The city was in the midst of January, everyone could feel it down to their bones. The plants long dead, the once green now brown and brittle. Most of the Christmas decorations torn down or forgotten, no more interesting displays to light up the early dusk. The kids who used to be out until nine were now in their homes by six, warm and coddled. Snow, thick and heavy, covered every outdoor surface, and no one tried to get rid of it. Bugs crept in through cracks in window frames, just to stare at you, beady eyes, and dead friends. Everything wanted to be warm right now, even the eight-eyed thing stuck to his wall.
James craved the same as the spider. He wanted to feel his toes again, to be able to stop wearing mittens on top of gloves around his house. His heater was on all hours of the day, keeping his house a strict twenty-five degrees. If he turned it up so much as a degree, he wouldn’t be able to pay the electric bill.
There was a fort set up in his living room, made of every blanket he could get his hands on. It’s been set up since a few days after Christmas and he spent every spare minute buried within it. Making it made him feel like a child again, and reminded him of when he used to make forts with his friends before they grew out of it.
Running the heater constantly for a month took its toll-like he’d known it would. At 3:45 p.m. on a Tuesday, his phone all but rang out of his hand. James never received, nor made, phone calls. It’d been so long that he’d forgotten what he’d set his ringtone as. He hadn’t saved the phone number and there was no caller ID, but he thought he recognized it.
“Hello.”
“Hi! Is this James Brando?” The woman sounded too cheerful. No one should have any leftover holiday spirit when it’s this cold, he thought to himself.
“Yes, this is he.” He licked his lips, his spit stinging against his cracked lips. “Who is calling?”
“Oh! It’s Sophie with Standard Heating and Air Conditioning.” That’s why he recognized the number, he’s dialed it enough times. “We’ve been calling all of our customers to inform them that between 5-6 p.m. all of our units will shut down. We are doing our best, but there has been an error in our system and we’re working our fastest to fix it.”
He scrubbed his mittened hand down his face, “So I have an hour to prepare for it to be freezing in my house?”
“We are deeply sorry about the inconvenience.” Sophie doesn’t sound very sorry, she’s probably sitting in a heated office, “You can find more information on our website. Do you have any questions?”
“So the heat will definitely be back on by 6?” He doubts it.
“As far as we are aware, that is the plan. We will call you with any new information. Do you have any more questions?”
“Do you know of any methods to stay warm?” He prayed the heating would only be off for an hour, any longer he’d end up frozen to his sofa. He wished it was summer.
“I’ve heard that taking a bath helps, as long as you dry off completely after. You could probably google some more reliable advice, though, my mom isn’t known for being accurate. Any other questions?”
A hot, steaming bath sounded delightful. Maybe he would take a bath. “No, that’s all. Thank you for the call, Sophie.”
“Keep warm!” The dial tone rang out after. He ought to turn his volume down.
James spent the next hour improving his fort and anxiously awaiting the sputtering noise the AC unit always made when it shut down.
At 4:30, he sat down in his blanket fortress and pulled out his phone. He’d considered messaging someone, to ask if he could stay over until his AC was up and running again, but he had no one to call. His sister had been in California for the last three years playing extras in bad horror movies and his parents wouldn’t let him come over at all. He took his mitten and glove off of his right hand. His hand immediately felt chilled to the bone. He picked at a hang-nail, enjoying the slight sting as it tore off of his finger.
He opened the weather report even though it’s said the same thing every day for the past month.
‘A high of 35 and a low of -5. Snowfall will continue until 2:30 tomorrow.’
He put his phone down, expecting to receive no good news. The fur of the blanket brushed against his forehead and he reached up to swat at it instinctively. He was always afraid of bugs landing on him. He moved the blanket and rested it around his neck, he could feel his hair standing up underneath. He doesn’t put the glove back on, used to the cold already. He stared at his TV, he hadn’t turned it on all week. He was, unreasonably, afraid that the news reporter on the screen would reach through the glass and drag him into the depths of wherever he was reporting from. It was a fear he’d had since he was 6 years old, he’d caught his sister watching The Ring in her bedroom, he’d watched as the girl climbed through the TV on-screen and he ran from the room. It usually wasn’t so bad, but being alone in the house for so long was not good for him. He felt something drip down his forehead. For a moment he feared there was a leak in his ceiling, then he realized he was sweating. His body was trying to cool itself off. Maybe he had a fever. That’s the most reasonable explanation because he certainly isn’t warm. He didn’t think much of it as he wiped the sweat off.
He heard a thunking come from above his hallway. It was a familiar sound at this point. A loud sputtering followed. He pressed the power button on his phone.
4:57.
At least Sophie had given him the correct time. The sputtering stopped and the constant whirring sound of the heater shut off.
There’d be a few minutes of slight chill before it became absolutely freezing.
He pushed himself off the couch and out of his blanket cocoon. He kept the one wrapped around his shoulders. He walked down the hall, past the traitorous AC, and opened the door to the bathroom. He flicked the light switch on.
It was a small space, big enough for two people maximum, and the lights were dim because he kept forgetting to replace the bulbs. Based on how today’s going, they’d burn out completely while he was bathing. He pulled his mitten and glove off of his left hand. The lights flickered out for a few seconds, before coming on again, even dimmer than before.
Great. He won’t even be able to see.
He turned on the faucet and pulled it to the hottest setting. He held his hand under the stream, the water so cold goosebumps raised across his skin as soon as the water hit his hand. It didn’t take long before the water started to heat up, his fingers turned pink and then a vibrant red. James deemed it hot enough when he couldn’t bear to keep his hand under the stream any longer. He plugged the drain.
He flung his hand out and watched as the water flew off of his hand before he wiped it on his towel that hung next to the bathtub. He needed to clean the bathroom, there was a trail of toothpaste down the side of the sink that’d been there since Halloween. Nasty.
He stripped his layers off slowly, he pulled the blanket from around his shoulders, missing the warmth immediately, then his winter coat, followed by his multiple shirts, the bottom one sticking to his armpits, he was sweating a lot more than he thought he was. He threw them all into a pile. He had to sit down on his toilet to pull the boots off, he struggled at first due to the number of socks he was wearing. He didn’t want to lose a toe and not even notice it. The boots get thrown close to his pile. His many socks and layers of pants follow. The tub was almost full now.
Once he was fully undressed, he lifted his right foot into the tub. He almost retracted it on instinct, the water was scalding but he enjoyed the way the water made his foot tingle, going from too cold to too hot. His fingers wrapped around the small railing in his tub and he pulled the other foot in. He didn’t want to slip. The metal was cold as his hand gripped it. With both feet submerged, he slowly sank into the water, recoiling at first at the burning of the water against his icy skin. The water was up to his chest and he tried to avoid moving as he got used to the hot temperature. He was locked in his own personal sauna, at least for the time being. It was almost relaxing. The lights flickered again, once-twice-three times before going out for 6 seconds and then came back on again.
By the time his entire body was in the water, the tub was overflowing so he shut the water off.
He laid back in the tub, head rested against the edge and arms dangling over the sides, feet resting on the other side.
The lights flickered. He doesn’t count how many times. He shut his eyes and tried to ignore it. Hopefully, when he opened them, the lights would still be on.
When he opened his eyes a handful of minutes later, the lights were on, but even dimmer than before. He couldn’t see the corners of the ceiling but he already knows the spiders and their meals were up there, waiting out the cold just like he is.
He’d gotten used to the burning water by now, his feet had stopped tingling and he no longer felt like a lobster being boiled alive.
He moved his body forward, just enough that he could lean back and dunk his head. His hair fanned out, short, brown strands forming a halo around him. The skin of his face stung when the water hit it, it seeped into his pores and went up his nose. It made his eyes burn. He was a kid in a pool learning to swim underwater but the chlorine kept eating his eyes. He stayed under for a few seconds, relishing the burn, before he dragged his head up. He felt like he’d been baptized, submerged a little too long in the name of some long-lost god, and he’d been raised anew, getting a taste for what Jesus felt.
He grabbed his all-in-one shampoo and conditioner, the bottle slipping through his fingers. He fished the now soggy bottle out from the bath and poured a dime-sized amount into the center of his palm. He stared at it and felt far-away. He’s used the same soap since he was eleven years old, yet it’s never felt like it was burning a hole through his hand before. The sharp sting of the cold soap against his palm brought him back.
The lights flickered, and the room remained dark longer than before.
He shook his head, more water flinging across his bathroom, a dog taking a bath.
The lights came back on.
He rubbed his hands together, mesmerized as it began to lather. He’d never truly appreciated the smell of his soap before. He dipped his head forward and dragged his fingers through his hair, rubbing the soap in, scratching at his scalp, almost a little too deep. His nails dug into his skin, catching on to whatever was in his hair.
He thought of the spiders in the corners of his home.
What if they’re in my hair? What if they’re laying their eggs on my scalp?
The lights flickered again.
He let out a harsh, shaking breath. He continued scrubbing, the way his mom used to when there was a lice outbreak at school. Every tiny particle was an egg that was going to hatch soon. Every thin string he found was part of a web, just waiting for more bugs to get stuck in his hair.
Not today. No more bugs would nestle in my head.
When he pulled his hands away, his fingers were coated in red with chunks of string attached. The blood on his hands must’ve belonged to the spiders he killed. The blood-coated strands must’ve been their webs.
I caught it early.
He dunks his hands under the water, resorting to spending the rest of his bath soaking in spider guts and silk. A shiver racked his body. There’d been bugs living in his hair. He doesn’t know how long they’d been there.
He dug his fingernails under the nails on his other hand and cleaned the blood out from underneath, the same way he removed dirt and food from under his nails.
Once he got it all out, he leaned back enough to soak his hair.He washed all of the soap out, making sure there were no spiders or webs left.
I got all of it.
He doesn’t notice that the water cleaned the webs, brown strands taking their place. The water was light pink. It reminded him of strawberry lemonade.
He sat up, his head feeling a little lighter. The bath truly was helping. The bathroom smelled nice, the scent of his soap covered up everything else.
He looked around for his soap, he’d forgotten where he’d put the new bar. He found it sitting on the edge of the bath by his feet. He couldn’t recall what made him move it. He took a second to look at his feet.
He notices something is hanging off one of his toes. It was out of place for him, he was generally very good about feet care. He leaned forward, and bent his knees. He rested one hand against the edge of the tub and used the other to pull the thing off his toe. A dull shooting pain stabbed through his body, but he ripped the thing off in one go, the way his mother used to remove his bandaids.
A cry escaped him.
He held the object up to his eyes. He couldn’t place what it was at first. He blinked at it a few times, even tilted it in different directions. His eyes brushed over his thumb. His thumbnail looked awfully similar to whatever it was he was holding.
He inhaled sharply, eyes widening. His heart was beating so hard it hurt.
It’s my nail. I just ripped out my toenail. My toenail had been hanging off of my toe. I just tore it off as though it was nothing.
He was going to throw up.
The lights went out.
At least he wouldn’t have to look at the toe now.
He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat and tried to get his breathing under control. Maybe toenail loss was common during times of extreme cold. He should be thankful it wasn’t his entire toe.
The lights came back on.
He mentally prepared himself for the sight of his foot.
He dragged his eyes towards the toe he’d removed the nail from. Where the nail used to be, was a pink-fleshy spot.
He tore his eyes away. He flung the toenail, just wanting it as far from him as possible, he could clean it up later.
He took in a deep breath, “It’s nothing. It was just a toenail.”
The lights flickered in agreement.
He grabbed the bar and didn ’t think about anything at all as he lathered the soap between his hands.
He scrubbed the soap up and down his legs first, dirt and leg hair sticking to the bar before he rinsed it in the water. He kept scrubbing at his legs, noticing more and more spots that needed to be washed, different colored patches of skin that were still dirty. He rubbed until he couldn’t see anything else left to be cleaned. His legs were weirdly smooth and several shades redder than he’d been before. He must’ve been filthy.
His eyes flicked across his bathtub, catching on the chunks of something pale floating in the water. Was he a lizard shedding?
He saw more chunks drifting in the water. One was stuck to his elbow.
He ripped his arm out of the water. He grabbed onto it. Tore it off.
He let out a cry as it pulled away from his arm.
At least it wasn’t stuck to him anymore.
His arm was paler where he’d ripped it from. He’d gotten used to his arm being that color. Blood pooled and dripped from the injury.
How long had it been there?
He looked up at his ceiling and let out a breath. Another problem dealt with is self-care at its finest.
James itched absently at his knee cap. His nails caught on something, and it peeled back. His head snapped down, eyes wide as he looked at the skin. He hadn ’t felt a thing. His skin underneath was paler than he was used to seeing. Just like his arm. Whatever had gotten stuck on his elbow was on his kneecap as well. He had to get rid of it. The skin he’d peeled off was hanging still somewhat attached.
His fingers, were slippery, as they grabbed onto the flap and pulled sharply.
Watching made it hurt worse.
He let out a garbled moan as the skin detached from the rest. Blood flowed out of the wound and into the water, staining the tub. There’d probably be a red ring when he drained the water.
He tipped his head toward his knee. He could swear he could see his kneecap under the thin layer of skin left. He was tempted to poke it, poking at a scab except much fresher.
His breath was ragged and fast as the blood continued to seep out of his knee.
I should probably do something about that, he thought, distantly.
All of the water in the tub was red now, a bright red. It reminded him of the fake blood used in horror movies. He should send a picture to his sister. She’d probably like it.
He unplugged the drain, a slurping noise began as the water drained. His blood slowly got washed down the pipes with the webs and spider guts.
He gripped the rail and pulled himself up, using more muscles than he’d used since high school gym class. He staggered as he stood up, his injured knee almost giving out on him.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t bleed out in his bathroom.
He let go of the handrail to grab onto the side of the tub. He hoisted himself out and collapsed onto the toilet. The chill of the toilet bit into his skin, he’d gotten used to the hot water.
He took a breath in. He counted to four. Breathed out. Counted to four. He repeated. Once he felt steady enough to check his wounds, he opened his eyes.
His knee looked like he’d taken an incredibly bad fall. He could see the paleness of his bone underneath.
The lump in his throat surged upwards.
He twisted around as fast as he could and threw up into his trash can. His stomach hurt, his throat hurt but most unusually, his mouth hurt. He retched a few times, losing not only his lunch but his stomach bile as well. He opened his eyes, took in shallow breaths, and analyzed what he threw up. His peanut butter and jelly sandwich was there as well as his orange juice. There was also a small, white almost cube-like object sitting on top of everything else.
His hands were already covered in his blood, what’s a little throw-up? He uses the hand that isn’t desperately clutching at the toilet seat to reach into the trash can and fish the tiny object out. He rubbed his fingers against it as he brought it to eye level. It took no time at all for him to recognize what it was.
Sitting there, in the bathroom, holding his own tooth, brought him back to being eight years old and losing teeth while brushing them. The tooth’s a little red from where the blood on his fingers touched it. Maybe the tooth fairy will still give him money for it.
His heart raced faster than it had in a long time. His body was falling apart. At least his arm appeared to have stopped bleeding. That was a relief.
His hand shook as he dropped the tooth onto the tile next to where he’d tossed the nail. He could start a collection. He vaguely wished he’d kept the chunk of flesh, but that was lost down his drain. He reached for one of his shirts, missing a few times before he successfully grabbed it.
His knee was still bleeding, a pool of blood around his foot. He vaguely remembered hearing about how to make a tourniquet in middle school but he’s too on edge to figure that out. He tied the shirt around his knee, and the fabric brushed against his bone. He thought he might throw up again, his stomach quaking at the thought. He tightened the knot, hoped it would make it stop.
He pushed himself up, careful to not slip in the blood and water on the floor. He turned to his medicine cabinet, carefully avoiding looking at himself in the mirror as he opened the door. He grabbed the Ibuprofen, shook out four pills into the palm of his hand, and put them in his mouth. He turned his sink faucet on, cupped his hands underneath, brought them to his mouth like a scavenger drinking from a river, and he swallowed the water and pills. He put the lid back on the bottle, hands quivering as he twisted it shut. He set it back on the shelf, almost knocking over the nearby bottles. He needed to organize his stuff better. He closed the cabinet door.
He was taken aback by his reflection. Almost half of his hair was gone, his scalp taken with it. When he’d been removing the spiders and their webs, he must’ve taken some of his hair out in the process. He reached his hands up, carefully pressing against his head. The bald patches were sensitive to his touch and he flinched back when he pressed too hard. There were raw spots where he’d torn his skin from his head, his fingers trembled as he danced them around the wounds. His hands themselves were still flushed from the hot water and the cool air.
A loud bell echoed around the bathroom. He jumped, wincing as he shifted his leg.
His phone was ringing from where he’d tossed it on top of his clothes.
He turned quickly and would’ve fallen over if not for the fact that he’d been holding onto the bathroom counter.
He could do this. He turned, much slower this time, and hobbled toward his phone. When he picked it up, he recognized the number this time.
“Hello?” He really hoped the AC wouldn’t be shut down for much longer.
“Hi! Is this James Brando?” It’s Sophie.
“Yes. I believe I spoke with you earlier?”
“Oh, yes! You did. I regret to inform you that the AC will still be out for another hour.”
He was still sweating, he realized at this moment. He felt like he was on fire. He should dig out his thermometer, and check if he had a fever. Maybe this was all one crazy hallucination.
God, I hope it is.
“Oh, okay. Thank you for calling.”
“Just doing my job. Did you take that bath I recommended?”
He wiped his hand across his forehead in an attempt to get rid of the sweat he was drenched in.
When he pulled his hand away, the sweat was still there.
“Uhm. Yes, yes I did.” He wiped at his forehead again.
“Did it keep you warm?” She sounds giddy. He doesn’t think it’s because she helped him.
He rubbed and rubbed, every time he thought he made some progress, a new coating of sweat replaced what he’d wiped away. “A little too much.”
She giggled. “Well, I hope you find a way to pass the next hour. Keep warm!”
The lights flickered again.
She hung up, and he threw the phone and heard it crack against the wall. It was a satisfying sound.
A spider was dangling from a web next to where the phone hit the wall.
He used both hands now to rub off the sweat on his face, it was on his cheeks and his eyes now. He scratched at his face and dug his nails in so that he was sure he could get all of it off. He just felt so hot, and the sweat was itchy. If he could just get rid of a few layers of skin, he could cool off. He missed the chill of earlier. Maybe Sophie was lying and the heater was running again.
He was not sure how long he stood there, peeling and scraping but when he looked up, he’d never felt more horrified.
He screamed. His neighbors definitely heard it.
Most of the skin that had been on his face was either coating his floor or barely hanging on. He could see the cartilage of his nose. All of his eyelashes were gone. His lips look as though a fisherman had hooked him repeatedly. He’d torn out most of his eyebrow hair, leaving only patchy tufts left.
Monstrous, he looked monstrous, something that would’ve given him nightmares as a child. He panted as he clutched at his reflection, dry heaves shaking his chest but he had nothing left to throw up.
He felt something drip onto his foot. He looked down, red spots covered the entire floor. He’d bled through the shirt tied around his knee.
Maybe he should’ve done a tourniquet after all.
He slid down the closest wall, sweat still dripping down his forehead. His hands were entirely covered in his blood, so much so he couldn’t make out any details.
His head thunked against the wall before it lolled against his chest.
The lights flickered and didn’t come back on as his eyes drifted shut.
“Keep warm!”