Infection

In a crowded waiting room, you take the only vacant seat, between a sleeping old man and a wheezing woman with puffy, drooping cheeks. You look down, focusing on the throbbing, pea-sized hole on your forearm. The ooze rises and falls with each pulse. When you look up again, the room is empty except for the wheezing woman. She is louder now, exhaling her disease to fill the air. She is staring at you. Trying not to breathe too much, you tuck your chin and curl into yourself. Something moves beneath your skin. Your wound flutters now, as a fly emerges, squeezing its wings through the opening, escaping to open air. Two more squirm through. Finally, a worm peeks out. It snakes through your whole body, pulling itself from the corners of each extremity. It coils itself on the floor at your feet. The flies circle it. The woman is silent.