Luna T.: A Short Story

Parasite When Cynthia wakes up this morning, the first thing she does, like always, is to look at herself in the mirror. This has been the first step in her morning rituals for as long as she remembers. Every morning, she would inspect her face minutely, carefully observing every little imperfection. She would note with despair the slight asymmetry of the corners of her eyes, the minute flare of her nostrils, all the spots on her skin that has become faintly discolored with the corrosion of sunlight. After spending ten minutes or so looking herself over, she would take from her endless collection of lotions and cremes and fountains and concealers, until her face has the perfection of a doll. This morning, however, this routine is interrupted.
That girl is too sweet, too young and vibrant and eye catching. Ever since Cynthia’s fifth or sixth dream with the Lizard Woman, after the first time the hands stayed inside throughout the whole dream, she has been able to sense evil hiding behind pretty faces in real life. There is something inside Luna T., that much she is sure of. She never saw anything, sure, but she knows. Her skin prickles when Luna T. is too close, when the girl smiles at customers and takes their eyes away from Cynthia. Sometimes, Luna T. would speak to her as if they’re friends, and that only makes a chill run through her spine. When the girl laughs, when her hair frames her merry face so perfectly, Cynthia swears that something threatens to come out of the girl’s perfect exterior and swallow the world with its darkness. Of course, Luna is not the only one with a parasite inside her. Every pretty women that Cynthia knows has one. They go along their days as if they’re innocent, as if they don’t have an inkling of what lives inside them, but Cynthia
A — a parasite, living under her skin? How could it be? She has never seen any sign of parasites in the real life, after all, only sensed them when the back of her jaw aches and her shoulders tense without her control — no, she has seen one. The memories are coming back. She has seen a parasite in real life, when she spoke with an especially pretty clerk at a makeup store. The clerk had a sweet voice, and she must have been pregnant, because her stomach was rounded and her smile soft and expectant. Cynthia couldn’t hear any of the clerk’s words as she explained the difference between two brands of lipstick. All that she saw was the relaxed but gently protective stance of the clerk’s body, all she heard was the crisp tone of the clerk’s voice, oozing uncontainable joy. The muscle in the back of Cynthia’s neck tensed more and more with each passing moment, until her body is wound like a spring — and then it happened. A slit opened up in the woman’s stomach with a sound like tearing silk. Hands reaches out between the exposed pieces of flesh. She could see the cracking skin on their gnarled knuckles, the blood dripping down into a puddle on the ground. Yet, the clerks continued to speak as if nothing is wrong. Cynthia’s memory is not solid when it comes to what happened afterwards, but she remembers being escorted out of the store and trembling on the street. She stares at the black mark on her face. Her hands are icy