Smallscale

The bedroom door and a sobbing child was thrown in. The child fell to the wooden floor in a heap, his long dark hair falling in his face to hide the fresh swollen bruise on his cheek and his red eyes.

 

"Stop crying, Symon!" His mother snapped. "I can't believe you'd behave like that in public, do you know how much you humiliated us out there?"

 

"I'm --hic-- I'm sorry mama..." Symon wept. "It was loud, a-and there were a lot of people-"

 

"Galas are loud, Symon, but that's no excuse for you to throw a tantrum."

 

The tantrum in question was something the poor boy had no control of. He didn't even want to go to the event, he didn't understand why the adults cared so much, but his parents were socialites and they were drawn to such festivities. But for Symon, it was an assault on the senses. It was loud with music and people shouting, warm bodies bigger than the poor boy bumped into him, each touch feeling like an electrical shock to the system and the lights were so disorienting that he often found himself almost losing the safety of his parents. 

 

He'd been told to act normal. Any fidgeting or strange movements he needed to do was met with a slap on the wrist. He felt like a fizzy drink, shaken up and ready to burst at the slightest provocation. 

 

And then there were fireworks. While all the adults whistled and cheered, Symon ducked his head and covered his ears as every boom felt like an explosion directly to his ear drums. He could feel each pop reverberate through his body. 

 

Stares came his way, not just from strangers, but from his own mother. She gave him this irritated, hateful glare that he recognized too well.

 

"Stop making a scene and enjoy the fireworks, Symon." She'd say, pulling his hands to his side. Her touch burned. 

 

His ears were exposed to the full brunt of the noise. His eardrums recoiled painfully and his ears rang. 

 

He screamed, as any child would do when hurt. He thrashed against his mother, kicking her  to get him to release her. Now everyone was looking.

 

"Symon! Stop it!" His mother hissed.

 

"Boy if you don't behave..." his father didn't finish his sentence, but he didn't need to. Symon already knew the threat, but the bottle was uncorked already, there was nothing to do to stop the flood of emotions from releasing violently in the form of screaming and crying. He squirmed away from his mother, he needed to get away from her, away from everyone.

 

He swung his arms around violently, hitting people to get them out of the way. He felt like a caged animal being poked with a hot brand with every firework that continued to fire.

 

"How unruly."

 

"Someone get that child on a leash."

 

"What poor parents, letting their child act like that." 

 

Symon ignored the murmuring of the people around him. He felt a hand grab his arm, it was stronger than his mother's. His fathers grip clamped down painfully onto his arm as he was yanked closer. He looked up at his father with tear filled eyes as he raised his hand and stuck his palm against his face.

 

"You can't act like that in public!" His mother continued to berate him in his own room. "This is how you end up getting taken away from us and thrown in a sanitarium. Do you want that?" 

 

"No..." The boy whimpered.

 

“I don't either, but if you keep acting like this, your father and I don't know what to do with you anymore.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It puts so much stress on us, why can't you just be normal?”

 

“I'm sorry.” The boy's voice barely spoke over a whisper.

 

His mother sighed. “Maybe you should sit here and think about getting your act together." She closed the door part way. "And get that unruly hair out of your face."

 

Symon flinched as the door was slammed and locked. The boy curled up against the wall and cried until his throat ached and his eyes burned. He only stopped when he ran out of energy to cry, and just sat in silence sniffling until he encountered a little friend. A tiny ladybug crawling in his room. He reached out and let the tiny creature crawl onto his finger. Her little feet tickled and he couldn't help but let out a giggle at how tiny and cute the little creature was. 

 

❇❇❇❇

Symon awoke on the floor of his bedroom. His mouth was dry and his body droned with a low ache. He’d not slept comfortably, the floor was hard, but he must have been too tired to notice. His body felt different, just slightly. The room was blurry; he could make out the glittering gold frame of his spectacles on the desk, but it was also much more warped, as if he was looking through a fisheye lens.

 

He looked at his arm, it was grotesquely fused into three digits, two fingers and thumb that had been pushed down by his growing bones. It was coated in a hard, brown layer of skin that cracked around the joints. He took a mental count of his limbs. Left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg. Still four limbs, that was good. What remained of his clothes were torn to shreds and covered in blood and sweat. He tore them off to get some relief. 

 

His strength slowly came back to him and he was able to sit up. His antennae picked up the scent of the maple syrup, and he spotted a bowl of it left on the floor for him, like he was an animal. Still, the smell alone made his stomach growl in anticipation, so he picked up the bowl and drank the sugary liquid down. He’d have to accept this new diet as a part of life now.

 

He pulled himself up to his feet, which felt thinner and longer than usual, and he made his way to his bathroom. He was horrified at what he saw in the mirror.

 

His skin had begun to harden and as dark patches mottled his body. His eyes had turned completely red and swollen. His body had become chunkier with a pronounced arch in the back. He looked like something out of a nightmare. He felt his mouth fill with blood and he spat more teeth.

 

Then he heard his family talking downstairs, in hushed murmurs they thought he couldn’t hear. He made his way to the door and pressed his ear against it.

 

“What should we do? Call a doctor?” His mother asked. 

 

“No way. No doctor is going to be able to treat that. Did you see him?” His sister answered. 

 

“That was no human ailment. That’s a curse.” His father proposed. “He’s turning into a beast!”

 

“Oh my god. My son is cursed!” His mother sobbed. “What are people going to think?”

 

“Does this mean I’m not getting a new violin?” Izzah complained. 

 

Symon slowly opened the door and limped down the stairs. All the chatter stopped and by the time he'd seen his parents, they were staring at him with large, terrified eyes.

 

“Is… everything okay down here?” He asked, as soon as he did, everyone averted their gaze.

 

“Everything's… fine , Symon. Go back to your room.” His mother told him.

 

“I'm alright mother, I'm sure whatever this is, isn't contagious.”

 

“ Please , go back to your room.’ She insisted.

 

“But-”

 

“No one wants to look at you like that!” Izzah blurted out.

 

“Izzah!” Their mother scolded her.

 

“It’s true though. None of you can bear to look at him either. He’s going to scare off anyone who visits.”

 

“That’s still not a nice thing to say about family.” 

 

“No, I understand,” Symon said. “Father is right, it could be a curse of some kind. Perhaps if we can contact a druid to-”

 

“Absolutely not.” His dad interrupted. “One of those creeps probably caused this whole situation to begin with, and I’m certainly not letting one into my home.”

 

“We will call for a doctor later, just… please go back upstairs.” His mother continued.

 

“Yes, mother.” He said solemnly and headed back to his room. 

 

Symon had no doubt in his mind that his father could be right, and a doctor would eventually come. The man made a ghastly noise upon seeing him, but forced his professional demeanor back on to examine him. It was uncomfortable and humiliating to be prodded like a diseased animal, and even after all that he would come to the conclusion that Symon was a medical anomaly. He insisted that Symon be checked out by a more advanced medical team, but his parents refused. They couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else knowing about Symon’s condition, the kind of shame that would bring to the family. They determined they’d have to fix Symon themselves.

 

They tried everything, oils, crystals, prayer. Many people tried to scam his family, drain them of their resources for some miracle cure that was pure snake oil. Nothing worked, and Symon could see it in their weary faces they were getting frustrated and tired. 

 

But Symon knew what was causing his pain. He limped over to his desk and pulled the fossil out of the drawer. 

 

“Whatever you did to me, please stop.” He pleaded to the stone. “I’m sorry. Please fix me.”

 

But the curse didn’t stop. His transformation would continue to progress as the days went on. He would continue to have episodes where he would writhe on the floor while his body became more like that of an insect. He’d writhe on the floor helpless as his body was molded like putty by some cruel god, burning and twisting and making him want to gag at the feeling of his body becoming something unnatural. 

 

There was nothing he could do other than scream and sob; crying out for someone, anyone to help him. But his family never came to help. They’d avoid the stairs and speak in hushed whispers whenever he would call out for them.

 

And when the episodes passed, he’d feel the cold air brush against his sweat drenched skin. He’d tremble on the floor violently, his mind finally clearing from its pain induced fog. He felt the grooves in the floor where his nails had dug into the hardwood. 

 

More days passed. He stopped going to work. His family stopped taking Raja’s calls. He knew now even if he recovered, he’d not have a job to return to. After a while, his family stopped visiting his room, not even to try some new medicine.

 

He began to worry about his family's financial stability. At that point, he was the sole breadwinner. He wasn’t working; his savings wouldn’t last forever and their money was being drained taking care of him. He felt terribly guilty and ashamed for putting them in this position. This was all his fault. He should have never taken that relic home with him. Now, even if he knew what to do with it, there wasn’t much he could do by himself in this state. 

 

Izzah would still bring him food occasionally, but often would not even open to the door if there was a chance she’d see him, so Symon opted for hiding under his bed whenever he heard her footsteps come upstairs.

 

He couldn’t blame her. His body was deteriorating rapidly, and he looked more monstrous by the day. His hands by now had swollen like small claws, his abdomen was bloated and extending far past his legs, his eyes were growing too large for his head. His hair was falling out, and he could no longer put it in a nice braid.

 

His senses were also changing. Bright lights were becoming harder to handle, and during the bright noon sun, he’d hide under his bed in the darkness. He could start to smell his food from several feet away from his door, he was starting to notice when Izzah was approaching just by the scent. 

 

He found himself often pleading to the fossil, begging for an answer to end his suffering. He started to believe the stone had some life in it, that it could communicate but it was refusing to.

 

In his dreams, he was a small insect. He was crawling through the ruins of a vast ruin in the jungle. Its people had vanished long ago, and all that was left was the bugs. He dreamt of the professor, screaming as he too changed into an insect, died, and was picked apart by his scavenging brethren. He dreamt of ants, stuck in an endless spiral of walking around a stone that glowed hypnotically. 

 

He dreamt of being a child on a walk with his mother, and a memory of him playing in the park in the middle of summer. He’d find the trees covered in cicada shells, and one by one he’d collect them in his hands. They were so small, perfect little pictures of what that insect used to be. Those were simpler times.

 

No matter what he dreamt about though, he’d end up in the same room, in the same bed, where he’d lie about with nothing to do and no one to talk to. What did he even have to look forward to if he did get better? A life of working himself to death?

At some point, Izzah must have gone to go look for work, as a whole day had passed without her bringing him food. He had felt particularly off, and his stomach was gnawing at him, threatening to eat him from the inside out. He tested the strength of his legs, they were weak, but if he took it slow, he may just be able to go down and find something himself. He covered himself with a blanket, assuring himself he’d just be in and out before anyone would see him. 

 

Mostly, he wanted to prove he could still take care of himself. 

 

Getting down the stairs was the hardest part. His legs were long and spindly, and were no longer equipped to carry the weight of his now rotund body. He nearly tripped a few times, and on the bottom steps he tripped and fell forward. He realized it would be easier to crawl the rest of the way, despite how humiliating it was. 

 

Still, it was almost nice to be outside of his room after weeks. Everything in the main room felt bigger, had he been shrinking? Against a wall, a shrine to the Spirits was lit with candles. His mother never lit it unless she needed religious guidance. 

 

There was a sense of relief that came from the house being empty. Even if he wasn’t horribly mutated, he couldn’t stand being down here with all the noise when people were home. Just walking to the kitchen in his condition left him out of breath, and he collapsed on the floor to rest a moment. The kitchen was a wall of smells that made him want to be sick, and his sense of smell was even stronger than before.

 

The fridge was a disappointment. The groceries had been bought recently, but there was little he could eat. The syrup had been shoved into the back. Unable to stand on his hind legs anymore he was forced to climb into the fridge to reach it. His chubby insect body had grown heavy, so the shelf collapsed sending him and its contents tumbling to the floor. The syrup in its glass jar shattered on impact. 

 

Symon found himself on the verge of tears. He wanted to scream and cry like a toddler, at his wits end. He cursed the spirits for leaving him in such a state. 

 

And still the syrup smelled sweet. And still his stomach yearned painfully. His mouth filled with saliva that drooled out of his mangled lips. He did something shameful in a moment of despair and desperation. He leaned down and lapped up the sticky liquid off the floor. He'd figured if he were to look like an animal, it made no difference if he acted like one. 

 

Eventually he rose up, what was left of his human face covered in sticky slime and what was left of his dignity gone. As he prepared to move back to his room, he heard the front door open. It was his mother returning home. She didn’t have any shopping, had she been working as well, despite her health issues? He wouldn’t know. No one ever told him anything. Regardless, she couldn’t see him like this. He attempted to sneak past her quietly, 

 

His mother however spotted movement in the other room. “Symon? Darling is that you?” She called out.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, but only let out a hoarse croak instead of words. He’d not spoken in a few days, his throat was sore and tight, and whatever words he could have said would not come out. He felt a lump form in the back of his throat.

 

His mother peaked into the dark kitchen and only saw the pathetic lump hidden under a blanket. For just a moment, she felt a flashback from when the boy was young and would wander around the house late at night after having a nightmare. 

 

“Symon dear. Come here, let mama see you.” She said softly.

 

“N-no!” He finally managed to choke out with just a whisper. His voice hissed and rattled inhumanly. “G-go… away. Don't… look at m-me.”

 

He felt the lump in his throat grow thicker.

 

“Symon? What’s gotten into you. I haven’t seen you for weeks, I wanna see if you’ve gotten better.”

 

“NNngg…” He let out a grunt. A cramp washed over his body. Symon felt a burning pain in his sides that nearly made him keel over on the spot. He bit down on his tongue to keep himself from screaming. “No… not here!”

“Symon? Sweety?”

 

"I… I have to g-GHHK-!” He choked mid sentence as that lump slithered up to the opening of his throat. Warm, brown liquid dripped from his mouth. 

 

"No! Please, I want to see your face one more time. I want to see my son!" She demanded, grabbing at the fabric that obscured his face.

 

Symon tried to push her away, but the pain in his sides was making him weak. "Nn-! NNnghkhk..!”

 

But it was too late, and the blanket was yanked off of his head, revealing the hideous insectoid face he was hiding. His mother immediately started screaming at the sight, falling backwards into the table. Symon tried to reach out to her, but the pain in his side had turned into something digging and tearing through his flesh. He held himself and fell to his knees as he let out the most horrifying, animalistic screech. Reminding him of a cicada's call.

 

He writhed as long, segmented appendages burrowed their way out of his skin. He bled everywhere, but his blood was no longer red, but turning a sickly orange color and then a golden yellow, as large pieces of skin fell to the wooden floor. 

 

His mother went into full blown hysterics upon seeing this, screaming for his father to help. He quickly found his way to the commotion, and looked at Symon with horror and disgust. 

 

“Fa…. faa…” Symon tried in vain to speak. He hunched down towards the floor, gagging and coughing as the ‘lump’ began forcing its way out his mouth, a large, wet proboscis slid out of his mouth, knocking out teeth and splattering more sickly yellow fluid onto the carpet. 

 

His mother hid behind the door while his father stormed over and grabbed Symon by the head and started dragging him out of the room, smearing blood along the kitchen floor. His mother protested for him to be careful, but his father seemed to be in his own mind at the moment.

 

His father’s grasp felt like hot burning knives. Everything was too much for his senses, everything was on fire. Overcome by pain and anxiety; Symon began to flail his body violently, screeching and hissing like an unruly animal. He was fighting off his father in an attempt to get free, trying to hit him with his claws and scratch at his legs. 

 

This fight ended with a swift kick to the stomach by his fathers boots, sending a shock to his whole system. Symon went limp as he was dragged back upstairs and thrown back into his room. He cried out in pain on the floor once again, but human sounds no longer left the remains of his mouth. 

 

“How could you do that to our son!” His mother screamed from downstairs.

 

“That was not our son! That thing is a monster!” His father shouted back.

 

Symon blacked out shortly after.

 

Symon awoke sometime later, sore, but most of the pain had faded. Beneath him was a pool of his own blood. Sticking from his ribs were the new legs that grew out of him earlier. They twitched and spasmed about uncontrollably, but he could still feel sensation in them as if they were very much part of him.

 

He attempted to use his bed to prop him up to his feet, but his back legs were too weak to hold him up anymore. They'd lost a significant amount of muscle density, and were practically twigs now. He was only about to crawl on the floor, making use of the two new legs he'd grown.

 

He limped over to his door to check on things outside, but found it locked, and the key entirely missing. He concluded his family must've locked him in his room. For his safety? Or for theirs?

 

Symon was left entirely alone, him and his new body. When he thought about it long enough, he realized he’d turned into a cicada nymph. A round body with claw-like forearms meant for digging around in the dirt. He couldn’t understand why. What was the significance of this creature to him?

 

He crawled back under the bed, wishing he could bury himself in the dirt where no one could see him. This fat, clumsy body was never meant to walk in daylight. He could still see his miniature project on the desk, collecting dust. He mourned that he wouldn’t be able to complete it. 

 

A few more days would pass, and no one would come check on him. The room, his house, was quiet. His room was filthy, and he was starving. His gaze fixated on the window. As the days passed, he thought about simply opening it and leaving. Finding help, or just getting out of his family's way. 

 

Now he was sure if he stayed here, he would die here. Part of him wondered if that was for the best. What use was he now? He’d never work again, he could never move out, find love, take care of himself. He’d be a burden on his family, and a humiliating secret they’d have to keep. They’d never be able to have company over, Izzah would have to start working instead of going to school. 

 

He was so weak, so tired after his ordeal, even if he did escape, what would he do with himself? It’d be so easy to just let his meaningless life flicker out.

 

But he didn’t really want to die, did he? It wasn’t fair. He deserved to be more. Didn’t he?

 

  So he finally resolved himself to leave. Getting the window open was the most difficult part. Even after pushing a chair over with his head to reach it, his hands lost most of their dexterity, and no thumbs. With some trial, he managed to bump it, open a crack with his legs, and use his back to hoist it open the rest of the way. 

 

His first taste of fresh air after a month was amazing. Cool night air invigorated him to keep going, and under the cover of darkness, he’d be safe from being spotted. He’d come to find that being an insect was useful for his escape. His legs clung to the side of the wall with ease, allowing a slow descent downwards. Even when he slipped near the end and fell, his hard shell simply bounced off of the ground. He was able to easily reorient himself and continue on his journey. 

 

As he crawled through the back garden, he caught a whiff of something sweet and tasty. It was coming from the tree. No it was the tree. His stomach roared, demanding sustenance. His instincts took over and he found himself crawling onto the tree and digging his proboscis into the bark of the tree. He hit a vein of tree sap which he began happily drinking. I felt like he could let out a breath of relief. He was finally in his element.

 

But then, a shriek from the house. Symon didn’t even have to look behind him to see it, his eyes had nearly 180 degree vision. His sister was gawking at him from the back patio of the house in terror. 

 

“He’s escaped! Mother, he's escaped!” She cried out.

 

“What?! No, we can't let the neighbors see him.” His mother shouted from inside. 

 

Symon detached himself from the tree, and made his way towards the door. Surely they’d calm down if they saw his intention to return back to his room.

 

Izzah screamed again, backing away. “No! Stay away from me!” 

 

His father then pushed his way in front of Izzah. He was branshing a shotgun, aimed right at him. There was a look of hatred in his eyes Symon had never seen before, even in his most angry. 

 

“Get away from my family!” He shouted, the shotgun trembling in his hands.

 

“Father wait-!” Izzah called from behind him.

 

“Get back inside Izzah!” He commanded. “I don’t want you to see this.” 

 

Symon chirred and screeched, without a mouth to plead for his life, before the gun fired. 

 

The bullet had hit him in the back. His sturdy carapace absorbed most of the blow, but there was still a gaping wound in his shell which weeped golden blood. It hurt.

 

Symon narrowly escaped with his life. He dipped into the woods behind his house, the sound of shots behind him. Some would wizz by his ear and land in the dirt mere inches from him. He dragged his body through the forest, injured and limp until he couldn’t hear his family anymore, until he couldn’t hear the shots. All he could hear were the crickets and the wind in the trees. 

 

After all that, he was going to die anyway. At least it was far less terrifying than the alternative. He struggled to wrap his mind around the concept of his brain shrinking down to a very basic nervous system, and his ability to think, feel emotions, and form meaningful memories melting away. It was most certainly a fate worse than death, he assumed.

 

And yet he still moved. Despite bleeding out, Symon still felt the desire to limp deeper into the forest. The injuries did not stop his body from changing, nor his unconscious desire to press deeper into the forest.

 

As he moved, he felt the trees getting bigger and the grass growing taller, while his skin hardened around his body, growing tighter. Soon the trees were like skyscrapers, calling him to climb. He raised his claws and began to scale the tree, he moved slowly, until he was once again above even the tallest blade of grass. He climbed until looking down gave him vertigo. He couldn't keep going, the wound on his body ached, and slowed him to a snail's pace and he was growing tired. His skin tightened around him to the point it was suffocating. He had to get out.

 

He found himself pushing against himself, his arms slipping out of his skin like it was little more than tight clothing. He heaved and pushed with the last of his remaining strength until his back popped up with the harsh tearing of exoskeleton. He pulled his head out, and the breeze felt colder and fresher on his face. He leaned back gazing into the sky. For a moment, he swore had hands once more, but then  the dizziness finally overcame him, and he fainted.