Andy looked at the bowl of cereal that sat in front of him.
“What’s this?” He complained.
“Muesli.” His wife replied. “You know what the doctor said. Now, when I get back from my sister’s I want you to have finished the whole box. There’s enough there for the week.”
She placed a kiss on his forehead before heading to the front door; a wheeled case in tow.
He reluctantly spooned the ‘chicken feed’ into his mouth. It had the consistency of cardboard and didn’t taste any better.
Within an hour he winced in pain. Strange sounds were emanating from his stomach.
He decided to retire to bed, hoping a lie down might make him feel better. He took a bottle of water with him; he was so parched.
Lying in bed, he attempted to reach for the bottle; that incredible thirst was driving him insane.
To his utter dismay his arms refused his commands. His joints seemed fused, like a statue.
Andy’s wife returned and called out to him.
Not finding him downstairs, she made her way up to the bedroom. Halfway up the stairs she saw Andy’s foot protruding from the bedroom; it spasmed and thudded against the wooden frame. She feared he was having a heart attack.
She gasped. The foot was connected to what was left of his body by a tangled twine of branches. On the bed, a knotted mess of brambles. The only evidence that this was Andy was his head at the end of a crude interpretation of a spinal column, constructed of a stem of thorns. Andy’s face contorted as he let out a silent scream.
His wife fainted.
Unconscious on the floor, vines slowly reached out to her body. He was desperate for the rehydrating properties contained within.
∼ Ian Sputnik
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