Michael and The Spiders

There are spiders coming out of my feet.

There are spiders coming out of my feet.

‘Help me. PLEASE. Help me.’ 

‘What is it, love?’ 

‘Please, help me. There are spiders coming out of my feet. They just started a couple of minutes ago. I came here straight away. I ran. I tried to tell the lady at the door but she wouldn’t listen to me.’ It’s hard to explain, I’m so out of breath; somewhere between panic and exhaustion after the sprint. Another lady appears, and another. God, they’re all so beautiful. I’m surrounded by angels. The spiders, though: I’m bleeding spiders. 

‘I can’t see any spiders coming out of your feet, darling. How did you get in?’

‘What is your name?’ They’re all wearing blue scrubs. Do blue scrubs deal with this kind of thing?  Maybe I’m just not talking to the right ones - burgundy? 

‘Look, I just need a nurse to look at me. I want them to stop.’ She looks at me like she understands.

‘There’s nothing coming out of your feet, my love.’ She doesn’t understand ‘Now get yourself back home, we have other patients here that really need our help right now.’

Why aren’t they listening? I need medical attention. Immediately.  

‘What is your name?’ Stop asking me.

My shoes disappeared on the way here I think; I’m not sure if I took them off, but I don’t care right now. My feet are stinging, that matters. Is it the spiders, are they biting me? They’re fucking biting me, aren’t they? Or maybe the broken glass… no, the spiders… 

‘They’re biting me. They’re fucking biting me!’ Oh, this is all too much, I think I’m going to die. I’m too hot. I’m going to die.

Someone call security. 

‘Please, help me. You have to help me. Please.’ I want to cry. This is scary. I want one of the nurses to hold me and stroke my hair, tell me everything is going to be okay. That might save me. That would save me. God, they’re so beautiful. I reach out my hand, but they won’t hold it, they won’t look after me.

‘Look, mate, you really need to leave now.’ A new voice, it sounds taller, deeper: ‘You haven’t got anything coming out of your feet. Just go home. We’re too busy here as it is.’ A body steps through the line of angels and tears the image in half. She’s got wrinkles. She’s not pretty. Why won’t anyone believe me, can’t they see the little bastards mining their way out from between my toes and running off like… well, spiders!? 

‘Can’t you see them? Look, they’re right there.’ I point to the crease between my big and second toe where the cluster is ripping through the skin. 

I recognise you. Weren’t you here last week?

‘What is your name?’ SHUT UP.

‘Fucking listen to me. Fucking listen.’ 

There’s a hand gripping my shoulder now - suddenly - and it stretches out of a black sleeve. This hand is ugly and hard, I don’t want to hold it, I don’t want to hold it. I turn to look at who it belongs to: she’s bald. She’s really big. She’s got stubble. 

‘I think it’s time you leave.’

There are spiders coming out of my feet.