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Description
He woke up one morning with an alien on his leg. Unsettled, he pushed off the covers—ignoring his wife's murmur of displeasure—and ran his hands along its length. Hands slid along skin and hair, and then—there! He stared.

There—about an inch below the knee—was where the alien leg started. It looked normal, by whatever standards characterized normal—it ended in a normal looking foot and all—but he knew better. It was something…foreign. Something…unwanted. The sudden urge to grab a knife and saw it off took hold for a moment, but he was pulled back into reality by his wife's soft, sleepy, slightly irritated voice.

"Y'all right?" Her words were slurred, her brain not yet fully awake.

He swallowed. "I don't know."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He goes to see the doctor a week and a half later, ignoring his wife's insistence that "it's all in your head! God, Sam, it's a goddamn leg."

He's aware that they can't really afford another illness, not-right-now-damn-you, but he can't shake the feeling that something is off, wrong.

Two hours and the doctor's owlishly blinking eyes later, he has the name and number of a neurologist in his hand and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

No, he thinks. He is most certainly not all right.

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His wife fights him all the way, insisting that he "doesn't need to see no damn neurologist" about his "stupid leg."

"We have more important things to worry about than you flipping out over a fucking leg!" she cries bitterly, her right hand stroking the shiny smoothness of their daughter's bald head.

He looks at Lucy, and she shakes her head. He imagines those lost gold curls bouncing with the movement. "Daddy says there's an alien," she says simply. "I believe Daddy."

His wife's lips purse, turn down, and he can already hear the barrage of insults and yelling.

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It's only three months later that he's walking into a café that reeks of day-old coffee grinds. It doesn't take him long to find the table of the girl he's meeting, and he makes his way through the sea of tables.

When he sits, he looks up to see a smile spreading across her face. "Hello," she says gently. "You're just like me."

He lets those words float through his skull, his eyes absentmindedly focusing on the gold bracelet engraved with "✯CINDY". You're just like me. We're not alone.

He then blinks, nods. "I never thought…" He lets the thought trail off. "When?" he asks instead, gesturing to the lovely stump on her right.

"Two years next month," she says comfortably, her hand curling around the cup's handle and steadied by her right elbow.

"How did it feel?" he asks, his voice dropping as if it were a big secret. She leans forward surreptitiously, and he mirrors her movements.

"Like freedom," she breathes, and he watches the light ignite in her eyes and the smile bloom on her face.

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Christmas lights line the hallway to Lucy's room, almost cheering up those who walk by—those satellites slowly drifting out of the only gravity they've known.

He opens her door, almost blinded by the sudden white, and let his eyes adjust to her world. The small Christmas tree in one corner is a splash of color in a sea of snow, the shiny presents a necessary escape from reality.

His wife is there, too, and they come together by little Lucy's bedside. They pass up gift after gift, helping frail hands tear off paper and allowing themselves brief moments of happiness at her joy. As soon as everything has been opened, though, the exhaustion from all the excitement begins to show, and she is asleep within half an hour.

He and his wife leave together, and it is under the mistletoe at the end of the corridor that she finally gives him his present. The papers are cold and impersonal in his hands. He pretends not the see the tears welling in her eyes as she presses the requisite kiss against his cheek, and, to him, it feels like a final goodbye.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

he stares at the evil alien lump of flesh on his leg and that's it somewhere in-between testing and fighting the urge had slipped its leash and now now now

it's time. time to cut kill free—

the one-armed lady had mentioned dry ice to kill off tissue; the neurologist had insisted the problem was in his brain but it was his leg that was wrong his leg

he slipped his leg and the alien in the bucket, marking the line where he ended and it began and

let

the

extermination

commence.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now, he visits Lucy once a month, sometimes accompanied by girlfriend-of-the-month (this month it's Muffy) for support.

He brings flowers to each visit to cheer her up, poppies—her favorite. He lays them by her resting spot, careful not to disturb her.

He catches her up on the news, wondering if she's heard it before. He's never run into her mother there, but he knows she goes.

When he's done, Sally—no, wait, Muffy—wraps an arm around his waist to help him up, handing over the crutches. As he walks away, he can picture Lucy's bright smile in his mind.

He's not okay, but he's better.

Description
He woke up one morning with an alien on his leg. Unsettled, he pushed off the covers—ignoring his wife's murmur of displeasure—and ran his hands along its length. Hands slid along skin and hair, and then—there! He stared.

There—about an inch below the knee—was where the alien leg started. It looked normal, by whatever standards characterized normal—it ended in a normal looking foot and all—but he knew better. It was something…foreign. Something…unwanted. The sudden urge to grab a knife and saw it off took hold for a moment, but he was pulled back into reality by his wife's soft, sleepy, slightly irritated voice.

"Y'all right?" Her words were slurred, her brain not yet fully awake.

He swallowed. "I don't know."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He goes to see the doctor a week and a half later, ignoring his wife's insistence that "it's all in your head! God, Sam, it's a goddamn leg."

He's aware that they can't really afford another illness, not-right-now-damn-you, but he can't shake the feeling that something is off, wrong.

Two hours and the doctor's owlishly blinking eyes later, he has the name and number of a neurologist in his hand and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

No, he thinks. He is most certainly not all right.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His wife fights him all the way, insisting that he "doesn't need to see no damn neurologist" about his "stupid leg."

"We have more important things to worry about than you flipping out over a fucking leg!" she cries bitterly, her right hand stroking the shiny smoothness of their daughter's bald head.

He looks at Lucy, and she shakes her head. He imagines those lost gold curls bouncing with the movement. "Daddy says there's an alien," she says simply. "I believe Daddy."

His wife's lips purse, turn down, and he can already hear the barrage of insults and yelling.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's only three months later that he's walking into a café that reeks of day-old coffee grinds. It doesn't take him long to find the table of the girl he's meeting, and he makes his way through the sea of tables.

When he sits, he looks up to see a smile spreading across her face. "Hello," she says gently. "You're just like me."

He lets those words float through his skull, his eyes absentmindedly focusing on the gold bracelet engraved with "✯CINDY". You're just like me. We're not alone.

He then blinks, nods. "I never thought…" He lets the thought trail off. "When?" he asks instead, gesturing to the lovely stump on her right.

"Two years next month," she says comfortably, her hand curling around the cup's handle and steadied by her right elbow.

"How did it feel?" he asks, his voice dropping as if it were a big secret. She leans forward surreptitiously, and he mirrors her movements.

"Like freedom," she breathes, and he watches the light ignite in her eyes and the smile bloom on her face.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christmas lights line the hallway to Lucy's room, almost cheering up those who walk by—those satellites slowly drifting out of the only gravity they've known.

He opens her door, almost blinded by the sudden white, and let his eyes adjust to her world. The small Christmas tree in one corner is a splash of color in a sea of snow, the shiny presents a necessary escape from reality.

His wife is there, too, and they come together by little Lucy's bedside. They pass up gift after gift, helping frail hands tear off paper and allowing themselves brief moments of happiness at her joy. As soon as everything has been opened, though, the exhaustion from all the excitement begins to show, and she is asleep within half an hour.

He and his wife leave together, and it is under the mistletoe at the end of the corridor that she finally gives him his present. The papers are cold and impersonal in his hands. He pretends not the see the tears welling in her eyes as she presses the requisite kiss against his cheek, and, to him, it feels like a final goodbye.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

he stares at the evil alien lump of flesh on his leg and that's it somewhere in-between testing and fighting the urge had slipped its leash and now now now

it's time. time to cut kill free—

the one-armed lady had mentioned dry ice to kill off tissue; the neurologist had insisted the problem was in his brain but it was his leg that was wrong his leg

he slipped his leg and the alien in the bucket, marking the line where he ended and it began and

let

the

extermination

commence.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now, he visits Lucy once a month, sometimes accompanied by girlfriend-of-the-month (this month it's Muffy) for support.

He brings flowers to each visit to cheer her up, poppies—her favorite. He lays them by her resting spot, careful not to disturb her.

He catches her up on the news, wondering if she's heard it before. He's never run into her mother there, but he knows she goes.

When he's done, Sally—no, wait, Muffy—wraps an arm around his waist to help him up, handing over the crutches. As he walks away, he can picture Lucy's bright smile in his mind.

He's not okay, but he's better.