Anne Eyries
Metamorphosis
The rash appeared overnight, fanning across his chest like a peacock tail. Bill wants to mention it at breakfast, but Kathy’s already on her phone and the boys are bickering as usual. A strange stillness settles on him and prickling steals round his back, the way Kathy’s fingers did before motherhood gave her a permanent headache. He scratches his throat. The puckers and pleats give him yet another reason to regret shaving his beard. It was Kathy’s idea but now he can’t remember why. His feet hurt so he kicks off his shoes, watches his toes flex and fork of their own accord.
There’s a fly in the kitchen, buzzing over crumbs, refusing to land. Bill tenses, every pore awakening, anticipating. Someone on television is talking about climate change, forecasting more record temperatures, more water restrictions. Bill is tired of hearing about extremes and end-of-the-world deadlines. He’ll be forty next month, married half his life and what’s happening to him right now is a catastrophe in his own home.
He unbuttons his shirt and stretches, testing the elasticity of his new skin, reflecting the kitchen in an iridescent splash. The boys look up, dazzled. He stares them down.
‘Dad’s doing something funny with his eyes.’
Bill blinks and his sons scream. Kathy spins round and he waits, willing her to step closer, to stroke him with a soothing hand, to understand. Instead, she screams too, even before he flicks out his tongue. He swallows the fly first. AQ