Matthew Revert - The Tumours Made Me Interesting

“Just because you haven’t been laid since the start of the industrial revolution…” quipped Vince.

“Always at each other’s throats,” muttered Rhonda with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “You know you’re welcome to join us at any time, Arthur.”

Those two were always asking the rest of us to participate in their sado-masochistic play. I, personally, wasn’t keen. I wanted Fiona and if I couldn’t have her, I was happy to masturbate. Belinda’s mother, however, occasionally took them up on the offer.

We had developed into quite an interesting family. I loved each and every one of them. They never said it directly and it was difficult for me to admit, but I got the feeling they all looked up to me. When I spoke, they’d fall silent and hang on my every word like monkey bars, no matter how banal they were. The change in my life since meeting Fiona had been extraordinary. For the first time, I actually felt important. My ability to grow tumours was unprecedented. Their ability to appreciate my ability to grow tumours was unexpected. The last month hadn’t always been fun, but the company I was lucky enough to keep made my lower moments more bearable. They all helped keep me on the track that Fiona expected of me.

Under Fiona’s watchful eye, I was taught to guide my tumours toward their own cognisance. True perfection would be reached when they weren’t merely malignant growths mindlessly in response to their diseased surrounds. They had to wake up. After the second week, Fiona became convinced this was starting to happen. Electroencephalographic readings suggested I was being communicated with on a psychic level. Although at that stage it couldn’t be proven this psychic phenomena was a direct attempt by the tumours to communicate with me, it seemed likely. If this was the case, there was no limit to what my tumours would be able to accomplish. It was even hypothesised that they may be capable of existing outside of their human host. There was something deeply satisfying about this thought. Almost as if they would be going back into the world that allowed them to form. At the same time, the thought of losing them was deeply troubling. I wasn’t prepared for it.

A symbiosis between the tumours and I was definitely forming. They often purred and kicked around in my stomach, but that was easily explained as pure reaction to stimuli. It was the same way a leaf might turn to avoid the sun. But toward the end of the third week, I could hear muttering inside my head that struck me as a rudimentary form of language. I would talk to the tumours and the muttering would fill my brain in reply. Continued readings proved that I was experiencing intensifying levels of psychic activity.

“How’s the diaper?” asked Rhonda as she ground out her cigarette on Vince’s arm.

I felt my backside — there was nothing squishy. “Think I’m good. Thanks.”

“Just let me know when you need a change, hon.”

At Fiona’s insistence, I had been wearing diapers for the last couple of weeks. The mess coming out of me was never pleasant and wildly unpredictable. Rhonda wouldn’t let me change my own diaper. She insisted upon performing this task and always did so without complaint. I must admit, it was nice to feel that regression to babyhood. She would wipe me clean, powder my arse and blow a playful raspberry on my stomach. The sound of the raspberries would make Belinda laugh and the infectious sound of Belinda’s laughter would make the rest of us laugh.

I excused myself and went to my room. Fiona had given me a list of daily exercises aimed at tumour enhancement. Bolstered by the results of the readings, she was convinced they could understand me, so many of the exercises were verbal. I had a mantra I was required to repeat 100 times each day.

This mantra was repeated passionately. I had to believe the words when I said them. I had to inhale deeply on a cigarette after each repetition. Fiona had taught me how to absorb most of the smoke into my body, which allowed my disease to process more of the nutrients. The second mantra was a little ambiguous to me:

I massaged my stomach with firm fingers while saying this mantra. The tumours bucked and kicked against me. It was invigorating. If I concentrated enough, I could hear them, and not just out loud. I could hear them directly within my brain too — disembodied whispers muttering over each other. I couldn’t determine any recognisable language, but I could sense their tone. They were excited. I knew in my heart that this wasn’t pure response. My tumours were becoming all they were destined to be.

In my bedside drawer was a jar of radiation suppositories. This was also a gift from Fiona and I had to insert ten each day. My bowel sucked them up, and the tumours devoured them like ravenous animals.

This regime took a lot out of me. Even at the height of health I wasn’t endowed with stamina so now, with the complete disintegration of my body, I was constantly fatigued. Fiona was accommodating when it came to my requirements and it wasn’t uncommon for her to perform her procedures whilst I slept. All I had to do was remind myself that this wasn’t about me, personally, it was about what I grew inside.

I was making us both a lot of money by allowing Fiona to sell homemade merchandise dedicated to my tumours. She owned a website that boasted a network of over 700,000 illness enthusiasts all over the world. DVDs of my interior were made available and sold in the tens of thousands. Amongst this community, I was an idol. I received fan mail daily from men, women and children who pined to make contact before I died. Artistic representations of my tumours were common and a few of them were even fridge worthy. The managing editor of a magazine called ‘Oncophiliacs Monthly’ was in negotiations with Fiona to have me on their next cover. There were even whispers that an independent film based on my illness was in the pipelines. I was told that living long enough to see this film onscreen was unlikely.

It was a lot to take in. I can honestly say that I loved the attention — thrived on it. No other period in my life had instilled me with such a sense of self-worth. I’d lived more in the last month than I ever did in the decades leading up to it. I was finally something.

The gentle knock on my bedroom door roused me from rest. I was lathered in pink sweat with a quail gnawing on my armpit. I brushed the quail to one side and, through a fit of coughing up what looked like mashed grapes, slurred, “Come in”.

Belinda emerged through my door and tip toed toward me. “Is that a bird?” she asked, pointing at the quail.

I nodded with a smile.

“Can I keep it, Bruce? Pleeeeaaaasssee…”

I nodded again. “It’s all yours kiddo.”

She clapped her hands and scooped the quail up with delight.

“What are you going to do with it?”

She stroked her chin and glanced upward. Her hair performed a spindly dance that left it a frightful mess. “I know!” she yelled. “I’m going to teach it to swim.”

I chuckled and wheezed. “Sounds like a hell of a plan. Did you want me for something?”

She was already nursing the quail in her gentle arms when her eyes bulged in recollection. “Oh yeah! There’s a man here to see you. His name’s Jerry. I don’t know what to do about it. Fiona said you weren’t supposed to have any visitors, but everyone’s playing Kid Icarus and no one is paying attention.”