Parasite

Part 5: Kiss The Parasite

            "You've barely talked to me since you came in sobbing," Apollo says, switching on my bedside lamp. The light casts an electrifying shadow on the wall. "Didn't strike me as someone who cried over spilled milk."

            He never learned; this maggot was incapable of evolving!

            Pushing the book I was reading onto my chest, I give him my trademarked pouty side-eye. "Well, not to spoil your mood, but you don't know me." This shameless parasite doesn't know how babyish I am. Does he know the hundreds of times I've thrown a tantrum because I wasn't allowed to cross the blurred lines between socially acceptable? If he did, he'd be able to rattle off common facts about me. Like, my favorite color. "Nobody does." 

            I'm still waiting for the day my best friends remember my birthday. 

            "Okay, from this conversation, I can deduce you're dark and moody." He pretends to jot it down in an imaginary notebook. "Also, judging from the added edge you're giving me on your period."

            Did any of this matter? He was being an apathetic, insensitive asshole. Who, in their right mind, brought this up to a woman? NO ONE. "Shut up." I turn sideways and resume the exciting book captivating my thoughts (don't take me for someone who reads billions of stories about oversexualized women tending to the extravagant needs of their tyrant boyfriends). The book's illustrious title was The Shape.

            Apollo scoots further up my bed, ruffling the duvet under his solid legs. "Eh, it all adds up."

            "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I throw my book at the wall, cracking its spine. It folds in on itself, settling flat. "It's that time of the month; stop blaming my mood on it." I have no reason to crumble and give in to what he wants. I'm a woman; confidence spills over my pristine complexion. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

            "I do, Violet; we're more alike than you realize." He shrugs like he has no idea the significance of what he's just said. His hair bounces, and I get this unruly sense that he's about to give a speech.

            I roll onto my stomach, unamused. "My brother told me that," My mouth dries, my heart speeding up. "But he said us being similar wasn't a bad thing."

            Apollo cackles to himself as he drops his arms dismissively. "He's a smart kid; I should meet him sometime." He snickers like it's a joke. "But, seriously, being like someone else isn't something to whine about."

            My head bangs against the headboard, "I'm not whining; don't clump me in with those people." I stare at him, "How 'bout you leave me alone?"

            "Wanna get out?" He asks, cruising around my question.

            Whatever patience I have left is drowning and in need of life support. It struggles to lift its head above murky, poison-infested waters with sharks and piranhas. Wearing nothing but a tight, bright red and yellow life jacket, it swims in circles, searching for any signs of hope. But the shark, fantasying about a rare human delicacy (a model to snack on), has other plans. It uses an approaching wave as cover, slinking back into the darkness before soaring hundreds of feet into the air and CRASH! Dead, gone, dismantled– those are words I'd use to describe my patience. Nothing more than food for a monster.

            By the time I've finished my story, Apollo is inches from my face. Beady eyes rest somewhere on my body. His breathing is heavy and jagged like a rock on the side of a mountain. I lurch backward (again hitting my head; this is a cause for brain damage). "DUDE!" I shriek, taking my cover and wrapping it around my torso. "Not cool!"