Just a Pimple. Flash Fiction.

Doug squeezed at the edges of the pimple, damn thing kept coming back every few days. Georgina had wanted him to go to the doctor about it but Doug didn’t see the point, this took care of it for the most part, drain it, clean it then it would leave him alone for a few days. He could feel the pressure building, as he watched the spot burst, a drop of pus shooting out onto the mirror, more pus oozed from the pimple, there was more in there though, he could feel it. He moved his fingers and squeezed again, more pus dribbled out followed by something else, it was thin and white, almost like a strand of hair. It wriggled and writhed as he pushed it free. It fell from the pimple and landed in the sink, it squirmed for a few seconds before Doug turned on the tap and it was washed away. He grabbed a piece of toilet paper and after wetting it with water he began to clean up around the pimple. Perhaps one of the days he’d pick up rubbing alcohol, help sterilise the area and maybe stop the pimple from coming back. He turned off the tap, threw the tissue in the toilet and left the bathroom.

He got into bed and wrapped his arms around Georgina, “I still think you should see a doctor about that.”
“It’s fine, it isn’t getting any worse. I don’t want to waste a bunch of money on something as stupid as a pimple.”
“What if it’s cancerous or something?”
“Is that even a thing?”
“I don’t know, it could be. I really would feel better if you got it checked out.”
“Ok, I’ll book an appointment in the morning.”

The next day he had hoped that Georgina would drop it, but she reminded him about ringing a doctor twice before they even left the house. On his drive to work he decided he’d just tell her he went and the doctor gave him the all clear. After all it was just a pimple, what harm could it do? It wasn’t getting bigger and it wasn’t causing problems, there was nothing particularly strange or unusual about it, other than the fact it kept coming back every few days. He knew Georgina was just worrying over nothing. Absentmindedly he scratched at his chest, where the pimple was, already the small wound was healing. Inside the pimple the next egg was hatching, the creature inside getting ready to eat and grow.

About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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