Matthew Revert - The Tumours Made Me Interesting

“Let me ask you this, Bruce. Let’s say I had ventured into your quarters — how would you have felt knowing you had an ‘interloper’?

Rather than answer his question, I reached into my pocket and withdrew a cigarette. I placed it between my lips and sucked at it, enjoying the faint taste of unburned tobacco.

“You don’t smoke,” said Arthur, disappointment colouring his voice.

“Used to smoke like a campfire. Gave it up at the bequest of my mother.”

“So why start up again? Such a profoundly filthy vice.”

“Because they make me feel good,” I replied in defense. “Because I’m dying anyway so why the hell not?”

“Oh yeah… the cancer… so I guess you haven’t managed to beat that yet, huh?”

I swiped at the plates on the table in a rage, sending them crashing through the window with a tail of bolognaise sauce in its wake. “Beat it? Since yesterday? I don’t know, Arthur… let me check.” I punched my stomach and fell to my knees. My whole body filled up with shakes and I felt my pants fill with warm sludge.

Arthur leapt to his feet in a panic. “Holy heck! Is there anything I can do, Bruce? Preferably something that enables me to keep distance from the stench escaping your pant area.”

I pointed toward the cigarette in my mouth. “Light… light…” I wheezed.

“I’m on it!” declared Arthur.

I could hear him clambering around, breaking my possessions. I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel little tornados of smoke wreak havoc in my lungs and absorb into my body. Why didn’t I buy a lighter on my way home?

Arthur returned with a piece of kitchen drawer which he snapped over his knee. He started to frenetically rub the two pieces of wood together.

“You hang tight, Bruce. I was a scout. I can start a fire with anything. Once I set the Liberty Bell on fire by throwing a blanket over it.”

It wasn’t long before a spiral of smoke floated toward my nostrils. Arthur was getting excited and hooting like an owl. The rubbed piece of drawer was starting to glow with heat.

“Would you like me to light it for you?” he asked in between hoots.

I nodded with all the strength my neck allowed. Arthur started jabbing at my face with the piece of drawer. The first jab burned a hole through my cheek. I wailed in pain, almost dropping the cigarette. He regrouped and went in for another go. This jab seared through my forehead and knocked against my skull. I could feel the skin around my poke holes bubbling.

“This isn’t going well,” said Arthur.

I nodded but maintained a healthy level of gesticulation that urged him to get the fucker lit. The next poke kissed the cigarette tip and I sucked like a thirsty rat. The smoke didn’t just enter me, it became me. The tumours were so proud. They were pairing up and dancing to the sound of the churning fluids in my body. If I had to live with them inside me, it made sense to please them. Fiona was right — my tumours were so special. I was special for having grown them.

I felt Arthur’s hands slide beneath my armpits and raise me from the carpet. I was dragged toward the couch and placed gently down. My pants were being tugged down in reluctant jerks. “What are you doing?” I slurred.

“Have to get you cleaned up. You’re a mess.”

I wanted to fight against the indignity but I didn’t have the strength. He was wiping at my arse with a moist towelette.

“I don’t know what on earth your bowel has evacuated, but it’s pink!” He edged closer. “And it appears to contain whispy veins.”

I remained silent, resolved to my immediate fate. Arthur kept wiping, only stopping when a knock at my door startled him. He dropped the towelette and moved to answer it. “What are you doing?” I whispered. “Don’t answer the fucking door. I’m not wearing pants.”

Maybe I wasn’t producing sound because he slung that door open like I didn’t exist. I tried to ball up my body in an effort to hide my shame. A small pony tailed girl wearing a white summer dress skipped inside. She was holding shattered bits of plate in her cupped hands.

“Excuse me, mister,” she lisped. “You dropped some plates out of your window. Thought you might want them back.”

Arthur patted the child on the head. “Isn’t she adorable?” he said.

“The plates are broke. I can fix it for you but I’ll need some thread.”

“Who taught you how to stitch plates together?” asked Arthur.

“My mother. She taught me how to do everything.”

“Where is your mother?”

She slunk her head forward. “She’s gone.”

“What happened?” I managed to say.

“Plate killed her.”

I sat up straight, almost like the past 10 minutes hadn’t happened. “Which plate?”

She held up her hands and showed me the broken bits of window-tossed plate. “The one that fell through your window, mister.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Belinda Garbo Mayfair.”

“Belinda… I killed your mother.”

She started to giggle. “You big silly! You’re not a plate.”

I massaged my temples, trying to assimilate what was happening. “No, Belinda. I’m not a plate. However, I was the one who threw the plate. Therefore, I killed your mother.”

She dropped the shards and stared at me with doe eyes. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to do, Mister. That was my only mother. She was going to buy me a lizard.”

“I don’t suppose you have a cigarette lighter handy?” I asked, trying to ignore the fact I was a murderer.

Belinda touched her pointer finger against her chin and began to scratch like she had the pox. Soon another finger and another had joined the first and she raked them liberally across her pale little face, leaving red trails of pressure behind. Then her eyes lit up and she raised her hands to the ceiling.

“I think I know where you can find a lighter, Mister,” she finally said.

“Where?”

“Look in my hair. Before my mother died, she said most things were in my hair.”

I tried to ignore the mention of Belinda’s dead mother as I foraged about her pony tails. It was like a magician’s suitcase. I kept retrieving items that no hair should contain. I found a stuffed parrot, a foam comma, a guide to fjords, bread and finally, a lighter! At this point, I could have wasted brainpower wondering how and why any of this was happening. Instead I lit another cigarette, fell back on the couch and tried to clear my mind.

“So I guess we need to call the police,” I said.

Belinda sat next to me with her head mashed against my arm and asked, “Why do you want to call the police?”

“I killed your mother. I think they’ll wanna know.”

“Please, Bruce,” implored Arthur, his hands clutching at my leg. “Don’t inform the police. I’m an unlawful tenant in your home. They might ask questions.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. Somehow I think they’ll be more interested in the corpse outside.”

I shook my leg free of Arthur’s desperate hands and patted Belinda on the head. I was walking toward the phone, contemplating prison when I heard someone yelling Belinda’s name just outside. I turned with a start to face the sound. It grew louder and was soon accompanied by heavy, resonant footsteps. I could hear whoever it was fall against my landing. I scrunched my face in agitation and, very cautiously, opened the door. Standing before me was a stern looking woman with blood drizzling down her face. She was wobbling about on unstable feet and trying to flash me a courteous smile.

“Excuse me,” she warbled. “I’m looking for my daughter. I saw her run into this building.”

“Mummy!” yelled Belinda. She brushed past me and embraced her mother.

‘You’re not dead,” I said, feeling my body melt as it filled with relief.