Earworm

Natalia Sinelnik

Morpheus K.

Enough. You are not enough.

“No. I’m not.” It slides down my cheeks, creeping through my skin in the form of pricks and raised hairs. Curling around my ears and trailing down my neck in a long cord. It presses into my eardrums and rests there, whispering into my mind. My earworm.

Fat. You are too fat. “Yes.” My lips are cold and so is my skin. My mother says I’m anemic like the other half of my family and that is why I am cold. I wonder if they too have the earworms living inside their brains, creeping across their necks in the dead of night. I sit up off my bed and walk to the mirror, studying it there. The rest of the world doesn’t see him, just as they fail to notice the pudge that grows around my belly. They only ever comment on my ribs and “my, how small you are” as if I were anorexic. “I’m not. I’m healthy,” I whisper and tighten my abs. The pudge doesn’t go away, simply shifts and changes shape. I frown. Boys are supposed to have an easy time building muscle. So why can’t I?

Because you are not enough. “Yeah.” I look away. There’s always someone better in this world. I look to the pages spread across my floor and sigh. My legs fold beneath me and I collapse cross-legged to the floor. The earworm retreats within my ear canal and rests there, coiling his body within the warmth of my head. I press my hand there, cradling him.

You can’t do it. I nod and stare at the papers. There are hazy sketches. They might be good, compared to me, but in the grand scheme, they’re nothing but chicken scratch. The poems that rest at my feet contain nothing but empty cries. Perhaps I should throw them out. I pick one up. “What’s stopping me?”

Pride. I chuckle and nod. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’m not supposed to have pride, though, right?” He doesn’t answer me this time. I run my fingers through my greasy hair. It’ll be dinner soon. That means leaving my room and facing the world. Eating. Food, why does the world have to run on food? I drop the paper. Why does the world have to keep running? Or maybe I’m the one running, from the world. My chest aches as the page flutters to the ground and I slump forward over my knees, gripping my head. It’s empty. “You’re useless,” I whisper to him, my demon. He refrains from answering again. My lips tighten. The silent treatment. I always hated that. “We’ve been at this for hours. Maybe just today, you could give me an idea? Since you like whispering so much. Please, just this once?” My jaw clenches and I shove a few of the papers with my socked feet. They fly across my small room. “Please!” My voice thins into a whisper immediately. I clamp my hands over my mouth. His laughter fills my skull. I don’t have ideas. I rest my head forward and bury my fingers in my hair. “I know. I’m sorry, I just…I don’t either.”

You’re not creative. “I know, it’s just…I want to be. I want to create something. I have to, right? So, they don’t forget me?”

Why? With a tug and a shift, he crawls from my ear again. Ringing his long body around my neck. It makes the hair stand on end, sending goosebumps down my arms. I shiver and clutch my flannel shirt closer to my body. Why indeed? “I don’t know…I’m afraid,” I admit.

You’re full of pride. Hmph. He has a point. Maybe I am. Is it wrong to want to be remembered in this world? Perhaps I should be content in my anonymity. Perhaps not. I look down. His soulless eyes stare up at me, taunting me. He could fill my head with the world if he wanted to, but he does not. It’s always “never smart enough”, “never thin enough”, “never enough” for him. For him. But what about me? My lips tighten. “You’re a liar.” He simply stares back. You’re the liar. “No!” I grab him by his neck. His wriggling body is trapped. His eyes bulge. My chest burns with hate. I squeeze tighter until I can feel the joints of his slime-cased body threaten to pop apart. He squirms but doesn’t make a sound. I scream in his stead as tears begin to slip from my eyes. How long have I listened to his abuse? How long have I believed it? I don’t know anymore; all I know is I can’t take it. There’s no give and take, only take and take and take. My tears are hot. My skin is cold. The world around me blurs. My body slacks onto the floor and papers rustle. Poetic, I think. Maybe not.

You’re hurting yourself.

Lies! I can’t trust his words. The fiend. My chest aches and my hands begin to shake. Still, I squeeze harder. I’m done. I’m done!

He snaps. I crush him. His body splatters and my hands drop limp at my sides. My chest burns. That’s okay. He’s gone now and it’s over. I exhale what breath I have left. “Enough.”

Morpheus K is an author with a love for the fun and the freaky, with emphasis on the freaky. Aiming to engage audiences with unique twists in the paranormal, mental, and even plain and simple, he strives to be and write anything but the norm. Even mystical story machines require day jobs, though, and when not converting caffeine into fiction, Morpheus works several day jobs from Barista to Office Assistant. Currently, Morpheus continues to work diligently on new stories while pursuing a BA in English.