The next morning, clarity smacked him hard, a gut punch no less. Acid churned and woke him with a jolt. Before his eyes even opened, last night’s booze shot out his mouth, at least, that was his expectation. Instead, only foul mucus drained out and clung to his cheek. Apparently, his stomach didn’t have anything left to give for some reason, but that didn’t stop his body from being a dick. His body was determined to punish Dor for breaking their agreement.

‘Four hours of sleep on an easy buzz, that was the deal, young man!’ His body chided.

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Body, honest. Can’t you let me go? I won’t oversleep ever again,’ Dor groveled.

‘Overslept? Ha! You over-everthing’d yesterday. No, no, no, I’m coming to collect my dues.’

‘Please…please, Mr—’

Bleh! His stomach had nothing left to give, but that didn’t stop his dick of a body from punishing him. He woke up dry-heaving in a convulsive mess.

He laid on a soft mattress, but his ear propped up on a bony knob of some sort. His head was turned to the side, and everything beneath him was soaked. It wasn’t soaked in spilled booze either. It was all vomit. He’d woken up dry heaving in his own vomit. Oh, God. Kill me now.

Dor tried to turn his head, but a snake pressed against his cheek, locking his head firmly to the side. He couldn’t move. A snake was holding him there. Reaching up to those snakely bindings, his fingertips traced along a hard carapace, tickling every segmented joint. That’s no snake. This close, it’s a centipede, a hungry centipede. He tried to get up. He struggled to get away from that centipede, but a lightning jolt struck his temple and another one of clarity’s fists punched his gut. Once again, he convulsed in a dry heaving fit while his brain fried under the hot electric torture of a migraine.

As the tears fell from his strained eyes, he simply gazed at the stars twirling across the bedroom wall. Fuck me. This is Claire’s old room. I’ve been kidnapped by the monster and taken to her lair.

He realized the knob his ear propped up on was underneath his kidnapper’s Donnie Darko comforter. Thank God it’s a girl under there. It felt like…kneecaps?…propping up his head. He reached his hand down and squeezed that support. Yup, kneecaps. His head rested on the monster’s legs.

Soaked in vomit as everything was, one thing was perfectly clear: Claire’s mattress was ruined. The worst part was he had no recollection of spewing any last night. All he knew was that the monster kept his head turned sideways as the pair of them huddled in a pile vomit he couldn’t remember. Then it all clicked.

As he writhed and groveled against Mr. Body’s torture, Dor reached up a hand and pet the tail pressing against his cheek. This time it really was affection. He was in no state to tell her ‘thank you’, so he did what he could, fully realizing she’d saved him from choking to death on his own vomit.

Thanks, Monster. You’re so much nicer than that asshole I call a body. The torture his body dealt must have misfired his brain much fiercer than any drink because right then, he really was grateful.

He was still aware of the teeth swirling inside her tail, but the potential of that paled to the torture he put his own self through. Mr. Body was the real monster. Being eaten alive would have been a merciful escape to his punishment; perhaps that was why her tail didn’t bother him?

And even somewhere along the lines, he fell asleep, and vaguely recalled hugging tight to the lesser monster’s tail for every inkling of comfort it could provide.

**************************************

Dor woke up again. His mouth tasted like a hot fart and the bony knee-caps pressed into his ear. It took a second, but the twirling stars reminded him of his situation, and a panic washed over him. He clearly wasn’t in the right state of mind earlier and cringed at how grateful he was to the monster. The torture had fried his brain.

Although, that torture hadn’t subsided completely. There was progress, but not full resolution. He and his body were currently at the bargaining table, negotiating a tentative peace.

‘Seven more hours of feeling like ass,’ his body told him. ‘Oh, and if you thought you couldn’t get more emotional, you were wrong. I’m gonna crank up the dial to nineteen.’

‘How about four more hours of feeling like ass and I’ll give you a drink of water,’ Dor countered.

‘Ha. I’ll just make you throw it up. You have no power here.’

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‘You’d cut off your mind to spite the brain?’

‘In a heartbeat,’ his body coldly replied. ‘A heartbeat I control, mind You. You have no power here, but I’ll tell you what; you caught me in a good mood. If you can hold the water down, after four hours I’ll rescind my previous sanctions.’

‘The migraine, too?’

‘The migraine, too.’

‘Deal.’

However, during their negotiations, Dor hadn’t been entirely honest with his body. He’d agreed to terms he had no idea how to fulfill. Business 101, my boy. The tail still pinned his cheek. He was even being held at ransom out here as well.

Tap. Tap. Tap. His fingertip tapped her tail to get her attention. She shifted subtlety.

“I need a drink,” he told her through squished cheeks.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Her tail replied, tapping on his jacket pocket. Of course! The monster knew what was up, and Dor reached for reinforcements.

‘You…you wouldn’t.’ His body was scared.

‘You brought this on yourself, you dick.’

‘I’ll…I’ll cut the feelings of ass down to…to three and a half—no, two hours! Please, anything but that!’

‘You had your chance. I tried to reason with you.’ Dor reached into his jacket pocket and curled his fingers around a tin flask. ‘It’s the hair of the dog, motherfucker, and you’re the rabbit.’

‘But it already bit you! This is…this is suicide!’

‘Takes one to know one.’ Dor’s last quip was weak, but his reinforcements weren’t. He had a private militia in his pocket, rebel forces led by his old friend, Sargent Berry. He pulled out the flask and thanked God there were still a few drabs left in it.

‘Buckle up, soldier!’ Sargent Berry commanded him. ‘This is war!’

‘Sir, yes, sir!’ When he opened the cap, the pungent stink inside nearly brought him into another gagging fit, but he needed to take his medicine. The tail squished his cheeks and puckered his lips like a fish, so he drank like one, suckling Sargent Berry’s cock for the medicine buried deep inside. That was a soldier’s duty to his commander.

His body panicked and tried to expel the rebel forces, but Dor didn’t lose a single soldier. With the Sargent at command, Dor forced every last drop of booze down, keeping the vile liquid there through sheer willpower alone. It nauseated his stomach; his head ached and damned if it didn’t feel better. Placebo effect or not, just knowing relief was on the way was enough to knock the torture down a peg.

He tapped the tail again. “I need to pee,” he told her.

She giggled. He froze.

That took more than a few seconds to process.

Just as simple as that, the monster displayed a human emotion. That wasn’t real. I misheard. My brain must be fried. Still, curiosity got the better of him. He tapped her tail again. “I need to pee.”

She giggled. Apparently, that was her trigger phrase.

“I need to pee,” he repeated just to triple check.

She giggled and her tail let up.

Easy peasy. Too easy in fact. It hit him. This is a trap. She’s lulling me into a false sense of security. Torture is much more effective if the victim has hope. She’s giving me hope so she can rip it all away.

“I need to pee,” he confirmed.

She giggled.

It’s too soon to tell. She either thinks ‘I need to pee’ is really funny, or she’s bent on psychological torture.

“I need to pee.”

She giggled.

“I need to pee.”

She giggled. Over and over again, he repeated that phrase and she laughed every time. It was a pleasant, airy laugh—a bit ditsy but really pleasant on his ears. She had a nice voice. Until then, he didn’t even know she had one, but he’d discovered her voice and the emotions behind it all with a bout of childish humor.

“I really do need to pee. Please let me up.” And she did.

Covered in vomit and thoroughly nauseated, Dor got out of bed completely hunched over and trudged to the bathroom for the first time in two months. He got away scot-free. She never even shoved a knife in his back. He’d escaped simply by saying ‘please’.

My mind must be fried. I just told the monster a joke, had a laugh with her.

He kicked off his boots and hopped into the shower, clothes and all. With all the filth he’d been covered in, it was a job beyond what the dish sanitizer could handle. Dried flakes of vomit washed down the drain, and he hung out under the hot water, easing the tension from his body. His head hung low and he relaxed, at least until it dawned on him that he hadn’t closed the door.

Too late, the monster stood in the doorway, wrapped tight in her vomit soaked comforter like a Halloween costume. Instead of fear, though, he felt remorse. His fear buried beneath the feelings of self-loathing that seeing her in that state drudged up. She’d kept him from choking on his vomit last night, and he’d repaid her by ruining her hidey-hole with his filth. It didn’t hurt matters that she looked so pathetic standing there. He really, really felt bad.

‘And I’m going to crank your emotions up to nineteen! Mwuahahahaha! You haven’t seen the last of me!’ It seemed his body got in one last jab before the rebel forces took over.

I’m such a piece of shit.

“Let me…let me wash off,” he told her. “Then I’ll take care of your blanket.”

She didn’t leave the bathroom though. She plopped down on the floor Indian style and watched Dor take a shower. Is she some kind of pervert? Dor didn’t dare argue. It seemed those two were finally starting to come to terms. At least, as long as this isn’t some kind of long-winded psychological torture. That thought even sounded ridiculous in his head.

At one point during his shower, she even popped her head out from underneath the comforter. Her straight black hair fell over a gaunt face, but he could still see the outline of her former beauty—after getting past those sinister pitch-black eyes, she really was meant to be a beautiful girl. At least, she would be if she weren't starving to death.  It seems she's either a docile creature or in the midst of a sinister torture.

He doubted the latter but had no idea how monsters’ brains ticked, so he couldn’t discount it completely. He’d been walking on eggshells for so long, it’d take more than saving his life for Dor to disregard his paranoia. Still, it is progress. Something had to change. Thank God for that.