Teratoma

A freshly sharpened pocketknife shook in his trembling hand as he lowered it to the sickly growth attached to his outer thigh. Approximately three inches in diameter, tinting the skin around it a disconcerting green-gray color, he decided that night, through delirium and cold sweat, that it must be dealt with. The piercing smell of rubbing alcohol seared his nostrils as he’d poured it over the blade, placing a wet washcloth between his teeth before sitting down on the edge of the bathtub. Heaving deep breaths in and out, clenching his teeth against the terry cloth, he steeled his nerves as the edge of the knife traced against the mass. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, his heart and all of his organs trying to climb out of his body before they had to bear witness to it, muttering “just do it” over and over until the edge found purchase.

He winced, water leaking from the cloth in his mouth and all over his chest as he committed to the stroke of the blade, searing hot pain making him squirm. Just a little further and it’ll be over, he promised himself through his hyperventilating. The mass gently leaked dark maroon blood down the edge of the tub, the parting skin revealing an off-white, oval cyst. As the blade completed its stroke, the mass seemed to easily fall from its pocket in his flesh and into the tub, sitting in a small pool of blood and serous fluid. He exhaled shakily, leaning against the tile wall and setting the knife on the counter nearby. It was over.

After thoroughly disinfecting himself, a process just as painful as the initial excision, he sat on the edge of his bed gingerly applying some gauze to the wound. The skin around it looked better already, much less sickly and diseased. He taped it around his leg and went to clean up the bathroom. As he entered it, he reflexively heaved from the smell. The mass was still sitting in the tub in its own juice of rancid blood, emanating the distinct smell of rotting meat. His eyes watered at it as he snapped on a pair of cleaning gloves. He stared it down in the tub, reviling that it was ever a part of him, that it ever even sat inside his flesh at all.

Its stench was far too revolting to keep in the trash can. Worse still, the garbage truck wouldn’t be there until Monday, it would just stink up the whole block as it cooked in the plastic bins outside for days on end. He palmed it into a plastic bag and wrapped up over and over in grocery bags to contain the smell, finishing the job with duct tape. He rinsed out the tub before walking to the garage and grabbing a shovel.

The night sky was bright and clear, hundreds of stars shining down upon him and the hole he dug in the backyard. His breath gently fogged in front of him, the damp air clinging to his skin as he labored. Through the light of the full moon he looked at the package of crinkling plastic and tape in his hands. His upper lip curled in disgust at the thought of what lied at its core, tossing it in the shallow hole and covering it in dirt and grass without another thought. Inside, he fell back into bed, the gentle throbbing of his clean wound lulling him to sleep.

Days turned into weeks, the wound turned into a scab. Weeks turned into months, the wound turned into a scar. Snow covered the backyard as winter rolled in, and the night of the tumor excision lay completely forgotten underneath a layer of frozen dirt. The thaw of spring came, along with its torrential rains. He layed in bed peacefully, listening to a heavy storm rage against the window as water poured from the sky in thick sheets, reaching down to idly itch at the faint scar on his thigh.

The next morning, in the backyard, a peculiar feature had manifested itself in the lawn. A large mass that domed up underneath the sod, more wide than it was tall. After calling a neighbor over to take a look, the two of them stood around it, scratching their heads.

“I think it’s full of water,” his neighbor said, prodding it with the toe of his shoe and watching the mass slosh gently back and forth.

“Probably, what with all the rain,” he replied.

“I think you’re supposed to leave it alone and it’ll go away on its own. It’s not good to pop them open,” his neighbor suggested.

“You’re thinking of blisters. I’m just gonna stab it with the shovel and let it drain.”

He disappeared into the garage and came back with his shovel, dried out mud still clinging to the spade. He readied it like a javelin, aimed at the base of the lump in the lawn.

“You wanna watch?” he asked.

“I’m not gonna lie, I’m curious.”

He plunged the shovel into the mound of grass quickly and firmly, the spade embedding itself firmly into the lump. Pale yellow liquid trickled out from the puncture, turning into a constant flow as he removed the shovel to watch it drain.

“Jesus Christ!” his neighbor shouted, doubling over like he was hit firmly in the gut.

The smell emanating from the stream of viscous, pale yellow fluid was nothing short of horrific. The scent of wet earth mixed with the distinct undercurrent of rotting flesh, a combination that launched him all the way back to that night in the bathroom with the pocketknife. He suddenly remembered the growth buried in grocery bags that laid a couple feet just below the grass in front of him, under the draining mass. In a panic, he plunged his foot into the hole he created in an attempt to prevent the package from resurfacing. The liquid gushed around it, soaking the leg of his jeans up to the knee. He quickly pulled it out, his shoe covered in a streaks of a sticky, pale yellow sludge. Heaving from the smell as he ran for the side of the house, the fluid flowed around the stepping stones near his porch, settling into pools and soaking back into the dirt.

His neighbor groaned, stumbling out of his backyard while clutching his stomach. He was left alone in the backyard, hand clasped over his mouth and hunched over as the terrible odor made his stomach lurch over and over. He walked to the hose and started to spray off his leg, flushing the putrid liquid off into the soil. Leaning against the side of his house, he stared at the fully deflated mound in the lawn, as if waiting for something else to happen. It remained still in front of him.

The smell dissipated into the cold air as he rationalized it. It was probably just rain, and it probably smelled bad because it was stagnant water. That made sense. Perfect sense. He threw the hose to the side and walked inside, trying his best to forget about it as he threw the pair of jeans into the trash.

The next bout of rain didn’t stop for a few days, which was pretty typical. Raindrops hammered against the windows of the house, and each passing hour he couldn’t help but steal a glance out to the pitch dark backyard. The mass had swelled back up and the grass had turned yellow all over; it had been that way since the rain started up again. He did all he could to take his mind off of it. It was fine. Absolutely nothing wrong with it. Nothing to do with the thing he buried months ago. He thought all of this as he washed a kitchen knife in the sink, staring out of the window to the yard. The cold, wet steel against his fingertips felt familiar. As he took in a shaky breath, the mound outside in the backyard seemed to swell in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest.

Upstairs, he didn’t sleep. He just stared at the ceiling from underneath the covers, knife clutched in his hands. The mass in the yard outside shuddered under the barrage of rain, matching his trembling breaths. Sod cracked apart under the strain, pale red fluid weeping from the fissures. With a flash of lightning, it heaved open in one final swell and ejected the mass onto the wet grass of the lawn. It was just quiet enough for him to ignore, to dismiss it as distant thunder, until he heard a loud, distinct thump downstairs. It kept happening, hitting with the rhythm of a slow heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. He trembled as he slowly descended the staircase, flashlight in one hand and the knife in the other.

He tread lightly, almost gliding across the wooden floor in his socks. He aimed his flashlight across the living room and into the kitchen, right at the window of the back door. Each thump shook the blinds, but didn’t reveal anything behind in the darkness. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Aiming the flashlight down, he snuck up to the door with the knife held in a white-knuckle grip. The thumping continued over and over, he felt the door shake against his body with each impact as he leaned against it. It sounded soft but substantial, each blow landing firmly. He hid there, waiting for a moment to hazard a glance. The thumping never stopped, it just stayed in a perfect rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump. He stayed by the door, trembling in anticipation. Each thump almost seemed to get louder and louder, slamming against the glass of the window so hard he was terrified of which thump would be the one to make it give. Whatever it was slammed against the door once more with terrible force, rattling the door in its frame, then stopped. The storm raged on outside, he could only hear his heartbeat and the distant rumble of thunder. He gripped the knife in his hand, getting ready to peek, when he heard the knob of the door start to rattle.

“Go away! Go the fuck away! I’ll kill you!” he screamed, but the rattling continued and the thumping resumed, faster and more frantic.

He sped upstairs and locked himself in his bedroom, hiding under the covers and clutching the kitchen knife tight to his chest. The thumping and rattling continued, violent, frenzied, unrelenting. He muttered to himself, shaking and crying, praying for it to just get it over with. Please. Just do it. He never remembered when he had fallen asleep, or if he ever had.

Morning light leaked in through the bedroom window, and he jerked awake, knife still grasped in his hand. He listened for the thumping, but it was silent. The night of rain had given way to a warm, clear morning, with sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. He went downstairs, blearily padding into the dim kitchen. He reached for the blinds on the back door to let the sunlight in, but recoiled when the smell coming from it hit him, a horrible stench of rancid blood and rotting meat.

He whipped the blinds open and staggered back at the sight of it all. The window was murky, smeared with that pale yellow sludge that formed streaks and splatters all over the surface. Swipes of red mingled with the fluids, and plastered to the glass were long strands of curly dark hair, identical to his own. Worst of all, he noticed, the door was unlocked.