THE CHANGE By: Andrew Rothkin
Tuesday, March 24th, 2009I couldn’t take it, I kept telling myself, one more night and I’d go insane.
Get yourself together, damn it! It’s just a dream, a goddam dream…
Every night it begins the same… Lying on my back, safe, sane, warm under my covers despite the chill in the air, breathing gently, easily, glad to be at rest. And then the panic begins to set. And then my heart pounds. And then my blood races, tearing through my veins like a tidal wave of morphine, tearing through my body like microscopic madmen on the loose. And then the pain — the terrible pain — as cell by cell my veins stretch wide, my insides shift and churn, and I lay helpless, unable to move, unable to stop the change.
Every night, it’s the same…. Once the blood rushes, once my veins pop, my muscles transform, hardening, tightening, morphing deep within…then my skin toughens, bulbous and blazing like some burning primeval beast.
It’s only a dream, I tell myself. Relax — it’s just a dream!
After the skin, it’s the bones — the most painful part of all — and I try not to listen as the bones snap and twist and torque, and although I have not the slightest strength to move, my position always changes to the whim of my mutating bones; sometimes they turn me over on my chest, sometimes they force me on my face, and on one particularly awful night, my bones flung me across the room.
Once the bones stop shifting — and sometimes they shift for hours — my transformation is nearly complete…. It’s just my jaw, my teeth, my nose…. Then once the foam fills my mouth and the blood floods my eyes, the change overtakes my brain. The blood stream over my eyes is always the last thing I remember.
Eleven nights I have endured this dream: the twisting and the turning and that horrible, burning pain…the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as my body rages its war within.
Eleven afternoons I have awoken to dread, hours past my alarm’s ring, drenched in terrible sweat…a grown man sobbing from a stupid, goddam dream!
It’s been nine days since I have been to work, a week since I left my apartment.
My boss has been calling every day. “Just checking in on my number one seller.”
“I will be better tomorrow,” I assure him. Day after day, I assure him. Yet I am never better tomorrow.
My girlfriend has started to call me ten, twelve times each day. “Maybe it’s time you saw a doctor.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. You don’t sound fine at all.”
“You worry to much.”
“And you don’t worry enough…not about things that matter. My four o’clock just cancelled. I’m gonna bring you chicken soup. Orange juice…. Hot tea…. Like your mother used to do.”
“My mom never did any such thing.”
“Well, now you’ve got a girlfriend that does.”
“Don’t, Lisa. I’m fine.” What the hell was I going to tell her? That I wasn’t sick at all…that her boyfriend was cracking up, that I was hiding from the world because of some stupid, mind-fuck nightmare? “One more day. If I’m not better by Friday, you can make me anything you want.”
“One more day. Please feel better.”
“I kind of do already.” But I didn’t feel better at all, and my head was pounding and my temples were tight and everything was drenched with sweat. The thought of doing anything — of bathing, of eating (though my stomach panged with hunger), of getting out of bed — was more than I could bear…and I lay there, staring straight ahead, the crazy patterns of the cracks and bumps in the ceiling looking more like ghostly faces hour after hour. Then once again, I fell asleep.
And my heart began to pound.
And my blood began to race.
And once again I lay helpless as my blood vessels opened wide and my flesh distorted its shape…. My skin thickened like a rhinoceros hide then bubbled with blisters and pus…. My bones crunched and crushed against each other and I once again endured this hell — and then woke up in a pool of sweat, sickened and spent and alone.
Suddenly there was a knock. I would have jumped had I had the strength.
“You haven’t answered your phone all day.” Lisa opened and closed my apartment door. “You’ve really got me worried.”
I tried to respond, but nothing came out — too weak and hungry to speak. I was embarrassed to have her see me so frail despite the hopes and fears we have shared.
“Chicken soup,” she announced as she approached my bedroom door, “just what the doctor or-” The moments she saw me she let out a scream — and she, and the bowl, spun up into the air. She fell to the ground with a thud, then lay in a puddle of soup, shards of glass on top of her body, shards strewn across the floor.
WAKE UP, I tried to shout — but no words came out at all. HELP, I choked in vain.
I watched for hours, Lisa lying on her face. Did she faint? Is she dead? There was nothing I could do! Until, at last, the dream overtook me — and the blood began to flow and the bones began to shift and the fangs slid out from my gums…. And one more night I endured this torment…. Until, at last, I awoke this afternoon, sick and spent and drenched in thick, hot sweat….
But the sweat…it’s bright red…
And Lisa’s head lay in my arms, her torso near my desk….
I’m not hungry anymore.
And all I can do is stare at the ceiling, weak, helpless, alone, and wait for my bones (and my hunger) to overtake me once again.
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© 2009 Andrew Rothkin
Andrew Rothkin is primarily a dramatic writer, as well as an actor and stage director/producer. He has had numerous plays produced in New York City, several of which became award-winning productions. While there has been a lot of industry interest surrounding at least one of his screenplays, none have as yet been filmed. Andrew is also a poet.
