Matthew Revert - The Tumours Made Me Interesting

“Bruce Miles,” said the amplified voice accentuated by a droning sitar. “Why is there no door attached to this domicile?”

I scurried across the attic floor and retrieved a dead owl, which I hurled through the window. The window shattered as it sailed the ground outside with a thump.

“Is that an owl?” asked the voice.

I scurried back to the window.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Why did you throw an owl at us? That could very easily be construed as assault.”

“I needed to break the window so I could talk to you.”

The officers huddled together and muttered amongst themselves, nodding their heads in furious discussion. The officer with the megaphone pulled away from the huddle.

“We’ve decided to accept that response. Now… please explain to us why there is no door attached to this domicile.”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It was like that when I got here.”

“It makes it very difficult to knock a door down when one doesn’t exist. Do you have any idea how much this battering ram costs? We hardly ever get to use it and it’s the most enjoyable aspect of our job.”

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” I yelled.

Once more, the officers huddled and conversed amongst themselves. Once again, the officer with the raga megaphone broke away to address me.

“Do you mind if we build a door so we can knock it down?”

I stared toward my mother who merely stared back with as much confusion painted on her face as me.

“Yeah… I guess,” I replied.

The officer’s high-fived each other and started kicking the tree in the front yard. Across the road, Fiona and my roommates stared on in disbelief. The frustration this ridiculous delay was causing her flooded me with glee. They weren’t prepared to fish us out themselves, so they had to rely upon these amusing men of the law to do it for them.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” said my mother. “We should have all legged it. We’ve trapped ourselves up here.”

“We’ll be okay,” I said without the slightest conviction.

Belinda pressed her ear against my stomach and started giggling.

“They’re so loud,” she said. “Why don’t you ask them for help?”

I chewed on the knuckles of my good hand considering Belinda’s suggestion. I had no idea what help my tumours could provide, but it was the only suggestion that made any sense.

“What do you think, mum?” I asked.

The frenzied sound of sawing and hammering wafted in from outside.

“I don’t like what those things have done to you,” she replied. “In my opinion they owe you. I think you should ask them for help.”

I crawled away from Belinda and laid flat on my back. The stars overhead were dancing. I rubbed at my stomach.

“Do you think you could help us out?” I asked my tumours.

I felt the familiar hive of activity inside me die down.

Of course we can help you, Bruce, but it will take our combined strength. There’s a fair few of them out there… it looks like a battle.

I thought about my body devoid of the only thing that made me interesting. It was a thought I couldn’t stand. The police officer commenced talking on his raga megaphone.

“The door is nearly finished. We’ll be inside soon. At this point, I am obliged to inform you that you may come out willingly. However, please keep in mind that this course of action will prevent us from ramming down your door. This course of action will result in a lot of very angry police officers.”

“Is anything happening?” asked my mother.

I could feel them lining up inside me, so eager to leave. I clenched my muscles, reluctant to allow their exit.

What are you waiting for? asked the tumours.

“I don’t want you to leave,” I whispered.

The battering ram began striking the newly constructed door, sending tremors throughout of the foundation of the house.

“Hurry, Bruce!” implored my mother.

I rolled onto my stomach, copping a nose-full of aging attic floor. I focused on my breathing. The battering ram struck again, trying to derail my concentration. I heard something splinter. I raised my arse and clenched my good fist.

“We will be inside shortly, Mr. Miles,” said the police officer. “I think we made the door a bit too strong. The battering ram is falling apart.”

My stomach began to inflate and tear through my shirt. I could see my blackened insides through the stretched translucence of my skin. My internal organs looked like a decrepit town and dripped with decay. I squeezed my eyes shut while the tumours marched toward the opening. Their foot steps were synchronous hammers pounding against me.

“Don’t look,” I moaned to Belinda and my mother. “You don’t need to see this.”

I heard the front door break away as the first tumour flew out of me. Belinda ran toward it, keen for a closer look, but my mother intervened. Another tumour vacated, followed by another and another. They landed with a wet thump on the attic floor. My arse yawned open as more and more tumours joined the first three. With each evacuation, I felt less pain. I felt lighter and more alive.

My mother ran toward the attic door and pressed her ear firmly against it.

“They’re inside!” she screamed. “Do something!”

As more tumours departed, I lost count. I just listened to them land and scurry into formation. I was powerless to control my babies. They were leaving home.

“There’s so many of them,” commented Belinda. “I wanna play with one.”

“No you don’t,” scolded my mother. “You need to go and hide in the corner, sweetie. This isn’t a game.”

My body fell limp and for a moment I had no idea where I was. I felt so different. I sat up, taking deep breaths and orienting myself. My mother was covering Belinda in a paint-smeared sheet. Belinda was wriggling and giggling like a child reluctant to go to bed. I heard the sound of a bugle playing “Last Post” and turned to face it. There they were… my tumours.

There must have been at least twenty of them, all lined up and ready for war. They were wearing flak jackets and peaked cabassets. One tumour, slightly larger than the others, barked cadences that the others repeated with gusto. The bark was so guttural that it sounded like death metal vocals. This tumour looked familiar to me. This was the guardian Fiona had filmed during my first endoscopy. I recognized its cold, black eye.

The door to the attic started to shake as police officers pounded their fists against it.

“Are those things going to do anything?” asked my mother who pushed hard against the door with her giant hand.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

Half the tumours began marching toward the door and the other half formed a semi-circle of protection around me.

“Open up!” called one of the officers. “We’re only here for the tumours. Surrender them to us and you will not be harmed.”

“Just give them the bloody tumours, Bruce,” said my mother.

“These tumours have done nothing wrong!” I yelled.

My mother left her guard of the door and wriggled toward me. So much rage boiled within her that steam spat though her pores. With the back of her head pressed into the floor, she lifted her whole arm and gave me a hard slap across the face. I tumbled over and stared at my mother in horror.

“You’re just like your father!” said my mother. “Those things have done everything wrong and you’re too bloody stubborn to realise it!”

Before the harsh observation had a chance to fully register, the attic door splintered apart. Police officers flooded through, each brandishing rubber bands, stretched between their fingers poised to fire. I felt a rubber band slap into my forehead.