Ben C. O. Grimm

Someone is manipulating my genes. I noticed it some time ago. A very small change in the shape of my hands. I held them up to the light and took a long hard look. I stared at them so intensely that the bathroom light hurt my eyes. I closed them for a minute. I put my hands behind my back. I opened my eyes again and took another close look. Damn, what's his motive? I lie awake, cramped, exhausted. The slightest sound will disturb me. Are those footsteps? Is that the wind opening and closing doors in the house? How does he get in? I'm sure I didn't sleep, but the next morning the color of my eyes has changed. Blue to grey. Bloodshot whites. What if he's in the house permanently, hiding behind the curtains? The thought's too childish to even verify. Maybe that's the big mistake in all of this. If he can manipulate my genes, he can follow the path of my thoughts and dodge the oncoming train. I'm not sure what's worrying me most. The fact that he handles my DNA in a way he sees fit, the way he gains access to my life and matter, or the way in which my trusted mirror image is escaping me. I told Nina once, but she ignored me. A phase is what she called it. "I'm not sleeping with anyone else," she stated. In fact, she's not sleeping with anyone at the moment. I pushed her away one time too many. She left. Can't lose track, can't lose control. Maybe she's involved. Is she the devil's helper? My wrists. Why would anyone be interested in altering my wrists? The watch doesn't fit anymore. Does he want me to lose all sense of time? Is he undermining my routines? No better victim than a disoriented one. Oh, I'm no fool. I may not be able to see him, or sense him approaching me, but he's not the only one with a plan. But it's not even the plan that's bothering me. The motive. What can it be? Nina came to visit me today. I kept my distance. She took a lighter from her purse, and my pupils widened. An uneasy silence. Maybe she's wired. "What's up?", she asked. "You're out," I replied. I inspected the couch. Still warm, but no trace of anything. Just a slight hint of musk and the smell of warmed leather. Her skin or the couch? I hold my breath. Did the couch sigh? I run my hands through my hair. Oh no. Not my hair. It feels thin and weak. Is he working on more than one level? Did he affect my hair or my perception? I look at the bed, the epicenter of nightly torture. When does he perform his tricks? Is he poisoning my food, or is he tampering with the water supply? Now wait. What happened? Why am I on the couch? How did I get there? I feel uneasy. He seems to come and go as he pleases. He can lift me up and lay me down. Here I am, trying to grasp his presence, while he performs his surgery. What is it this time? Eyelids? No, they look the same. Heavy and restless. Nose? No. Damn, where's the change this time? This is upsetting me even more. I know he was here. I know he had his way with me. Why can't I see what he did? Wait. Maybe he's done it this time. Maybe he crossed out the gene that has kept me alert and attentive. That's it, then. He can turn me into a coldblooded reptile, and I won't notice. But I can sleep. I smile. Haven't done that in a long time. Does that count as a change? Wait a minute.

© Ben C. O. Grimm