What You Become
The Civic ahead crawls at eighteen miles per hour and your skin begins to itch.
Not metaphorically. Actually itch. A deep, bone-deep itch that starts in your fingertips where they grip the steering wheel. You flex your fingers to relieve it, and hear your knuckles crack once, then again, louder this time. The sound is wrong, too wet, too sharp. You look down and watch your index finger stretch, the joint pulling apart like warm taffy. Your wedding ring cuts into the swelling flesh until the metal bites deep enough to draw blood. The finger keeps elongating until it wraps completely around the steering wheel, then starts on a second revolution. You try to let go but can't. The finger has grown through the leather padding and into the metal core.
Seventeen miles per hour.
The pressure builds behind your eyes. Not a headache, something actively pushing outward against your skull from inside. You catch your reflection in the side mirror and watch your temples bulge, the bone stretching like a balloon being inflated. The skin grows thin and translucent. You can see the dark mass moving underneath, pressing against the bone with each heartbeat. Your skull creaks like old floorboards. The pressure becomes unbearable, and something gives way with a wet pop. Your head expands three inches in each direction. Your hat falls off. The rearview mirror needs adjustment, but your elongated fingers are still wound around the wheel.
Sixteen miles per hour.
Your spine begins to curve. Not bending, actual vertebrae cracking and resetting in new positions. Each pop sends lightning down your back as the bones lock into configurations they were never designed for. Your torso folds forward until your chest nearly touches the steering wheel. The seatbelt cuts across your back now instead of your chest. You can feel your ribcage expanding outward, each rib separating from the sternum with small, distinct snaps. Your heart hammers against the inside of your broadening chest cavity, and when you breathe, something burns in your lungs. Steam leaks from your pores and fogs the windows. You are becoming something built for crawling, for pressing low to the ground, for stalking.
Fifteen miles per hour.
You writhe in the driver's seat, your transformed body fighting against the confines of human furniture. Your tendons pull against your bones like rubber bands about to snap. Every nerve ending screams for speed while the Honda ahead maintains its glacial pace.
And then, miracle of miracles, the Honda's turn signal begins to blink. Left turn ahead. The creature you've become trembles with anticipation.
The Honda turns into a driveway. Disappears.
Your transformation reverses in an instant. Fingers unwinding from the steering wheel, spine straightening, skull contracting back to normal size with a soft pop.
You accelerate to the speed limit. Check your hair in the rearview mirror. Wonder briefly why your throat feels raw, why there are claw marks on your steering wheel.
By the next mile marker, you've forgotten entirely. Just another Tuesday commute, nothing unusual at all.
END.