He stumbled backwards to the couch and sat, staring at the thing he loved, unaware and unconcerned as hours drifted by.
At some later point, hunger roused him. He staggered into the kitchen and tried to find something to eat, but he hadn’t shopped in a while, and nothing was especially obvious. He found a pack of bacon in the fridge and tore it open, ate the fatty strips of meat raw and cold. Some potatoes sat in the vegetable crisper and he took one, crunched it like an apple. Taste, texture didn’t matter, he simply needed sustenance.
With his back to his beloved family in the tank he realised he was exhausted. He knew self-care was an important part of any relationship. He needed sleep. The egg was safe in the water, so he went through into the bedroom. He saw himself in the mirrored sliding door of his wardrobe. Naked and lean, a handsome enough man. But his arm and torso distracted him. Across the upper right side of his chest and shoulder, and all along his right arm, his skin was rippled like a burn scar. He moved closer. Not rippled but stippled. A mass of liquid-filled blisters, each about the size of half a grape, pushing up from this skin, blurring together in places. They itched, the skin over them both semi-translucent and darkening to an off brown colour against his usual pale pink. Not brown, he thought, something deeper. Maybe a shade towards purple, like a stormy sky. He pressed gingerly at one of the lumps with the index finger of his left hand. It felt hardened, but still flexible. A strange gift from the egg, but family changed a person, after all. Family meant becoming something bigger than oneself, greater than the sum of parts.
He crawled into bed and slept.
He dreamed again of the rent sky, glowing red, the creatures falling. They rained over the ocean and over the bush behind the slick, black beach. The heavy clouds rolled and swelled, lightning crackled. He heard an unearthly siren sound that seemed to echo across the entire sky. And he sensed something beyond the sky, beyond the mammoth red celestial wound. Some presence outside his comprehension, older, vaster than he could imagine. It was pleased with him.
He woke to his phone ringing.
He untangled himself from the bedclothes and realised it wasn’t a call, but the alarm tone. Was it time for work? What day was it? The phone was in his pants pocket on the floor, and he fumbled it out with his left hand, his right arm stiff and unresponsive.
Mum lunch noon
It all came back. It was Sunday. Wait, hadn’t he gone to the pub on Friday night? Then come home? Cindy telling him to fuck off. What happened to Saturday? He rolled onto the floor and sat up, looked at himself in the mirrored sliding door.
His entire right arm and shoulder, and down to his hand, was swollen and lumpen, almost one thickened mass. The purpling of the skin had deepened, the fluid-filled blisters larger, like half golf balls now. More had pushed into each other and merged, occasionally making a kind of swollen number eight shape where two were partially combined, some in strings of four or five.
The itching continued but had a delicious heat underneath it. He daren’t scratch for fear of bursting a pustule, but gently slapping at the skin with his left hand felt almost orgasmic. He tried to flex his right arm and though it was stiff it moved a little, the shift of the muscles under the corrupted flesh was a deeply satisfying discomfort. Troy smiled at himself.
Then he remembered the phone. One hour. If he didn’t show up for the family lunch, they would ask questions, they might even come around. It would be far easier to go along, then not have to see them again for weeks, than try to wriggle out of it now. He glanced towards the door, imagining his egg beyond. If he went to see it, he would never drag himself away. Family meant responsibility. Get dressed and slip out, see the egg after lunch.
For one wild moment he imagined taking it with him, introducing his old family to his new one. But no, the egg needed water. He would return to it.
He dressed and pulled on a baggy hoodie despite the summer warmth, aware he needed to conceal his swollen right side. Sweating already, he stared at his right hand. His fingers had thickened, pressed close together like fat sausages, but purple-black, the skin tight and irregular. His hand itself was swollen almost to a ball. In truth, it barely looked like a hand any longer, more like some strange coral growth.
Troy went into the bathroom and found a small first aid kit, and in it a large triangular bandage for making a sling. He’d had to do a first aid course as part of his job safety protocols and remembered how. He made a sling, big enough to conceal his hand if he tucked the leading edge over it. It was tricky, working it into position left-handed, but he finally managed. It did the job. He’d think of a reason for it on the way there.
It was a long walk to his parent’s house, right across the south side of town and up the steep hill. He was sweating profusely by the time he arrived, ten minutes late, but knew he’d have to suffer that as he couldn’t take the hoodie off.
“Troy! What happened to you?” His mother’s face was shocked as she opened the door.
“It’s nothing, Mum. I fell and dislocated my shoulder. The sling is just a precaution.”
“Oh, darling!”
“Really, don’t fuss, Mum. It’s been put back. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Troy broke his arm!” his mother yelled into the house as she headed back down the hall.
“Ya fucking nong,” Simon said. “How’d you do that?” His brother grinned from the doorway into the dining room, leaning laconically against the frame. “And take the hoodie off, idiot. How hot are ya?”
“Slipped and dislocated my shoulder. Really, it’s fine.” He wanted so badly to be back with his egg.
Laura stepped up behind Simon, wrapped her arms around him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You’re very red in the face.”
“I’m fine!”
Simon patted the air with both hands. “Okay, weirdo, calm ya farm.”
Rose was sitting at the dining room table, a glass of wine in hand. His sister was always more relaxed than the rest of the family. She smiled and shook her head, rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
“Let’s eat!” his mother said. “Everyone sit down. We can all catch up.”
They moved into the dining room and took their seats around the large, dark mango wood table. Troy’s father poured the wine, stoic as usual. He smiled and nodded as Troy sat down. “How long does the sling stay on?”
“Just a few days, until the shoulder has rested.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad.” His dad frowned. It was clear he wanted to say more, probably about the hoodie. Troy was sweltering in it, but thankfully his parents had air-conditioning on in the dining room, and that helped.
“What a dickhead,” Simon said with a laugh. “How do you dislocate a shoulder by slipping?”
Troy sighed. “Let it go, mate.”
“I will, actually,” Simon said. “Now all the glasses are filled. Mum, come back.” Their mother paused on her way through to the kitchen and looked back, eyebrows high. “Show them, Laura,” Simon said.
Laura grinned like she’d won the lottery and held up her left hand, fingers fluttering. A diamond ring glittered on her finger. “He popped the question!”
Troy’s mother squealed, Rose rolled her eyes again, Simon beamed like the proverbial cat with the cream.
“And what was your answer?” Troy’s dad said, a dumb half-smile stretching his cheek.
“Dad, come on!” Simon said, but he laughed anyway.
Their mother danced around the table, grabbing Laura in a hug, then Simon. Troy’s dad looked puffed up with pride and stood to shake his son’s hand. Even Rose, usually cynical, had a warmth in her eyes despite the earlier roll. Troy trembled, a mild panic rising in him. It was all so normal, so fucking domestic. How could they be so excited about something so bloody mundane? In thirty years Simon and Laura would be two more husks like his parents, their lives dribbled away on nothing.