Smallscale

Symon walked home shamefully and hobbled through the door, admittedly glad he was released from duty and not trying to hold down his lunch on a bumpy moving train. His mother was cleaning up breakfast when she saw him. 

 

“Back already, dear?” She asked.

 

“I…” He started, unsure if he wanted to admit he had gotten sick at the train station. “I’m not feeling well, so I was sent home.” 

 

His mother immediately threw off her dish gloves and walked over, pressing a hand against her son’s pallid face. 

 

“Symon, sweety you are burning up.” She noted with a frown. “You should go upstairs and rest.” 

 

“That was the plan.” He said, heading up to his room, but was stopped by his father who loomed nearby with a disapproving scowl on his face.

 

“Woah woah. What’s this I hear about you coming back from work early?” His father pressed. 

 

Symon froze. He knew that tone of his fathers, it never meant good news. He clutched his bag and stared at his feet like a scolded child.

 

“Dear, he’s sick. He had to come home.”

 

“ Sick? A real man doesn’t leave work because he’s sick,” He said, flabbergasted. He turned to Symon, puffing out his chest and towering over him, despite them being nearly the same height nowadays. “Listen here! When I was working, I worked through colds, flus, injuries, you name it. Why? Because a man is valued by his work ethic.” 

 

“Oman please, go easy on the boy.” His mother insisted.

 

“No Farah, you can’t keep coddling him like this. You give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. He needs to learn to grow up and stop being such a sensitive dandy!” His father continued to rant. 

 

Symon just stood there and took the abuse with his head hung low. He was used to his father yelling, and his harsh insults whenever Symon did something wrong. At least when he turned 18, he stopped coming away from the altercations with bruises, but he always kept an eye on his father’s fist.

 

“That’s enough, Oman! We can talk about this later. If you let him rest now, he’ll be healthy and ready to go tomorrow.”  His mother looked at him sympathetically. “Go ahead and go upstairs, dear.”

 

“Yes mother.” He mumbled, heading up the stairs. 

 

He threw his satchel and briefcase to the floor and kicked off his shoes. He wished to plop into bed immediately but his sheets were still blood stained from this morning. He pulled them off to put them in the wash, and grabbed some spare throw blankets that he used to lie on the small sofa in his room. His head throbbed and his stomach protested. He stared at his miniature piece with longing. All the extra time to work on it and he could barely sit up long enough to do it. He could only lie there in pain and discomfort while trying to get some sleep.

 

It was dead quiet in his room, allowing him to hear his parents speaking downstairs.

 

“How could he be so irresponsible, getting sick like that during market season.” His father's voice practically vibrated through the house. “We have bills to pay, not to mention at this rate we're not going to have extra money for our vacation.”

 

His mother usually said nothing, letting his father rant and rave until he got it out of his system. 

 

“Sleeping away on a productive day. The boy is lucky we even still let him live here at his age, if he wasn't such a re-”

 

Symon covered his ears to drown out the noise. His fathers shouts made them ache. He tried not to take his fathers words to heart. He knew how difficult it was to live on your own these days. Finding enough money to put down a deposit on a house was hard enough when he wasn't splitting his checks to pay off his parents home. 

 

After all, his parents no longer worked themselves, with their issues. At first, he'd stayed just to help them keep their family home. They used to be so grateful to see that check come in every week, so proud that he was becoming a responsible young man. His mother also enjoyed being able to keep an eye on him, always a little too worried that living on his own would be too overwhelming. As the years would go on, however, that pride and excitement dwindled. Despite nothing changing, despite them still taking his money without so much as a thank you, he'd be bombarded with criticism. 

 

“Why haven't you found a woman yet?”

 

“Why haven't you gotten a promotion?”

 

“You should be more ambitious.”

 

He'd learned to drown it all out. Mindless babble to him. He’d just keep his head down, not cause trouble, and once Izzah was old enough to live on her own, only then would he make his move. Only then he would quit his job, find better opportunities and move somewhere quiet and alone.

 

But for now, he had to focus on resting; not just to ease his aching gut, but to recover as soon as possible.

 

Sleep was an issue in of itself. He would drift off to sleep only to be woken with sharp cramps throughout his body. His arms and legs burned. Whenever he did find sleep, he’d have nightmares of maggots crawling under his skin. He didn’t eat much during the day as he couldn’t keep anything down, and in the middle of the night, he’d had to rush to the bathroom to be sick again. Then he’d have to redo his bandages, as blood was soaking through them. 

 

The dizziness and stomach problems he could chalk up to a flu, but what he didn’t understand was why more thick hairs grew on his arm every time he changed his bandages, or why the skin on his fingertips were beginning to change color and texture. He also noticed two pimple-like red bumps on his forehead, symmetrically apart from each other. They were tender and zapped his head like electricity when he tried to pop them. 

 

Occasionally, he’d stare at the drawer the fossil sat in, its strange pull nagging at him whenever he was awake. He felt an unnerving sensation of being watched whenever he was near it. 

 

The next morning, he’d attempt to eat breakfast, but gagged when everything smelled and tasted rancid. Normally he’d never accuse his mother of bad cooking, but bibingka was always a dish he enjoyed. He pushed the dish aside in disgust.

 

“What’s wrong, Symon?” His mother asked.

 

“Nothing…” Symon answered, holding his stomach which was doing flips. “The food just tastes off this morning.”

 

His mother let out a swift sigh, bringing her fork down into her food in irritation. “You know, you can just tell me you don't like my cooking.”

 

“What?” Symon blinked. “Heavens, no I don't think that at all.”

 

“You are so hard to please. First you won’t eat meat, then you won’t eat anything with a weird texture… it's always something.”

 

“I know but-” He hated this song and dance with his mother. Sure he had a tendency to be picky with food, but he was positive this wasn't pickiness. He hated rejecting her cooking like this, but he simply could not keep it down if he tried. “I’m just still unwell. I threw up a lot last night so that could be a factor.”

 

That seemed to be enough to change his mother's attitude as she glanced over to him with concern.

 

“I bet you got sick at that job of yours.” She huffed. “Running around the bad parts of town, meaning with dirty people. Pray it doesn't spread to the rest of us.”

 

Symon’s stomach, though far from at rest, still panged with hunger. He stood up and sought sustenance elsewhere.

 

Nothing in the fridge smelled good either. There was no way everything in the fridge had gone bad in just a day. Even his safe foods he usually enjoyed had a rancid, sour smell to them. The only thing that smelled good was, for some reason, the super sugary maple syrup.

 

It was a local brand, tapped from the trees in this very region. It was cheap and easy to find. 

 

It didn’t just smell okay, it smelled immaculate. He picked up not just on the sugars, but the faint traces of the bark it flowed from, if he closed his eyes he could imagine standing in front of it himself. 

 

His stomach growled, craving it. But there was nothing to put in that he could keep down. Still his body demanded something. It was starving. His mouth salivated at the raw sugary smell of it. That is when he did something shameful. He filled a glass with the substance and drank it straight.

 

It tasted as good as it smelled and it went down smoothly without upsetting his stomach. Before he knew it, he was still drinking it, chugging it, until the cup was empty. He stopped to breathe, wiping the sticky residue from his mouth and considered getting a refill when he saw his sister staring at him, mouth agape. 

 

“AH-! Izzah! I-I didn't see you there.” He stuttered.

 

“Eugh, what is wrong with you Symon?” She sneered. “To think you could get any stranger, you manage to surprise me.”

 

“Forgive me, it was a dreadful craving.” His face was turning beet red. “B-but it seems to be soothing my stomach, so…” 

 

“You really are a freak, you know that?” She laughed. “Wait until I tell mother what you'd rather be eating than her cooking.

 

“Wait- please. Don’t tell her!” Symon pleaded. 

 

Izzah stopped and gave him a suspicious look. “Why shouldn’t I?”

 

“I’ll buy you whatever you want.” Symon offered. 

 

 “How about a new violin?” 

 

Symon made a face. “That is quite pricey.”

 

“Mother!” She started.

 

“Fine! I'll get you the violin!” He conceded. 

 

Izzah beamed a devious smile. “Alright, your weird cravings can be our little secret for now.”

 

A phone call graciously interrupted the awkward interaction. Izzah jumped at the opportunity to answer, only for her face to drop in disappointment as she held up the receiver.

 

“Symon, it's for you.” She huffed.

 

Symon took the phone and continued the conversation. It was Raja, and judging by the cacophony of noise muffled on the other end, he was at the market in a phone booth.

 

“Symon, my boy, since you're going to be down there I need you to open up the shop this week.” Raja instructed.

 

Symon had to hold back a groan as his still unhappy stomach recoiled at the thought.

 

“Are you sure that's necessary? I mean you already informed customers that the shop would be closed over the week.” Symon replied.

 

“Yeah yeah, but with someone in town able to open the shop, time is money, you understand? And I can make more money when you get your happy arse to the shop. Plus I need someone down there to make sure no one breaks into the place.  Am I clear?”

 

Symon let out a sigh. “Yes sir.”

 

Symon reluctantly headed upstairs to prepare for his impromptu work day. His head was throbbing and he was sore all over, but he couldn't risk losing his job. He redid his bandages, which made the nerves in his limbs buzz, and he hid away the unsightly welts on his forehead with his bangs. He took a deep breath and assured himself everything would be fine.

 

By the time he made his usual walk to the Antique shop, his back was killing him. He tried to ignore the throbbing cramp in his muscles as he pulled out the keys and entered the shop. As soon as he entered he was hit with the usual smells of wax polish, dried flowers, and dust. The shop was dark, with the silhouettes of clutter illuminated through the windows. The lights were turned on, revealing the quaint shop and all its novelties of the past. Furnishings and decor from the Victorian to the Baroque era sat with pride on shelves and platforms, waiting for someone to take them. The room was a chorus of asynchronous ticking clocks. Symon approached a rococo style wall clock with an ornate, floral frame made of silver and fiddled with its hands to make sure it was still in working order. He had worked on restoring this specimen himself and it had a tendency to run slow even after all his repairs. 

 

He went about dusting off everything. It was tedious work in his condition, but he was relieved to be at least working in the quiet. With everything clean he moved to the backroom, a small office with a desk and a work table. The desk is usually where Raja would sit, counting money or working on papers while stinking the room up with cigarette smoke. The work table was his space. Various tools and chemicals laid nearly ordered along with the wall and top a rubber work mat was a pocket watch he had been working on. 

 

See, his job wasn’t just to procure items and sell them, but to restore them as well. Symon was fairly skilled with storing antique baubles  and gadgets. He had a special interest in them, and had a near encyclopedic knowledge of the many histories and origins of pieces. If he didn’t already know, he was more than happy to spend hours or days researching. He’d always wanted to be an archivist of some sort, but he needed a job that could guarantee him a good amount of money. And that is where he met Raja, who saw potential in him. Potencial to make him money at least. 

 

He would have preferred being behind the scenes all day, researching and working on projects, but with the limited staff, Symon also had to take on the job of salesman. He had to work with customers, advertise the shop, and make deliveries. That was the part of his job he disliked.

 

He sat down and got to work on the watch while he kept an ear out for customers. This particular item was dated to the 1870's, and was encased in a brass shell etched with the design of leaves and vines. It was a beautiful piece that just needed a bit of cleaning, but after only a minute of polishing the case, the fumes made him nauseous, his eyes water,  and his brain pound against his skull. He was so much more sensitive to it than he usually was. 

 

The sudden ringing of the door chime clawed shrilly against his ear drums. A customer. Great. He tried to compose himself and act like he wasn’t on death's door when he exited the office. Thankfully he was a professional at masking. 

 

He wasn’t even out the door before he heard the counter bell being slammed repeatedly by an older woman in a pleated dress. A young girl full of energy was jumping around the room; must have been her daughter.

 

The woman was still ringing the bell when Symon slid it away from her with his best customer service smile. 

 

“Good morning ma'am, is there something I can help you with?” He asked.

 

“It’s about time this damn store opens!” The woman sneered before slamming down a wooden music box with such force that Symon twitches at the thought it might break something. “I bought this music box for my daughter and the dancer’s arms are broken!” 

 

“Heh, well let's calm down and I'll have a look at it okay?”

 

Symon opened said music box, which was hand carved and as soon as it opened you were greeted with a intricately painted swan lake scene and a dancing ballerina figure in the center. It worked beautifully, but indeed the poor ballerina was missing her arms. 

 

“She’s a crippled freak!” The daughter spat from across the room.

 

“Well, Ma’am, I agree it's very unfortunate that this item isn't in mint condition; but I believe I informed you when I sold you this item that it had damage that was irreparable. These things just happen with old items.” 

 

“This is unacceptable!” The mother shouted. “I want a new one!”

 

“As much as I'd love to do that for you, I’m afraid that’s not possible. This stopped being manufactured 30 years ago. Hence why it was in an antique shop.” Symon argued. “But the shop has many unique and beautiful items in stock, so perhaps you'd like to trade this for another item of equal value?”

 

“No. I want this music box, and I’m not leaving here without a proper gift for my little girl. I want this fixed now.” She demanded.

 

“I mean, I suppose I could try to recreate the arms-”

 

“I don't want you tampering with it. I want it in its original condition.” 

 

“Ma’am, the original arms were broken before we even acquired the item, they are long gone.” Symon tried to reason, when he picked up the sound of rattling on the shelves. He glanced over in horror to see the young girl trying to reach for a porcelain doll on the shelf. “Ah! Y-young lady please be careful and leave that alone, it's quite fragile.”

 

“Don’t talk to my daughter like that. Let her play with the doll.” The mother snapped.

 

Symon’s eye twitched. “I am certainly not trying to overstep, but I need to be clear that it's not a toy, it's a display ite-”

 

CRASH-!

 

“Oops.” The young girl mumbled as she knocked the doll over, causing it’s face to shatter on the floor.

 

Symon made a sound in his throat that could only be compared to a dog being kicked in the stomach. He could feel his anxiety rising and his throat closing up. A nerve twitched in his forehead.

 

“That could have injured my daughter! What kind of place are you running here?!”

 

“I’ll… go clean that up.” He mumbled through smiling teeth.

 

He grabbed a broom and started sweeping. The child on the other hand pouted.

 

“Everything in this dumb shop is broken!” She kicked the wall, causing items on the shelves to rattle.

 

“Stop doing that!” He snapped, shooing her away from the shelves with the broom.

 

“How dare you touch my little girl!” The mother huffed. 

 

“Or perhaps you should learn to parent your child.” Symon snarked, losing the patience to handle things politely. “Do you know how expensive that was?”

 

“You should keep it out of reach of children.”

 

Symon could feel his blood pressure rising. His stomach tightened. His head throbbed. He was too unwell for this. “And you should keep your child on a leash!” 

 

The mother gasped in offense, but Symon had no energy to care. No, instead, his head felt like it was going to explode. He gripped his head and yelled out as it felt like something was burrowing into his skull. The pain was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and his body felt so hot. 

 

He could hear the woman saying something to him, but the rushing of his own blood in his ears made it impossible to hear. He was grinding his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He excused himself and rushed into the bathroom in the back. He turned on the light only briefly, as its flash banged his eyes and burned. He allowed the room to stay dark as he blindly stumbled to the sink and retched. 

 

He heard the tiny clink of something hard hitting the sink and warm fluid dripping from his mouth. He opened his eyes and saw a tooth, his tooth, sitting in a small pool of blood. His eyes shot up to the mirror to check his mouth. His gums were swollen and bleeding out of nowhere. He also noticed blood trickling from his forehead. He felt his hair brush up against something that shot uncomfortable sensations down into the back of his neck, As he brushed his hair away he looked on in horror at two long, thick hair like growths that formed out of the welts on his head. They were extremely sensitive, and he jumped a little when he saw them twitch and move like they were alive.

 

They were insect antennae.

 

He fell against the wall behind him in a panic; unable to control his breathing. He let out a fearful wail. What was happening to him?

 

The tiny bathroom was so hot and suffocating, but he couldn't let anyone see him in this state. He collected his teeth and watched his face with cold water, which sent a shock into his now sensitive antennae. 

 

He stumbled out of the bathroom, face red and soaked. The woman noticed the blood on his shirt and squinted.

 

“I think you should leave.” Symon mumbled.

 

“What? Why I-” 

 

“Please. Leave!” Symon pleaded, voice dripping with frustration. 

 

The woman stuck up her nose and dragged her child out of the shop with her, leaving Symon alone in silence. He was quick to change the sign for the shop to closed to make sure no one else came in during his crisis.

 

He hugged himself and drifted back to the floor. Something was wrong with him. He wasn't just sick with the flu, his body felt strange. The antennae freely poked out his bangs, wriggling and taking in scents and pheromones he wasn't used to. It was overwhelming. And yet he didn't wanna retreat back home just yet. 

 

He hid his antennae behind his bangs and continued working in a haze. He took exclusively phone call orders, and tried to keep his mind busy keeping the shop tidy. Occasionally a customer would come in to pick up a delivery, and he'd avoid as much contact with them as possible. It was exhausting. 

 

His problems wouldn’t end there. Later that evening, while sweeping up, a wave of pain washed over him. Full body pain as if he was being electrocuted. He dropped his broom and collapsed to the floor. He gasped for air and wrapped his arms around his stomach. He groaned as he felt his internal organs gurgling and shifting beneath his skin. It was as if they were melting and being stirred around. Wriggling maggots under his skin. His stomach swelled and his back stiffened into a hunch.

 

His muscles bubbled and he heard something snap. His hands and feet cramped up, and he stared as his fingers popped and cracked. Elongating. Fusing together. He screamed, but no one was around to hear him.

 

He had to get home.

 

Determined to not lose control of his body, he mustered up enough strength to flip over, pushing the burning pain and disturbing visuals to the back of his mind. He managed to grab the broom and with some effort pull himself up to a standing position. His legs shook violently beneath him, and he practiced breathing to manage the pain.

 

He hobbled out the back entrance, he’d be taking the alleyway to his house. He couldn’t dare let himself be spotted by anyone and start a scene. He was thankful that whatever affliction he’d been dealt decided to manifest late at night, where the cover of dark would keep anyone from seeing the changes on his body.

 

His home was only a few blocks away, but every step took tremendous effort. He leaned up against a wall to maintain balance as his spine cracked and curved, and he’d bite down on his tongue to keep from letting out the visceral scream that escaped his lungs. 

 

 He saw colors flashing in response to a pressure behind his eyes, causing his vision to go blurry. His tears burned as they were pushed out by the swelling. He let out an agonized whimper when it became too much to bear. He was navigating like a blind infirm, feeling his way around and using the vague colors of blurry shapes to get his bearings.

 

He eventually found his street, then his house, then his steps, and his door. Part of him was almost proud of getting this far. He’d like to see his father call him weak now.

 

He didn’t make it that far into the house before he collapsed in the door frame, much to the shock of his whole family. They stared at him not of people who had just seen a loved one hurt, but of people seeing a mangled beast. His mother nearly fainted, his father made a sound like the wind was knocked out of him, and his sister let out a shrill scream. He could only wonder how he looked at the moment to garner such a reaction from them.

 

Symon tried to speak, but his throat was itchy and tight. His voice came out as a harsh squeak; a chittering, broken tone.

 

“C-caaall… a….. doc..tor…” He choked out before he lost consciousness.