14, Of Poison Men and Tiny Soldiers

Well, hello my lovelies. Getting a little personal today.

Quick admission: I have Hodgkin's Disease. It's a kind of cancer. The kind Dexter had, actually. That's why I'll be out of work for at least twenty two more weeks. Twenty two more weeks of chemo, radiation, sleepiness, pain, and hopefully not losing my hair.

(Edit: I originally said ten weeks here. My last chemo appointment is actually 01/29/2013, after which I have four weeks of radiation five days a week and then recovery). 

Anyway, that's why I've been out from work since late August. 

Did you read 13? You should. It's not about cancer and as of now, doesn't have comments! So go comment. Moving on to the story at hand:

When I was in the hospital, one of my closest family members told me to write about what my body was going through. 

This is that.

Enjoy.

Of Poison Men and Tiny Soldiers

     There are tiny soldiers hunkered behind a wall of tossed up earth. The little men are three, maybe four feet tall. They wear World War I garments, the dusky fatigues and turtle helmets. They have dirty little faces. They have hairy little feet.

     Beyond the clod of earth, across a raging battlefield, sits the great Opponent. It is a wet thing, a swollen clump of clumps all the more startling for its being lit by the sun. It's a fleshy, fatty beige, and the godlike rays of light pierce its surface, scattering in a dance of pink and orange at varying glowing opacities. Flesh with sun behind. Not skin, but the kind of color and texture you find in all men, when you cut them open. 

     Dozens, hundreds of little men rush the thing, stab it with minuscule bayonets, scream and push and stab and stab. Smoke rises from dozens, hundreds of small rifle muzzles, small pistols drop casings, tiny trench knives flash silver in the day.

     And yet the thing grows. Soundless, effortless, seemingly inflated from within, the mass pushes out a new lumpy appendage and same merely rolls over the tiny men, it grows and roils and pushes outward and in the process, defiant voices are smothered and subsequently silenced.

     Then the poison men take to the field.

     The Opponent scares the small soldiers, it terrifies them, it must, for only a fear so great could birth an alliance with the poison men. 

     The four drift from different places. The one from the north, clad in red, swollen around the middle, is always drooling. The trail he leaves, mucosal and scarlet, sticky shiny orange- and red-streaked across dirt and rock. He lays hands on the opponent and the flesh stains the colors of sunset, and shies away from his ruddy fingertips.

     The poison man from the south walks in long strides. He is pale, inimitably so, almost translucent and completely eyeless. His mouth puckers, fishlike, and it uncontrollably whispers terrible things. There are tiny soldiers who overhear, and they go mad.

     The poison man from the south places his long hands on the Opponent and whispers.

     The flesh bubbles back, repulsed.

     Then the poison man from the east. His teeth are like needles, and they push out of his mouth, protrude in longs spikes. His jaw opens far too wide, and when those bladelike fangs descend, puncturing the Opponent, there is a screech and howl without origin that fills the air.

     Then he arrives. The poison man from the west.

     He is a man, like any other. Complexion, eye color, hair color. Whatever you expect when you envision "man," well, that is he. In the flesh. Except that he is on fire. You can follow the path he took all the way to the western horizon; a burning trail of blackened hillside, scorched trees, and yes, dead soldiers.

     But then a soldier, tiny, hairy-footed man with hesitant weapon in hand, bars the way.

     The poison man pauses. In the distance, the Opponent shudders and squeals beneath the auspices of the burning man's cohorts. But he remains still.

     "Yes?" comes the voice, mellifluous, deep, but tainted with sulfur.

     The soldier clears his throat:

     "Must you?" he asks. "Must you burn everything? This is our land. These are my men. You've three other poison men and we've allowed their, their..."

     The hairy-footed little soldier stutters.

     "Ministrations?" the burning man offers, his wide eyes sympathetic, flickering with reflected flame.

     The little soldier nods.

     The burning, poison man looks past the soldier. Stares at the mass of writhing, noisome flesh.

     "Did you know, little one, that the Opponent has roots? Deep in the ground?"

     The tiny-helmeted head shakes in disbelief.

     "Oh, yes," the burning man explains. "Roots deeper than any tree, the slick and undying creature erupts all along these paths. Why, I killed several offshoots on the way here. Burned them out, you see. Exposed them to the air; to the flame. The channels it traveled are charred and hardened. I doubt you could burrow your strange little homes there. But those roots, those fleshy tendrils? Dead."

     "Thank you," says the tiny man, still holding his bayonetted rifle. "But must you burn everything?"

     The burning man leans down. His face many times the size of the soldier's.

     "I must burn," says the man, "or the Opponent will misplace every ounce of this land. And every one of you."

     "I'm frightened," the soldier says bravely. "We are all frightened."

     The poison, burning man nods in understanding, wisps of black smoke sneaking out the corner of his mouth as he gives a small frown.

     "There is risk," he says. "The damage I do may never be undone. This land may be scarred forever. But be a brave little man. Be a brave little soldier. Know what you must give up, if you want this land to be free."

     The tiny, hairy footed soldier drops his weapon. Stares at his feet. Waits.

     He erupts in flame, weeping and burning and toppling to the ground.

     Unbarred, the path of flame makes its way to the lump, the mass of flesh that is the Opponent.

     And the Opponent bursts, burning in smaller pieces, and then smaller,

     and then smaller...

     smaller and...

     maybe...

     ...never really going away.