Thirty Five

Point Nemo

   God, it fucking hurts! Corey is screaming in the prison of his mind as his body heaves another stream of vomit onto the carpet. His body is trembling and feverish, flashing images of monsters in the shadows. The Mask has offered no answers to end this suffering. In fact, the damn thing hasn't spoken a word since he started coughing up blood.

   "Bastard." He manages to choke out after another violent stream of viscous oil erupts from his stomach. "I'm not interested in helping you get your ex back."

   The man's vocal cords ache from underuse and purging. He can feel the unnatural way his jaw moves as he speaks aloud for the first time in who knows how long. In a desperate attempt for relief he staggers his way into the kitchen. Walking feels wrong. It feels as if he is covered in too many layers of clothes. Simply bringing a cup of water to his lips takes all of his strength, causing him to slide down to sit on the floor.

   The Soul brings Corey's fingers to the necklace, caressing the tokens so gently he can barely feel the cold metal.

   "Each iteration there is a learning curve. These bodies - they are not meant for two. It seems even my simple presence is Hell." The mask speaks up, finally. It is gentle and worried, like a mother of a dying child.

   A sudden wave of agony causes Corey to cry out - a feral sound that no human should ever make. The pain comes from deep within his bones. It is unbearable, and causes him to lose what was left of his consciousness. His body slumps to the floor, it's chest still. For a few moments The Soul found itself mourning the loss of yet another host; waiting for this one to turn to dust just as the others had.

  Streams of sunlight fill the now ruined apartment over and over again. The Soul does not move from it's spot on the floor. It's hopelessness and anger paralyze even it's thoughts. Nothing can be done if it's host decays. No prayers said. No chance to offer love to those whom hate themselves. Nothing.

   But, it seems, nothing is exactly what's happening. The crumpled human form has not changed despite the passage of time. The fragility of these forms has always astounded The Soul, and yet this one still lays in a heap on the floor.
   Move. It thinks over and over again.

   Don't wanna. Corey's voice mumbles angerly in his mind.

   The host's fingers twitch almost roboticlly. The movement feels foreign to The Soul. Without a fight for control it has to focus on every cell. It's lungs are still full of the rancid oil the mask produces, but a shaky breath is drawn in through an unknown orifice. It's heart begins to hasten. The Soul can hear it's cursed sludge rushing through each vein, artery, and capillary.

   Neither inhabitant of Corey's body could muster the strength to stand, so they simply lay there on the cold tile of the kitchen basking in the peace of the completed transformation. The pain has begun to subside, though the ache of the damage done feeds the trauma of the process.

   I hope you know I fucking hate you. Corey's voice echos off the walls of his skull. A tightness in his chest appears near instantly.

   "She. Is. Worth. It." The Soul punctuates each word with a movement. First, placing the hands of it's vessel on the floor, and then it's knees; climbing the body until it is standing. Like a calf in pasture it's legs are bent in uncertainty. To an onlooking one may assume the man is simply a drunkard. With shuffling steps the man's form makes it's way back and forth pacing slowly.

   There is a dull thud as The Soul falls to the floor. These bodies. They're so... physical. The thing in the mask exists only as an idea until tethered. To be corporeal is nearly a religious experience in itself.

  Undeterred by the force of gravity the host moves like a marionette. Jolting and jerking as muscles flex and nerves fire. They make it to the front door where they crash into the wood. The thin, battered frame of what was once Corey is no match for the solid wood, barely even causing it to shake.

   Once again The Soul is trapped in a body caught in unconsciousness.