Let us imagine, just for a moment, the existence of our bodily insecurities. These insecurities exist within the deepest, darkest caverns of our minds. Oh, what horror!

Continue to imagine here, that we could become reflections of each other’s self-loathing. The discontent with how we look would affect our ways of moving throughout the world. This could occur through something as simple as physical contact; an exchange of bodily fluids; a sexual embrace. Like mutations occurring in nature, these insecurities have been perpetrated onto ourselves from existing in the contemporary age. These insecurities, now self-inflicted, would have the power to curse, plague and infest those with irreversible suffering through bodily contact. Horror would manifest on those that we loved most. Our self-proclaimed physical deformities could spread like a virus; like a wildfire, a fungal infection that spawns, mutates and spreads. An invisible virus mirrors the features that we despise about ourselves onto others. There is no known cure for this phenomenon.

My blemishes are now your blemishes. My flesh is now your flesh. My disfigurement is now yours to bear.

“But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit, what I shall soon cease to be - a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others, and intolerable to myself.” (1)                    

1.

It was a seemingly usual day for Pete; a construction worker with big dreams but no ambition. Unbeknownst to Pete, this day would change his life forever. One day at work, Pete stared into the sun, and a giant galvanised bolt fell from the scaffolding above. Unfortunately, this instantly disfigured his nose. Cartilage, skin, blood and bone fused into what became Pete’s worst nightmare; the beginning of the end. 

The surgical procedure to restore the state of his nose could only fix so much. His nose was permanently bent to the left side. His appearance was drastically altered, and his self-confidence deteriorated to the point where he was afraid to leave the house. Pete’s self-hatred transformed his personality from a vivacious and outgoing man, to someone who was depressed, reclusive and unkempt. Terrified that his colleagues would ridicule him for the horrendous state of his nose, Pete regularly skipped work and was eventually terminated for doing so.

Piles of dirty clothes, cigarette butts and rubbish in the form of UberEats bags and tissues plastered with semen made the floor in his unspectacular studio apartment impossible to see. The stench of stale marijuana, bong hits and sweat emanating from his unwashed bed sheets permeated his surroundings.

The only impetus for Pete to leave his apartment was to dabble in his hobby of hunting psilocybin mushrooms. This hobby was inextricably, a hunt for answers, in the hope that he could transcend his anxieties and the horrors of reality. Twice a week, Pete would fuel up his utility vehicle and drive for two hours to his favourite hunting spot located “down south” – as the locals would call it - and forage for mushrooms shrouded in darkness. On rare occasions, Pete would pinpoint the right type of mushroom.

Reflected in the light of his head-torch, Pete noticed what he was sure to be magic mushrooms, and the best damn looking ones he had ever seen. Jackpot! In his haste to obtain the ‘shrooms, he tripped over the ends of his trackpants; too long for his short, stubby legs.

“Jesus, fuck..,” Pete mumbled as he tripped face-first onto the ground.

Pete fell flat on the topsoil beneath him, gashing his right cheek and bruising his already disfigured nose; now dripping with blood. His picked mushrooms fell along with him, tumbling into the dirt. His cheek was now grazed and bleeding.

Composing himself on the damp, clammy earth, he brushed the topsoil off his pants. As he stood up, he noticed that the spot of ground that his face fell on was covered by a squashed mushroom. Whilst this mushroom displayed an identical muddy-brown exterior to those surrounding it, the mushroom was oozing a purple-coloured, fluorescent, and glutinous fluid.

Wiping his face of both blood and the purple fluid, Pete gently placed the broken mushroom into his basket and continued hunting. After a short while, he walked back to his ute, made himself comfortable and fell into a deep sleep.

2.

Around a few weeks after the mushroom-picking incident, Pete returned to the workforce; working the same job for a different company. He disliked the long hours involved, yet the camaraderie that often occurred between him and his co-workers made it bearable.  Pete quickly formed a close friendship with his new site manager Kane. Kane had lost the bottom half of his right leg in a car accident a few years beforehand.

Kane’s right leg was mangled in the wreckage, as it was trapped between the driver’s seat and the car door. He was lucky to be alive. However, he suffered crushing insecurities resulting from the amputation. Whilst he was fortunately fitted with a prosthetic leg, he found it impossible to continue the decadent party-boy lifestyle he relished before the accident, as his leg made it difficult to dance and effortlessly socialise like he used to.

Kane and Pete quickly discovered that they shared similar interests in science fiction films, smoking weed and ingesting psychedelic substances. The deep dissatisfaction they both shared with the state of the bodies caused them to exist in partial isolation from the outside world. Sitting on Pete’s couch after both men completed a gruelling shift, Kane and Pete switched on the television and took turns taking long deep hits from Kane’s bong, without any regards to Kane’s cold and incessant coughing.

“Pass me the wooby, will ya? I’m sick of this comedy shit. It’s all old news... I wanna watch something fuckin’ interesting, man” said Kane, reaching for his serving of chicken tandoori curry that Pete yet again ordered off UberEats.

“Man, your nose has got some nasty pimple shit going on. Have you ever heard of a shower? Looks worse off than mine, you mutt,” said Pete between chews of his dinner.

“Nah, fuck that. Besides, it ain’t as ugly as your nog, ya fuckin’ Owen Wilson lookalike,” Kane cheekily quipped. Pete swiftly turned in the other direction; his cheeks blushing red from shame.

However, Pete was being honest; Kane’s nose had developed red spots on it in an unusually short time. Without the spots causing him pain, and being too stoned to notice, Kane didn’t bother to check. As Pete had removed his bathroom mirror due to the insecurities he felt from looking at his reflection, it would have been impossible for Kane to check anyway.

After an hour of what felt like forever switching between movies, both Kane and Pete ended up watching Gattaca. They sat there not speaking a word, as both guys were feeling anxious and insular from the weed. The air between them was peculiar; almost awkward, as they both realised they had nothing to say to one another.

Kane then fell asleep, his snoring irritating Pete as he became more and more distracted from watching the film. As Pete’s focus on the film lapsed, he realised that his apartment resembled a bombsite from all the accumulated mess resulting from his depressive state. Leaving Kane to sleep, Pete cleaned the food scraps, delivery bags, cum tissues and clothes off his floor before showering and tiptoeing to bed.

As Pete started undressing to take a shower, he noticed that his right leg had also developed painless, red spots that developed in a similar fashion to the spots on Kane’s nose. These spots surrounded his ankle and covered his right foot up to the tip of his toes, though they strangely stopped above the knee. He returned to the couch compare his leg to Kane’s nose. where the spots looked identical. Pete glanced at Kane’s nose, then directed his gaze down at his leg, then again to Kane. Glancing between Kane’s nose and his own legs, he was sure that the spots looked identical. Pete didn’t want to wake Kane up and scare him, so he left Kane alone and passed out.

3.

He woke up around noon the next day, with rain pounding on his kitchen window. He felt feverish and drowsy from oversleeping. His phone alarm was blaring away on his bedside table, notifying him of a few missed calls from his boss asking him where the hell he was. With a jarring sensation in his right leg, he pushed his bedsheets away and saw that his leg was covered in large, inflamed but painless blisters.  Startled, he cried out to Kane for help.

“Kane, what the fuck mate, check out my leg!?” Pete yelled, as he sat up and rolled to the edge of his bed. Kane was nowhere to be found. As Pete stood and motioned to walk to close his front door, he instantly fell over, aggressively banging his forehead while colliding with his kitchen countertop.

The bottom half of his right leg was completely numb. It had lost the ability of movement and the sensations of touch. In his diabolical state, he was hesitant of contacting paramedics for medical attention, as his apartment was strewn with drug paraphernalia. He was worried that the police would also be notified.  Using his arms, Pete dragged his figure across the carpeted floor of his apartment and pushed the front door shut.

He then dragged his body across the room to his bed, grabbed his phone and called Kane. He didn’t pick up. Around ten minutes later, Kane dialled him back.

“Hey man, what’s u-” Kane muttered, mopingly.

Pete intercepted Kane’s question. “Man, my fucking LEG is fucked up. I can’t move my right leg what the FUCK do I do!” Pete screamed down the phone.

“It’s gonna be okay bro, just call an ambulance… Do you want me to call one for you?” Kane reassuringly asked Pete.

“Man, this isn’t cool. I don’t know what to fucking do!”, shouted Pete. Terrified, he was still lying on the floor. Sweat was dripping from his forehead.

Kane was trying desperately to calm Pete down, yet not understanding the severity of the situation. “Just smoke a spliff or something, man. Chill the fuck out. At least you’ve got a leg, aye.”

Pete became irate. “Shut up man. Check your fuckin’ nose before you come at me, c*nt!” He promptly hung up the phone.

Five minutes later, Pete’s phone lit up with a message from Kane.

Kane: Hey wtf man… my nose is blistered. I didn’t even realise as you took the mirror out of your bathroom, you tool.

Pete: Yeh, I told you. Why didn’t you believe me last night when I told you that your nose was pimply all over?

Kane: Mate, I was fuckin’ blazed. I didn’t care enough to look in the mirror. I’m sure these blisters will go away. As for your leg though, that shit needs attention right this minute.

The text message made Pete feel insecure. He left the message unseen; not bothering to reply. He laid there in confusion, trying to think of what could have caused this.

Kane was sick with the cold... Surely that couldn’t have been the case? Should call an ambulance and get this shit checked out? I don’t have health cover. Would it spread to anyone else? Was it something I ate? Why is this happening to my right leg? Is Kane trying to spite me? And my nose… he’s got shit on his nose too – could there be a connection between my nose and his leg? Are we mutating into one another?

At this point, the rainfall started to increase. Pete was shivering, but he lacked the energy to shuffle across the floor and lay himself back on his bed. He felt a sharp, agonising sensation below the knee on his calf muscle. Rolling over to investigate, he noticed that a blister had burst and was slowly emanating brownish, blood-coloured pus. His leg appeared to be in a gangrenous state.

He instantly dialled 000.

4.

Checking the state of his nose in the worksite’s bathroom mirror, Kane noticed it was still blistered, but it was also now slightly bent to the left. He was taken aback from the sudden change in his nose’s shape. As he opened the disabled bathroom door to head back to his office for the fifth time that morning, his phone vibrated as Pete was on the line.

Pete was terrified. “Kane, hey Kane? Are you there? Mate… hello?”

“Are you okay?” Kane replied.

Pete was petrified. He spoke in a rushed manner with a terrified voice. “Hey, hello…? I’m in an ambulance. My leg is weeping with blood and pus fro- from… blisters. I can’t move it. It’s turning black. It’s swollen and it fuckin’ stinks.”

Kane went quiet for a second, and then laughed nervously. “What the fuck man?”

“Pete, I thought what happened with your leg was a joke. No one gets a fucked leg from smoking cones. You’re fuckin’ hallucinating. I’m sorry the weed’s caused some gnarly side-effects.”

Kane put his phone on loudspeaker, then hobbled back to his desk. He was worried, as his boss was probably wondering why he continuously was leaving the site to head to the toilet.

“What the fuck are you on about! This isn’t a joke! The paramedics say its sepsis, caused by an incidence of gangrene. In-sa-dence? Is that how you say it? My bloody leg’s gonna be amputated!” shouted Pete.

“I have no idea what – what… to fucking d-,” he said, breathing heavily between each word.

Kane hung up the phone, and immediately took a taxi to the nearest hospital.

Upon arriving at the hospital, he was told that since Pete was currently being operated on in theatre, he had no choice but to leave the premises, or wait around until he could find out the prognosis of Pete’s situation. Kane chose the latter option and sat down on a white plastic chair a few metres away from the reception desk, a magazine in hand.

The room’s appearance exhibited an eerie sterility, with furniture that looked like it hadn’t been replaced in at least thirty years. The room was full to the brims. A woman was vomiting in a bucket a few metres to the left of Kane, beside a wall. An infant was continually wailing; its mother was desperately trying to shut it up by cuddling it close to her chest. Paint was peeling off the walls, the linoleum floors looked somewhat cold and the magazine he had picked up off the floor was tattered. “Angelina Jolie set to WED secret billionaire lover!” was the headlining article, displayed with Jolie wearing a body-hugging gown, smiling from ear-to-ear.

Kane flicked through the magazine’s glossy pages. Other headlines included “Nipple Piercings: Everything you need to know”, and “Princess Kate breaks maternity leave to attend event: She’s one busy mum!”. A quick-dinner recipe section seemed to be ripped out. The crossword page was gone. The sudoku puzzle section was completed.  Kane placed the magazine on an empty chair to the right of him, and then picked up a Take-5 magazine from the floor. “REAL LIFE: An Infection Ate My Face!” was displayed on the cover in a bright red block font. Upon reading the headline, he grabbed his iPhone from his pocket and checked his nose.

Pete’s leg has turned gangrenous in the space of around fifteen hours. Meanwhile, my nose has become slightly deformed – almost as bad as Pete’s. Should I get medical attention too… I mean… my nose isn’t destroying my face - but people ARE giving me odd stares though – their eyes darting away as I meet their gaze. They could as well fuckin’ think I’m a freak of nature with my false leg as well. Maybe I should get my nose examined, if I’m thinking about it this much.

By late afternoon, Kane was alternating between losing focus and playing games on his phone, so he asked the receptionist for an update. They said that Pete was still under anaesthetic, so he decided to call it a day and head home for the night.

5.

Kane decided to sleep in the next morning instead of heading to work, but he was swiftly woken by a phone call from an unknown number. He decided to ignore it. Five minutes later, his phone rang again.

“Hello...? Mate, it’s too fuckin’ early for this shit,” he mumbled into the phone.

A seemingly gruff voice responded over the line. “Hi there… I apologise for waking you. My name is Helena. I’m calling you today from the Department of Health. How are you today, sir?”

“I’m sorry for swearing at you, miss. You woke me up. What’s the reason that you’re calling?” Kane replied, somewhat confused.

“You’re listed as Pete’s secondary emergency contact in his medical records. I’m calling to notify you that he has been placed in strict quarantine for a gangrenous infection located on his right leg.”

“An amputation was necessary due to the outbreak of a mysterious fungal skin infection, but fortunately the infection didn’t spread above his right knee. We have kept the limb and will be examining it to identify the cause of infection.”

Helena raised the tone of her voice. “Have you been in close contact with Pete in the last 72 hours?” she asked.

Kane paused to think. “Yeah… we hung out the night before last. I stayed at his house. I didn’t sleep in his bed if that’s what you’re thinking!” He let out a snort. “I slept on his couch. I don’t remember much, but we drank a lot,” replied Kane, hesitantly. His voice started trembling.

“Did you share food or drinks?” asked Helena. “Any use of illicit substances won’t be reported to authorities. We’d just like to know if any items or consumables were shared between the two of you, so we can investigate if Pete’s infection has spread.”

She continued speaking. “We are also in contact with Pete’s immediate family members and work colleagues. Everyone that Pete has been in contact with over the last month will be questioned in due time,”

“Uh… we shared a bong!” said Kane, while laughing. “But yeah, we both smoked cones out of the same bong. That’s about it, really... he had nothing else at his place to share!” Kane answered between laughs.

“So, you’re stating that you and Pete shared a bong to consume cannabis together,” Helena articulated.

Kane started to panic. His throat froze up. He was now sweating, and his chest felt heavy. He started speaking in an agitated manner. “Yes, I’m sure miss. Don’t put me in fuckin’ quarantine though. I’ve got nothing wrong with me. I ain’t got no sickness or nothing!”.

Helena paused for a moment. “Kane, for legal reasons we must question you to assess the probability that Pete’s infection has been transmitted to you. We are assessing the causation of the spread of an infection on a pandemic-like scale. This is a serious concern.”

“Me? You’re not fuckin’ serious!” shouted Kane.

“All I’ve got is a bung nose from a few days ago. It’s nothing to worry about!”

“My nose hasn’t fallen off. Don’tcha fuckin’ come near me, you dog!” He was terrified.

“Your nose, hey…?” uttered Helena, in a muffled voice. The scribbling of a pen could be heard in the background.

“Kane, the sudden change in your nose’s appearance means that you are at grave risk of spreading infection. The need to examine you is critical. Under national jurisdiction, we are impelled to investigate your surroundings and interrogate you for questioning. You will be attended to at once.”

“Plus, we have your address and contact details from your My Health Record registry.” Helena paused to type, and then continued to speak. “It says here that you had to undergo an amputation resulting from an automotive incident? I have organised authorities to inspect you and your surroundings right away. Please stay where you are, and a paramedic will soon c--”

“Get fucked! You c*nts better lay the fuck off!” screamed Kane.

He hung up and threw his phone on the tiled floor under his bed. The screen was shattered, but the phone was intact. He grabbed his prosthetic leg from beside his bed and used it to reach his phone, then proceeded to drive the prosthetic leg into the phone in a frenzy, until it was destroyed.

Attaching his prosthetic leg to his thigh, Kane scrambled to grab his valuables, and then hobbled to the bathroom. He then realised chances of his escape was futile, as his apartment was a few levels up from the ground floor. He hid behind the shower curtain, crouching down to conceal himself when he heard an ear-splitting blow as his front door was smashed in. He could hear police sirens blaring from the parking area below.

Kane had no choice but to stay put.

6.

Two large and overpowering men in white hazmat suits with gas masks walked down Kane’s hallway into his living room. Both men were stocky and over six feet tall. Their hazmat suits read “QUARANTINE AND INFECTION CONTROL” on the back in bold, black lettering. Both men did not speak a word as they checked each room in the apartment thoroughly for any signs of Kane – the kitchen, living room, and both tenants’ bedrooms.

The men found Kane in the bathroom lying on the shower tiles, crunched up in a ball and sobbing profusely. Kane had no idea what was in for him. The men grabbed Kane and pinned him to the ground. He let out a loud scream, but his mouth was bolted shut by the taller man’s hands. The shorter man noticed the deformed state of Kane’s nose and started taking photos with a high-quality camera while his mouth was clamped in the man’s grasp.

The successive stream of bright flashes disorientated Kane. Once his nose was thoroughly documented, the man then put his camera away in its’ protective casing. The shorter man immobilised Kane by grabbing his wrists, the taller man grabbed his hips, and slung Kane over his shoulder. K shouted out loudly for help.

“Shut the fuck up, you weak c*nt!” the taller man yelled in Kane’s ear.

He then proceeded to spit on Kane, then forcefully clasped his hand over Kane’s mouth with his left hand as Kane was carried out of the bathroom. The shorter man searched the apartment for Kane’s valuables, while the taller man carried Kane down the flight of stairs from his front door to a large black van. He was waiting impatiently until the shorter man had locked up Kane’s apartment and made his way down the apartment complex stairs. The shorter man had seized Kane’s iPhone, wallet, keys and passport.

“You sure took your fuckin’ time, hey!” muttered the taller man to the shorter man.

“It ain’t my fault that the mutt’s passport was nowhere to be found,” the shorter man quipped.

The shorter man then directed his glare at Kane. “The Quarantine and Infections Inspection team will be back later today to fumigate the apartment and to burn all infected material. We’ll have to evacuate the apartment complex if we find anything hazardous. Judging by the state of the cesspit you live in, that will be a certainty,” the shorter man said to Kane in a contemptuous tone.

Both men then grabbed Kane and strapped him to the stretcher in the van’s back compartment, strapping all limbs apart from his amputated leg.  As the taller man made himself comfortable in the driver’s seat, the shorter man injected a drip containing sedatives into Kane’s right arm, closed the van’s back door and hopped into the passenger seat. The van reversed out of his apartment complex parking lot and drove off.

The two men continued driving until nightfall. Kane was so disoriented due to the sedatives, that when the van made a short standstill for a quick toilet break, he had no idea where he was. At some point in the evening, around twelve hours after Kane was seized by the two men, the van stopped in the emergency department of a nameless, gargantuan concrete building. The building appeared to look like a grey, brutalist-style cube, with no windows and was around twenty metres tall. The perimeter of the building was surrounded by a five-metre high barbed wire fence. There were no signs of life in the building’s immediate vicinity; red dirt, rocks and the occasional shrub were the only natural features to be seen. The building itself was devoid of any recognisable features, except for a small building about twenty metres away. This was connected to the main building by a paved concrete path.

Kane felt helpless as he was wheeled into the building by the two men that seized him from his apartment that morning. In the foyer, another round of sedatives was injected into him which increased his feelings of drowsiness. The foyer’s flooring reflected a crisp white sheen that could have blinded anyone that looked at it. The foyer was devoid of furniture, apart from a reception desk that was shielded by glass. A stern-looking individual was seated behind it; typing profusely while talking on an iPhone. The receptionist was too engrossed in their work to notice Kane’s presence.

Kane was continually lapsing in and out of consciousness. His head kept on spinning, his vision was blurry, and saliva was oozing out of his mouth as his head was turned to the side. Unable to speak as his mouth was covered, he heard the unnerving sounds of individuals wailing. The constant sounds of the stomping of feet, the shaking of chains, and howling made Kane alert, yet from an outsider’s glance he appeared to have overdosed.

After liaising with the receptionist to organise Kane’s transfer from the ambulance to the large building, the two men then left the vicinity. He was passed onto a nurse, who was wearing a black hazmat suit and personal protective equipment. They thanked the two men and wheeled his stretcher through the foyer into a lift. At this point, Kane was knocked out. His fingers and lips were blue, yet the nurse didn’t seem to notice. The nurse pressed the third-floor button and travelled with him up the lift.

The lift opened to a passageway, with cells on either side. These cells were approximately two square metres in size and contained individuals with visually similar conditions to each other in neighbouring cells, seated side-by-side. The never-ending cacophony of wails and screams noises that Kane heard on the ground floor were amplified.

The cells had unpolished concrete floors and white painted brick walls. They were fenced off from the hallway by steel rods. These were shared between the number of individuals in each cell, which varied from two to four people at most. Kane’s stretcher was wheeled past two men in neighbouring cells with amputated right arms. One man’s arm was bandaged, and he was screaming in agony; the other man kept to himself, staring sombrely at the floor. Two women were lying down in the cell across from them with colostomy bags, crying silently. Each of the cellmates would steal glances at each other and look away in shame.

The odours emanating from the cells was unbearable; the air was stale; a putrid stench of vomit, blood, shit and piss filled the air. Patients were left to fester in their cells.

The nurse eventually wheeled Kane to Pete’s cell, carefully undoing the lock to not wake up the patient. It was Pete, sound asleep on the stale concrete floor; his hands resting under his head as a makeshift pillow. Pete’s right leg was amputated at the knee. The amputation wound was bandaged, yet it emitted a foul odour. Kane lapsed into unconsciousness, and both men rested for the next few hours.

7.

Kane was shaken awake by Pete gently jolting his left arm and tapping his forehead.

“Oi… listen to me. Can you hear me?” Pete whispered.

Kane was still heavily sedated, and he found it difficult to focus on what Pete was saying.

“Ye… yeah… I don’t know what’s going on…” Kane murmured.

“Listen to me!” hissed Pete, straight into Kane’s ear.

“You need to fuckin’ focus, mate! Try to listen to me as best as you can. The effects of the drugs that the nurses injected into ya will last a few more hours.”

Saliva was dribbling from Kane’s mouth. “I… I… wha… where the fuck am I?”

Pete replied to Kane in an uncompromising, yet concise tone of voice. “You seriously need to listen carefully. We’ve been locked up as we have transmitted infections to each other, which seem to manifest from our insecurities about our own bodies. Look around you. The folks in ‘ere have transmitted their self-hatred onto one another by infection.”

Pete continued to whisper to Kane without pausing or considering K’s lapses in focus.

“When I went to hospital with a gangrenous leg the morning after we got high together, I was forced to disclose who I’d been in previous physical contact with for the last twenty-four hours. That’s why your nose is fucked, as I hated the sight of mine and it’s been passed on to you. Therefore, I ended up with an infected leg. My leg then had to be amputated. You’ve been transported here so the infection is quarantined, and so it won’t spread onto anyone else”.

The build-up of saliva in Kane’s mouth caused him to babble. “I… don’t… I don’t understand why we’re here…”

Pete was irritated at Kane’s inability to hold a conversation.

“Listen closely! Please, listen for fuck’s sake. I can’t repeat this,” said Pete, shaking Kane to wake him.

He waved his hands in Kane’s face and opened Kane’s eyelids with his fingers.

“The government is doing experiments on pairs who have transferred infections onto one another. A certain strain of fungus has been found in rural areas that contaminates the frontal cortex upon contact with one’s bloodstream. I’ve got no idea how it causes body parts to mutate, though. I think I caught the infection when I tripped and fell on a fungus a few weeks back. I went shroom picking, do you remember? We were going to take them?”

Kane nodded his head. “I think I remember w… what you were talking about. I had no idea you caught an infection?”

“Mate, I had no idea either.” Pete whispered, letting out a short laugh.

“Somehow I ended up with this shit. I had no idea, but it’s fuckin’ obvious as my leg’s amputated!”

“Where the… where the fuck are we?” mumbled Kane. He tried to smile back at Pete, but he failed to move his facial muscles.

“I overheard from a nurse that we’re in a quarantine facility full of people like us. Everyone that presents with this infection showcases diverse visual symptoms. Right now, you’ve got as much idea of what’s going on as I do,” muttered Pete.

Pete continued to explain their shared predicament to Kane. “You see the guys in the cells next to us?”

Kane rose his head from the pillow, turning his neck to focus his attention on the two men in the cells across the hallway from them. He focused his stare on the two men. “One’s got no arm. The other man’s stump is bandaged up. Is this what you mean?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Pete said. “From what I’ve noticed, the fungal infection is causing people’s body parts to drastically alter into someone else’s as a literal mirror of their self-hatred. In our case, the infection was transferred through my saliva, which explains why your nose is fucked.”

Pete continued. “I can’t predict how long we’ll be locked up here. We’ll have to be quarantined until a remedy is developed and the fungus is eradicated. We could be in here for weeks, months, or even years until all traces of the fungi subsides.”

Pete rested his head on Kane’s lap. Tears started to well up in Kane’s eyes. Both Kane and Pete were lost for words. For both men, every hour that they had to bear the forces of their own self-hate felt like a lifetime. From this point onwards, they were forced to share the scars of each other’s mutations.

[1] Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus (London: Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones, 1818: reprint, London: Penguin, 2003), 165.