My husband is skipping around the house, wearing dark green waders, and screaming "I am King of the Earwigs." In between reminders to the citizens of his monarchy, he's blowing bubbles with a giant bubble-kit. I am pretty sure he has lost it (if he ever had it). The neighbor, some tart named Lois Englebrecht, is peeking out between her blinds. I can't say I blame her. If her husband was running around screaming I would stare, too.
It started with his hair. Just two days ago, he was sleeping in his chair in the family room (he had fallen asleep during a failed attempt to finish "Fletch") when he woke suddenly and started yelling. He had two of the little gross bugs in his hair. One was threatening to go in his ear, but, ironically, his ear-hair got tangled around those pinching things they have. He woke-up with a start, like he realized he was late for work or something, and just started yelling and batting at his head. "Get it off! Get it off!" he yelled. I went to him with a bit of toilet paper and plucked the damn things off his head. He shuddered and ran upstairs and spent the next hour looking in the mirror, convinced that there were more.
The next day, he came home after work with a small army of small figurines that were able to blow bubbles.
"Got these at the toy store. Gene at work said that soap water dissolves their exo-skeleton. I'm going to kick all of their carapaces." He set up these bubble-blowing machines like sentry guns at each doorway and low window.
During the day, I had already bought some pesticide. I have no idea if the soap thing really works, but really, if we had decent gutters the water wouldn't be all next to the house creating a breeding ground...but that's boring, I'm sure.
When he first started these outbursts, I would cry for hours and eventually they would go away. I talked to his doctor in private and she said that his brain was sleeping but his body was not; he would run around and, with the input from his head and his senses, act out dreams. Since he's been unemployed, he just sleeps all the time anyway. What he needed was a restart and the best way to do that was to simply knock him out and let his brain "reboot."
This morning I woke up and saw him sitting on the corner of the bed, rocking. "Can't sleep, things'll eat me brains," he said.
"Paul, you're an English teacher; use proper grammar," I told him. He turned his head slowly to look at me. I thought it'd turn all the way like an owl or little girl posessed.
"You want them to win. You're with them. Well, you have no power. I control them, now. I AM KING OF THE EARWIGS! I shall teach them the proper grammar. They shall not overthrow!"
That was about the time I left. About an hour ago, I got home and I'm now here, surrounded by a platoon of bubble blowing machines. He said that I absolutely had to sit on my throne and remain unmolested by the revolution. A coup, he said. He gave me the remote. I just sat there and watched TV for a while. I noted one of the bubble blowing machines was not keeping up.
"PAUL!" I yell. "PAUL! GET IN HERE, WE HAVE A SABOTEUR!" He trudges in. Since I've last seen him, he's found and put on an old gas mask and is carrying a large yellow metal Tonka truck--old school. He's wearing mismatched gardening gloves.
"What!" he yells through the mask. I can barely hear him.
"We have a traitor," and I look over the platoon carefully, stopping on an older Winnie the Pooh that appears to not be blowing as many bubbles as the others.
"I'll kill the bastard," I think he says, reaching for the offending obese plastic bear. As he is bent over, I take my chance and sink the syringe I've been hiding since I got home into his butt. He lets out a roar that sounds more like a disappointed sigh through the gas mask.
I sit there and and wait for him to fall. It takes just a moment, but he falls right down in the middle of the living room floor.
Now that I think about it, this was by far the longest time. Usually, these didn't go on more than eight hours. If it's been days, that means he's been sleeping for days. And if he's been sleeping for days, what does that mean?
I look down at him. Something is happening. I get down and roll him onto his side. He's not a big guy, so he rolls easily. If he pukes, I don't want him to choke; what a horrible way to go. He's never even been a rock star.
When I get him on his side, his mouth lolls open. I think I can see something dark moving in there. I get up, go get a flashlight, then head back to him. I feel something in my hair, so I brush it away and turn on the flashlight.
I get on my knees and open his mouth and look inside. In there, something inhuman is writhing.
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