Matthew Revert - The Tumours Made Me Interesting

“Ouch!” I cried. “Mum… get out of the way.”

She squealed as rubber bands bounced off her arm. More rubber bands flew toward me. Some I managed to dodge, most I did not. The tumours quickly consumed each rubber band as it fell to the ground, ensuring they couldn’t be used again. My mother cowered and whimpered beneath the rubber fusillade.

“Leave her alone!” I implored. “She’s innocent.”

“There’s no such thing as innocent,” said one of the officers.

Tumours began bouncing with great speed around the attic.

“Stay completely still,” said one of the tumours by my foot.

Their speed accelerated to the point where all I could make out were blurs. Suddenly one of the officers fell. Blood pumped from his jugular, staining the ground around him.

“Mum… Belinda… Don’t fucking move.”

The officers swatted at the blurs to no avail. With each pass, more fell in explosions of gore. I watched the way their hapless bodies distorted as my tumours tore through them. I marveled as their insides became outsides and that which remains hidden by the fragility of our flesh was now exposed. I reflected upon my own body and how intimately associated with its occult functions I had become. I truly knew what was inside me, maybe better than what resided on the surface. The body narrates its decline to the owner. Our bodies are always narrating their condition. Most of the time we just never listen to them — why would we? I certainly didn’t. Who knows how long I’d been growing my tumours? What signals had my body given me that I ignored? The first time my stomach ached, was that the genesis of my disease? The first time my bowel movements started to resemble French mustard… was this significant? I began to mentally tick off possible demarcation points as the violence continued before me, distancing myself emotionally from the chaos. While I clutched onto this mentality, lives weren’t being lost — they were merely exposing themselves and becoming something new. I could hear my mother sobbing somewhere in the distance. The sound had forged deep cognitive roots, ensuring that whenever I heard it, I became more hopeless. My mother’s sobbing was its own language — a language that penetrated deeper than words and spoke louder than teens at a roller disco. It was a language that, whenever absorbed, reinforced the inescapable nature of my obligation to her. I’ve been responsible for each tear.

I was left standing in the sticky remnants of the police officers. Belinda and my mother were huddled in the corner, afraid to speak lest their words reanimated the intruders. They looked to me for guidance and I looked to them for the same.

My tumours were strewn about the attic, breathing heavily and laughing. They were laughing because they’d earned their freedom. I wanted to scoop them up and swallow them back down into the depths of my body. My stomach made the sound of crying orphans, which I tried to soothe with the gentle movement of my hand. And as the sound of my stomach began to abate, it hit me… hunger. I was ravenous. Thoughts of food swelled like an orchestra, drowning out everything.

“Does anyone have any food?” I asked with breathless desperation.

Having broken the silence, Belinda and my mother edged toward me. Belinda foraged about in her pockets and pulled out a ball of lint the size of a softball. She held it up toward me. Through my fog of hunger, I convinced myself it was a culinary delight. In her hands the lint ball became rich plum pudding, dripping with custard. Salivation poured from my mouth and reached out for the lint with thin, wet arms. Belinda passed the lint to my waiting hands. Imaginary custard leaked through my fingers. I rushed it toward my gaping mouth, not wanting to waste any. My teeth tore through the lint. I forced each mouthful down, coughing up moth limbs with each swallow.

“You should eat something a little less ridiculous than that,” said my mother.

I paid her advice no heed and gorged myself until the last of the lint ball was travelling toward my empty stomach.

“I can’t believe you actually ate that,” said Belinda, trying her best not to giggle.

“I was hungry,” I replied, slightly embarrassed.

Although they both chastised me, I could sense how grateful they both were. While they assailed me with tandem mock, they were achieving the fortitude required to face the fact they had witnessed slaughter. Most of the tumours were on their feet now and sharing their own tales of battle. The three of us cast our attention their way. These fleshy balls of disease had prevented a rubber band massacre… our skin was less irritated thanks to their efforts and, more importantly, Fiona had been kept at bay. She was still a problem though and she wasn’t about to give up. As far as she was concerned, my body was still stuffed with her babies and she was going to find a way to get at them. I walked toward the window, nearly slipping over in a smear of former officer. I peeked around the window frame trying to minimise my visibility as best I could. Fiona was there alright, flanked by Arthur, Vince and Belinda’s mother. Fiona’s brow was furrowed in frustration to such an extent that her eyes were no longer visible. Arthur was sipping at a cup of tea, which Fiona swatted away. I watched the cup fly away with a tail of earl grey tea in its wake. Its trajectory was interrupted by a helicopter, which spiraled toward the ground, bouncing to a stop without explosion. The pilots clambered out in a daze, scratching at their confused heads and walking aimlessly up a side street, leaving their helicopter in the middle of the road. Fiona’s face was flushed red with anger and her cheeks were engorged as if she were playing an invisible trumpet. Vince started walking toward the fallen helicopter, but a leash around his neck cut his walk short. He fell to the ground and barked.

“What’s happening out there?” asked my mother.

“They look pissed,” I replied. “They’re not going anywhere unless I’m with them.”

Belinda scuttled toward me and embraced my leg. “I don’t want you to go with them,” she said.

“Neither do I… we have to think of something.”

“All she wants are those bloody tumours,” said my mother. “Just let her have them and we can forget this ever happened.”

I glanced over at my tumours. Even if I agreed to give them to Fiona, there’s no way they’d go and they possessed the moxy to ensure it wouldn’t happen. Besides… if they weren’t going to be with me, they deserved their freedom.

“No,” I eventually said. “We have to find another way. I’m not letting her have them. I can’t allow it.”

“Well what do you proposed we do, Bruce?” implored my mother.

“ We’re not going to do anything.” I gesticulated to the gore painting the attic floor. “Look what’s happened… this could get even worse and there’s no fucking way I’m going to put you through that. The two of you are staying here and I’m going to lead Fiona away. She isn’t interested in you, mum. Besides… you’re a fucking arm… you’ll slow me down.”

I walked toward my tumours and lowered myself to one knee. They stared up me, their faces so proud. I gave them a salute, which they returned with passion.

“Look, guys,” I said. “You’ve done so much for us and you deserve to do whatever it is you feel you need to. I know that I can’t keep you here and even though I’d like to, I’m not going to ask you to return. Can I just ask one more little favour?”

One of the tumours broke away from the group. “What did you have it mind?” it asked with suspicion.