piece of Jerry.

Is it because I’m the only bitch with a vagina in a room full of men dead set on committing one crime, they might as well commit another?

Someone wraps their arm around Jerry’s throat. Another one throws a punch that breaks Jerry’s nose.

Because I might walk away from this, and Jerry won’t?

Jerry hikes his leg up, right into his front-facing attacker’s crotch.

Then, leans his weight forward, and flips his hind attacker over his back, straight into the man recovering from the loss of his bloodline.

Why couldn’t the stupid Russian Radio warned us?

Someone to the side of Jerry grabs a fistful of his dirty blonde hair. The assailent yanks Jerry, throwing the blonde off balance.

The radio sitting beside me.

Jerry counters by redirecting his body weight into the man.

My body executes the action before my brain can verbalize the thought.

I grab the radio, and with all my might (not a lot), I chuck it right into the back of White Beard’s skull.

It splinters at the impact, falling away to reveal white hair staining red.

Satisfaction runs through my body like the vibrations of a cat’s purr.

White Beard staggers forward, but recovers quickly. He pulls out a pistol from a holster on his hip and points it right between my eyes.

Any bravado in my system clears out like toilet paper and milk before it snows. 

I grit my teeth. Exhaling through them. It’s oddly important to me not to show how scared I am. Kind of like the musicians playing while the Titanic sank.

I glare at White Beard. Or, my best attempt at a glare.

White Beard glares right back, his attempt is a success.

“I know you’re a psycho bitch, but I didn’t think you were a dumb one too.” 

White Beard stalks up to me, away from the pack of ravenous animals, his aim staying trained on my forehead.

Jerry reappears in my line of vision.

Leaping to grab White Beard from behind by the throat. Jerry swings his legs around White Beard’s gun arm, forcing his aim down.

“Hey-“ White Beard chokes out.

Jerry sinks his teeth into White Beard’s left ear.

The older man howls in pain. 

White Beard thrashes around, trying to free his gun arm and knock Jerry off simultaneously. 

The other twenty some men rush to White Beard’s aid.

They rip and pry at Jerry. One grabs him by the hair, pulling Jerry’s head away from White Beard’s.

Jerry doesn’t lose his grip of White Beard’s ear, though, White Beard loses his.

White Beard makes a sort of yowl. It’s whistle-like from the oxygen deprivation. 

Jerry spits the ear out onto the floor.

Someone lands a solid punch to Jerry’s probably already broken nose.

It’s enough for the rest of the men to pry Jerry off and tear him away from my line of sight again.

White Beard turns, one hand where his ear was, the other pointing his gun at presumably Jerry.

Bang!

The room falls silent, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

They’d shot Jerry.

They’d killed Jerry.

I sat here and did nothing. Tom, Antonio, and now Jerry.

I open my eyes, fully expecting to see a growing pile of blood on the ground.

And I do, but it’s not Jerry’s.

Just the run off from the side of White Beard’s head.

Everyone is looking to the glass doors.

To Deputy Amelia O’Brien walking towards us.

The door opens with a rush of cool air.

Without showing a single emotion on her face, O’Brien scans the room. Meeting every man’s eyes, one by one.

With the grace of a stalking leopard, O’Brien walks to the center of the store, the men parting to let her through. She stops next to Jerry, who is slowly getting back up onto his feet.

Jerry mimes dusting himself off, shooting O’Brien a blood-soaked smile.

I don’t see the look she returns.

“Where are her crutches?” O’Brien addresses the not-so-angry-anymore mob, but holds White Beard’s gaze.

It’s Travis who rushes to return my crutches. Placing one on either side of me, and quickly backing away.

“Why should we listen to you? Don’ you know who my brother is, cunt?” White Beard glares at O’Brien. He was furious when I’d hit him with the radio, but the look he’s giving O’Brien is different.

“I don’t give a fuck: who you know, what’cha last name is, or whose your fucken’ uncle. Understand?” O’Brien’s voice doesn’t carry anger, doesn’t carry any emotion. “You get one chance. After this? The only way outta here is in cuffs or a body bag.”

White Beard breaks first, turning his head to me. Anger still on his face, but not the same confidence from before.

O’Brien turns away from White Beard, and takes her time meeting everyone’s eyes. “Looking at this crowd, I don’t think I’m going to fit everyone in the back of the cruiser. And it’d be a fucken shame to shoot all of ya’.” 

O’Brien turns her body back to White Beard, raising her voice just enough to still address everyone in the store. “But I got feeling I won’t have to do that. I bet, the only person I’d have to shoot is you, and the rest will scatter. So, what’s it going to be Leon? You feel like testing me tonight?”

White Beard-Leon, I guess- responds with a snarl on his face, but otherwise brings no challenge to O’Brien’s speech.

O’Brien speaks louder, making sure everyone in the room can hear her without excuse. Not that it matters, the gas station is quiet enough to hear a mouse blink. “Listen up, you all are going to go outside, get in your trucks, and leave. If any one of you shows back up on this property again, you will be lucky to go to jail.

The group of men all gave each other looks, talking without talking, waiting for one of their compatriots to decide their next action.

“Did I stutter?” O’Brien says, one hand resting on her hip, the other just above her service pistol.

The man closest to the door takes over Leon’s leadership, bolting out the door with everyone following suit.

Leon is the last to leave. He has the dignity and pride to walk out instead of flee, imparting a threat to O’Brien along the way, “You’re a dead bitch.”

Jerry cups his hand over his nose, and with a crunch, I can only assume he sets it back into place. “That was pretty hot of you O’Brien, threatening to go all police brutality on their asses.”

O’Brien shoots Jerry a glare, but there’s no heat behind it. “A thank you will do.” O’Brien turns to me, “You got a medkit around here?”

I nod, the room copying my movement. “In the storage closet, I’ll get it.”

O’Brien looks me up and down. “Did they hurt you?”

I hop off the counter, adjusting my crutches, “Just my pride.” It’s not really a lie. Sure, my leg still hurts like hell from accidentally putting my weight on it, but that wasn’t intentional. Jerry has a broken nose and who knows what else.

I open the door to the storage closet, and go to flick on the light. My hand lands on something moving. 

I zip my hand back, turning on the light in process. An orange roach the size of a mouse skitters around the door frame, disappearing behind one of the many shelves and boxes.

Probably not a great sign, but hardly a priority.

I return to O’Brien and Jerry.

Jerry is sitting down at the booth with O’Brien shining a flashlight into one eye, and holding the other open.

“You should probably go to a hospital,” O’Brien informs.

Jerry waves her off, wincing through the motion. His knuckles are split and his fingers are turning a mixture of purple and red. “This nothing, a little rest and I’ll be fine.”

I set the first aid kit down. Opening it up to see the contents. Three orange roaches, ranging in size from a cigarette to a rat, crawl out, running across the table before slipping into the shadows.

I freeze. Waiting for Jerry or O’Brien to acknowledge what I just saw.

“Why are you so pale?” O’Brien asks.

I laugh, or I try to laugh, “I don’t get out much.”

No one laughs.

I snatch the disinfectant out of the first aid kit and turn my attention to Jerry. 

His non-swollen eye looks me over. Concern is evident in his gaze, but I cannot help but think he should be more concerned about himself. And the tiny orange roaches crawling out of his nostrils.

I grab for the napkins with my free hand, offering them to Jerry.

He looks at them.

“For your nose, and all the-you know.” I would like to say “for the bugs.” But I don’t want to seem unhinged in this particular moment.

“Do you want to take off your jacket?” Jerry asks me.

I shake my head, a mistake, as the room once again moves along with it. “I don’t mind. Blood isn’t that hard to wash out.”

Jerry laughs, and winces, one hand covering a spot by his liver. One roach, still orange, but this time the size of a pigeon, crawls out from under Jerry’s shirt, onto his leg, and then vanishing underneath Jerry’s thigh.

“You’re sweating a lot, dude, are you hot or something?”

“No..?” I feel pretty cold, actually.

“Are you feeling alright, Sleepy?” O’Brien asks again.

“I’m fine,” I insist, “just rattled after-” I gesture out the window, and then to the general mess of the gas station- “all that. I’ll be fine in a minute or so.”

O’Brien is more proactive in checking Jerry over for broken bones.

I try to clean out any of Jerry’s cuts, from general gas station funk to pieces of glass.

Jerry makes a total of one joke about having two nurses looking after him. 

O’Brien asserts her boundary with Jerry, by asserting force on his broken rib.

Jerry sucks in a breath through his teeth, “Oh-kay.”

“You really should go to a hospital,” O’Brien repeats herself.

Jerry shakes his head, “I’ll be fine, this is nothing. Besides-” Jerry flips his hand out and gives the store a wide sweep with it- “who else is going to help Jack clean up this mess?”

O’Brien pinches Jerry’s index finger.

Jerry fails to hide the pain shooting through him.

“You’re not going to be much help with broken fingers and ribs. C’mon, I’ll drive you.”

“But what about J-”

“I’ll be fine, Jerry. O’Brien will have to come back to file a police report for the insurance company. I won’t even be alone that long.”

Jerry doesn’t look reassured at all by my words. “We can go after Ambrose shows up. A few hours isn’t going to change anything.”

“I can handle a few hours, Jerry.”

“Are you sure?” O’Brien asks.

I look over to O’Brien, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The deputy uses both of her hands to gesture at all of me. “You don’t look alright.”

I give a short laugh, “Have I ever?”

“No offense, dude, but you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“The adrenaline is wearing off or something. I’m fine.”

A roach the size of a cat crawls out from the booth, walking unafraid of the light to the storage closet. A legion of mice-sized roaches follow after.

O’Brien and Jerry both fail to notice the infestation.

I cross my arms. “I am fine. If O’Brien thinks I look worse when she comes back from taking you to the hospital, I’ll close up and call Ambrose in when I get service.”

“Why not just do that now?” Jerry presses.

I laugh again, “And leave Kelvin Ambrose this? He’ll have an aneurysm.”

O’Brien holds my gaze, searching for something in it.

“I really am okay, Amy.”

“I’ll be right back after I drop Stoner Boy here off. Ya’ hear?”

“I’ll see you in a little bit, then.”

With O’Brien’s driving, I doubt she’ll even take an hour to drive there and back.

With the two of them gone, I get to work with a broom and contractor bag. 

Despite the chill, I roll up my jacket sleeves. Blood is water soluble. Gas station funk is not.

The roaches must be feeling bold without O’Brien and Jerry in the store. Just about every piece of debris I disturb with the broom sends at least one running.

I’m certain we sell some off-brand form of Raid I can bomb the place with after I get it looking halfway clean again. I could even say it was taken or damaged by the mob. Not that the owners would care either way.

The roaches are gross. And the wrong size and color. But, any fear of bugs I’d had was gone by the time I was 12. One of my former foster mothers' wasn’t all there, and that left her a hoarder to fill in her missing parts.

She struggled to keep up with cleaning, and struggled even more with throwing out trash.

Just about every bug had either crawled on me, or slept in my mattress with me.

As if to test my lack of entomophobia, one of the roaches lands on my arm.

I go to swipe it off, but it bites me. The pain comes more as a surprise than anything. 

Until, it keeps biting. Chewing.

I slap the insect without second thought, brush it off of my arm and crush it underneath my crutch.

The last thing I need right now are weird orange roaches with a taste for human flesh.

I abandon cleaning to search for anything that claims to kill bugs.

I start by spraying all of the edges, from walls to shelves. 

I grab a lighter on my way to the storage closet. A cat-sized roach can’t be any worse than Rocko, and I deal with him all the time.

I open the storage closet door, no more than three inches before roaches pore out so densely I can’t see the floor beneath them.

I take a step back-or I try to. One of my crutches loses traction under the swarm, leaving me flailing for balance.

I land on my left side, and the roaches waste no time scaling the new mountain in their path.

I don’t bother trying to get back up. I scramble in a three-legged crab walk to get away.

The roaches are faster, some crawl up my legs, some up my arms.

I try to brush them off and crawl away at the same time. Neither of which I do a good job of.

The roaches find their way under my clothes, and they start biting.

Out of ideas, I roll over, attempting to crush as many of the little monsters as possible. Halfway through my brilliant plan, my right leg makes contact with the ground, my cast hits the ground, I force myself to a stop.

Pain shoots through me. Like the marrow in my bones turned to lava. Pushing and oozing out of the porous constructs and roasting my body tissue.

I know I’m screaming because the store gets a lot quieter as a roach takes advantage of the new opening, crawling right into my mouth.

I gag immediately.

Feeling threatened, the insect crawls further down my throat.

I feel each of its hairy legs step on my tongue and down my esophagus.

I wretch.

The roach falls out onto the floor in a puddle of bile.

Any attention I could use to take in that series of events to stolen by the rest of the biting bugs.

I scramble to get my jacket off, ignoring the winter chill on my exposed skin.

The roaches are biting me, chewing on me.

They’re burrowing under my skin.

They’re eating me. Deconstructing me, rotting me. Decomposing.

I can see the lumps moving around underneath my skin. I can feel them crawling on my muscle tissue. Breaking down pieces of me.

I can feel them crawling all over me. All inside of me, biting and chewing and digging deeper and deeper.

I feel the ridges of their carapaces pressing against my skin as the travel.

My nails are blunt, but they’re the sharpest thing I have at the moment.

The roaches are in my chest, dancing along my ribs, scaling my spine, partying on my scapulas.

Eating me. Breeding and multiplying inside of me. 

I scratch and I tear at my skin.

I lose my shirt, the piece of clothing blocking my access more than halting the insects’.

My nails aren’t going through my skin fast enough. I can feel the roaches burrowing deeper and deeper.

I need something sharper, and I needed it yesterday.

The gas station doesn’t carry knives, not even scissors. The sharpest things we sell are fishing hooks.

But I have a box cutter.

How could I forget?

I was cutting a box of pralines open at the beginning of my shift.

It’s in my jacket pocket.

Where did I throw it?

Oh!

It’s right there!

I grab the knife, push the blade out and slice the skin open above my floating ribs.

The roaches are trying to get inside my small intestines. I have to get them out.

I try to get my free hand in to grab the fuckers, but my skin is to firmly attached to my abdominal lining.

Except for where the roaches have tunneled through.

I feel sick. I’m not a surgeon. But I need to cut deeper. I need to cut further.

The roaches are dying and fucking below my skin. The corpses decaying quickly in the moist darkness. Each corpse rotting the area around it faster.

I extend the blade, and line it up with the first cut.

It’ll be like skinning an animal. 

Miller tried to show me once. The Dog had brought home a dead rabbit. Miller insisted I needed to know how to prep an animal to eat.

Going as far as puppetting my hands through the motions and tears.

He didn’t stop until I’d worked myself up enough to vomit.

I slide the blade in.

I inhale a quick breath.

The blade is cold under my skin. Practically freezing in contrast. 

I hold my breath. With a gentle sawing motion, I separate my skin from my abdominal lining.

I put the box cutter between my teeth, bits of my own oddly sweet blood drip into my mouth.

I use one hand to pinch the now loose skin up.

The other, I slide my hand into. One finger at a time, trying to fight my body’s pain response, pushing deeper and deeper. Going by touch alone to snag one of the roaches.

A wail erupts from my throat. My hand unable to go any further, without a single bug for my efforts.

I pull my hand out, snatch the knife out of my mouth and shove it under my skin. The blade facing up, I pull.

I haven’t been physically able to shed tears for around three or four years. Unless something physically gets in my eyes. A side effect from medication I've forgotten the name of.

I still make all the sounds.

Bays and whines and screams all spew from my mouth.

My skin gives, turning my line into T.

I pinch at the lower flab of skin, pulling it upward. Bits of flesh and web and detach like still wet glue between two objects.

My lungs heave with exhaustion. Each exhale pulling my skin further apart while inhales offer the slightest hints of reprieve.

I line the blade up again, pushing my way in between layers. Deeper and further, despite the pain.

The roaches are so much worse. I have to do this. I have to get them out.

I slide the blade across with slow sawing movements again.

My vision whites out for too long and not long enough.

I pull the box cutter out, and open my mouth in anticipation to hold it again.

Something jerks my hand away.

“Christ, Jack, I wasn’t even gone-”

I turn my head, and I see O’Brien.

Oh thank whatever god is listening.

“O’Brien you’ve got to help me-the roaches-”

“What are you doing to yourself?” She demands.

I try to pull my hand back.

“You’re burning up, Jack, can you hear me?”

I nod my head, a mistake, like it has been all day.

I lose whatever is left in my stomach, and a pile of roaches too.

Are they already in my stomach? Or did more crawl in my mouth and I not notice?

“O’Brien,” I try again, “the-the roaches, they’re everywhere, you gotta help me.”

“Roaches? What are you talking about?”

Can she still not see them? Can she not even feel them?

“The orange ones,” I offer.

“I don’t even want to know, I gotta get you to a hospital.” O’Brien uses her already existing grip on my arm to lift me up. “Can you walk at all, Jack?”

My good leg takes my weight well enough, and O’Brien carries the rest.

“I’m going to put you in the back of the cruiser, I need you to lay on your side, alright?”

“I need the box cutter back.”

“Are you out of your mind?!”

“There are roaches, inside of me! They’re eating me!” I shout back.

O’Brien opens the back door to the cruiser, she’s quick, but not rough in putting me inside.

O’Brien climbs in after, pressing her weight against my pelvis, effectively straddling me.

O’Brien pulls off her uniform jacket.

I shove my hand against her chest. “I can’t-Amy I’m rotting-the roaches-“

I can’t make out O’Brien’s face. She snakes a hand under my lower back, arching me away from the cushions.

”Amy-Amy the roaches-they’re decomposing-“ I’m pressing against her chest with both of my hands. My blood seeping into her beige shirt.

O’Brien’s jacket brushes my back. She pulls it tightly against my ribs, against my access point of roach-removal.

Just like that, O’Brien’s gone.  Slamming the cruiser door shut.

I couldn’t have been happier a second ago to get her off of me.

Now, all I want is the welcoming warmth of her body heat back.

O’Brien turns the engine over and the lights on, racing out of the parking lot somehow faster than she normally does.

I go back to getting the roaches out.

O'Brien's knot is good. I can't even begin to find an opening to pull it apart.

I can, push her uniform jacket down.

It tugs at the lower flap, pulling the loose flesh down with it.

It hurts and I cry out. I don't stop.

They already managed to get into my stomach, right? Do I need to go there?

I look at my now exposed incision point, it’s on my left. Is that where my stomach is? Or is that where my liver is? 

My only light source is the flashing blue lights of the cruiser.

Can I waste time being wrong?

I use one hand to pry the skin open, and the other I try to stick in as far as I can. 

It’s not far enough.

I bite down on my cheeks and try to ride out the pain.

I scratch and push and scratch and push deeper and deeper.

My hands are wet and slick and the tissue is slimy and tender like raw meat. The only difference is my flesh is still warm. Still alive.

I have to keep going.

The door to the back of the cruiser opens, cold air blasting through.

“Jack!” O’Brien snatches my hands away.

Uselessly, I pull against her.

O’Brien pulls me closer to her, against her chest. She holds my hands together at the wrist, using her arm to force me into her chest.

Her free arm slides under my hips, and she pulls me the rest of the way out. 

She’s the only warm thing around, and I want nothing more than to stop fighting her and just stay in her restraining hold.

But the roaches are still crawling around. I can feel them eating away at my intestinal lining. Scraping the outside of my lungs to make a way in.

“Amy, please!” I beg. “You have to help me get them out!”

O’Brien sets me down against something flat with only the slightest bit of give to it.

She holds onto both of my hands, not for my comfort, but to stop me from getting the roaches out.

The world starts moving, and before I know it, the night sky is replaced by overbearingly bright florescent lights.

“We’re at the hospital, do you understand?”

“Ha!” a boisterous voice booms. “I told you something was wrong!” 

I see Jerry looming over me, unsure of how he’s here at all.

“Jerry!” I plead, “Jerry, you have to help me!”

“I don’t mean to sound rude here, but where is your shirt? And did you get attacked by the raccoons or something?” Jerry asks.

“The roaches, Jerry, you have to help me get them out of me!”

“Are either one of you Ms. Townsend’s medical proxy?”

O’Brien and Jerry exchange looks with each other.

I try to yank my hands away. If no one is going to help me, I have to try and save myself.

“That would be me,” Jerry lies.

I can’t see who he’s talking to.

“O’Brien stop!” I snarl, still pulling against her steely grip.

“You’re the officer who called it in?”

O’Brien nods.

“Please!” I beg, “please, they’re eating me, they’re already inside!”

“What is?” The unknown person asks.

“The roaches!” I shout, “please!”

Somebody holds something against my forehead. It beeps, and they take it away.

“One-oh-five point three, I need fluids!”

We’re moving again.

“Are the scratches self-inflicted?”

“Yeah, she keeps saying something about roaches.”

“Because they’re inside of me and eating me!” I shout. "They're rotting and decomposing!"

“I need a benzo shot!”

“Stop! I don’t need-I need to get them out!”

Someone straps a cushioned band across my chest.

“Deputy, can you hold one arm down?”

“Stop!” I cry, “Why aren’t you listening to me?”

“Jack, they need you to be still to get the roaches out,” Jerry says.

I look at him. I look at him in his too-blue eye, trying to find the truth or a lie in his gaze.

Two more bands are pulled over me. One above my elbows and the other above my wrists.

There’s a pinch in my left arm. I see a set of hands pushing down on a plunger and putting who knows what into my system.

“I need you to help her fill out this form-” someone hands Jerry a clipboard.

“-and I need you to tell me everything you can about her symptoms.”

Another needle is pushed into the back of my hand. This one connects to a tube with a destination unknown.

“I don’t need any of this!” I bay, “I need to get the roaches out!”

“Ma’am you need to calm down.”

I thrash. Trying to kick my legs out. “I need these bugs out of me! Why aren’t you helping me? I'm rotting!”

Someone in scrubs grabs hold of my legs, trying to hold me down.

I howl when my cast makes contact with the gurney. I scream as a new flood of roaches erupts from my cast. Squirming their way up my thigh and out my pants onto my stomach. They go right to doorway I made to get them out. 

“Stop! Stop, get them off-get them off- please! ”

“Christ-get the cast saw, I think I know what’s wrong, you two can wait at reception, we’ll call you.”

“Jerry! Amy!” I cry out, “Please, please, you have to help me!”

My breathing is coming in faster than I can catch it. “Get them off, please!”

“I need another benzo-you two, out.”

I bay and squirm.

It’s useless.

Jerry and O’Brien give me twin looks of fear and pity. And they leave.

They leave me with the roaches.