Metamorphosis

Gregor cannot sleep. He lies awake with lists and fears and wants spinning through his head. He couldn't tell you if anything is wrong. Though, it's been a long time since he slept deeply. When he wasn't plagued by dreams of spitting out mouthfuls of teeth or loosing clumps of hair.

Tonight is no different. He lies on his back, eyes closed, waiting for rest to take him. He's so tired his eyes ache behind his lids but he feels wide awake. Counting backwards from a hundred he loses his train of thought somewhere in the seventies.

He's worrying his back tooth with his tongue. The one in the back, bottom left, that feels like it fits wrong. It never moves, never aches, it’s stability is often a source of comfort, Proof that not all anxieties have substance.

Until he feels it give. A faint twinge in his jaw and a sickly crunch as the tooth starts to wobble. He starts to feels his stomach drop and goes still. As if this is a dream. As if the tooth isn't loose. As if pretending it isn't happening will make it stop.

Minutes pass. His mind races and convinces him it is a side effect of the insomnia. He pokes it again and feels the rough edge of the base pull free from the gum. Unable to stop himself, he continues to test it. To poke and prod and grind his teeth, to see where the limits of the movement are. To convince himself it's not too bad. The more he does the bigger the wobble gets but it still feels like the next movement will be the one that settles is back into place.

He feels the roots moving deep within the gum. The tooth gets looser, the wobble bigger. He can get his tongue under it now. He pries it up and feels the tooth rip free of the last string of gum. Unsure what to do he holds it against the roof of his mouth to prevent swallowing it. Ridges digging into the soft flesh of his pallet.

At this he sits up in bed and raises his hand to his mouth. He spits the tooth gently onto his palm, staring at it in the faint moonlight. The pale light stripping any saturation from the red that coats it and now his hand.

In his shock he drops the tooth into his sheets . Then frantically searches for it. As if he could put it back. Make it stop. All the while tongue exploring the new gap in his smile. Now on his hands and knees, he scrabbles through the sheets and tries to ignore the building pressure in his jaw. He grits his teeth to try to hold them into place but feels them crack then shatter with the pressure. Mouth now full of shards of bone and blood, he coughs into his lap. Blood and saliva run off his chin as he looks at the pile that used to be part of him.

It's a dream. The same dream as always. This is the part where he wakes up. He closes his eyes and counts back from ten. But opens them to see his own grin looking back at him. Hand clamped over his mouth he fumbles for a candle. Once lit he approaches the mirror, steeling his nerves to face himself in the mirror. Tears begin to stream down his cheeks and he can't work out how to hold his jaw anymore.

At first he looks the same, ignoring the dried blood staining his chin and nightshirt. Opening his mouth it continues to flow. Running down his chin and neck in thick ribbons. He tries to wipe it with the back of his hand. The panic has crested and gives way to a dull emptiness. As he stretches his mouth wide to inspect wreckage he notices that the skin of his face it feels different. He reaches up to touch it and feels It has a dry paper like quality. Giving slightly too much to the pressure. He turns his face to the side and gently runs his thumb across the cheekbone. The skin holds for a second before pulling away.

He takes hold of the now loose flap and pulls. Feeling the skin strip off from his tear duct across his cheek. What's left below is not flesh. He runs his fingers over it and finds a hard shell. Bordered by the rough edges of the torn skin. It is all too easy to get a hold on the next loose piece. Then the one after. Slowly sheading his skin to reveal whatever lies underneath. When he looks back up, he no longer recognises the face staring back.

He can't face the mirror anymore, to see what is to become. He looks at his hands stained with the dry blood from his mouth but the bleeding stopped a long time ago now. He feels things moving underneath his skin. Parts shifting and rearranging, waiting to be revealed. While he still can he walks back across the room to sit back down on the bed.

He goes to blow out the candle and realises his mouth no longer works the way it did before. He feels what’s left of his chin split in two as he tries to open it. Chunks of discarded flesh falling into his lap. He opens and closes the mandibles that now jut out of where his jaw used to be. Hearing their soft click as he reassures himself that none of it is real.

Reaching over he squeezes the flame out between his fingers and feels no pain. As he turns to lie down he feels the skin stretch across his spine then split apart. Unable to see it, he feels the space made under him as he flexes the wings that sit behind the hard shell.

There seems nothing left to do as he lies back and stares at the ceiling. He wishes he'd stopped there. Gone to sleep and let the bad dream pass, but it was always too late for that. He wishes that he wasn't responsible for the picking, pulling, tearing that set him free. That this just happened to him. That he didn't feel relieved. When it's done and there is nothing left to lose, he lets his eyes close and starts to count. He's asleep before he knows it.