A man awoke at his desk one hot, sticky evening to discover a small vermin flitting about under the skin on the top of his right hand.

The rolltop desk was a beastly relic from a generation or two ago; it was made of oak and had small dings on the side and top. A small ring had formed in the right corner where his coffee mug sat; at this point, it was left there as a place marker for any future cups of coffee. A small saucer with a pile of stale cigarette butts had its place in the other corner, and in between the two sat several notebooks with the beginnings to a myriad of original short stories and poems.

He stared at the bump writhing about in his hand for a while and finally asked, “What are you doing here, Mr. Vermin?”

He only referred to the bump as a vermin because any thing with the audacity to take up residence somewhere without even bothering to ask the owners had to be somewhat despicable, and he only referred to the bump as a Mister because a lady wouldn’t be caught dead in his apartment. Deep down, however, he was flattered; the vermin could have chosen any hand in the complex but felt drawn to him, for whatever reason. He was a curious sort of fellow, and this was a curious sort of happening.

“How can you be so sure I’m a ‘he’?” responded the vermin.

The man was unsettled because the vermin had answered his question with a question.

“And another thing, vermin is a fairly offensive way to refer to someone you just met, don’t you think?”, the vermin continued.

The man was never thought of as an extrovert, but those who lived in his building might be pressed, in public at least, to say he was “nice” or “polite”. This accusation of him being offensive was a new one.

“I’m sorry if I offended you; I’ve received little training in proper interactions with creatures living inside you that you’ve just met. If you were experiencing this from my end, I’d imagine you’d find my observations quite astute.” the man said.

The man was fodder for the conversations of gossips, although he rarely lived up to be the seething freak of their tales. He was obsessed with J. Alfred Prufrock, having his Love Song taped on both sides of his front door and at choice points throughout his apartment.  He was never confident in the potential outcome of saying more than a simple “hello” to the young ladies he passed on his sparse excursions to the outside world and as such, he built up quite a standing of mediocrity across his years. Perhaps this is why he felt so comfortable with his new roommate; it had made the effort to be in his life.

“I suppose I only called you by that name because I have no other idea what to call you. What should I call you?”, he asked.

The vermin crawled up the man’s arm to just below his shoulder and responded, “I’ve never really been called anything. We don’t have much use for names in my business. If it makes you feel more comfortable, you can come up with a name for me.”

The man was suddenly inundated with the fear and weight of responsibility and decided to avoid it altogether, declining the offer. He lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling.

“Since we are going to be spending so much time together, I think it’s time some changes were made.” the vermin presented.

The man put out his cigarette and with an air of delight in his voice asked “Well, what did you have in mind?”

His life had been a series of events that were completely unspectacular. He was far too unsure to go in any particular direction, and other people stopped making decisions for him years ago. His high school teachers told him he had a chance at being a writer after noticing all the time he spent reading and that decision set him on the course he had been on for his adult life. Shame that he wasn’t any good at it. The vermin’s presence in his life was an opportunity for him to have all responsibility lifted, and this was a welcome change.

“There’s a burlesque show this evening at the club on 5th”, the vermin said. “Some female attention would not be a bad thing.”

“I don’t think they’ll sing to me”, the man said with a shrug.

“Well, what about these piles of notebooks? Surely it couldn’t hurt to finish a story or two.”, the vermin suggested.

The man wouldn’t be moved. “All of my stories lack passion, compelling prose, feeling, and worst of all, they all lack a message.”

“Listen, pal.” the vermin responded. “Now that I am here, I am not going to allow your life to be the pathetic mess it has been so far.” The vermin crept up along the base of the man’s neck. “If you’re just going to be apathetic, I’m going to take over. We’re going to that club.” The vermin continued up to the base of the man’s skull.

“I must say I’ve enjoyed your company thus far, but you are starting to overstay your welcome and it would probably be in our best interests if you left!”, the man screeched.

The vermin moved across the side of the man’s head and arrived at his right cheekbone.

“Perhaps you have other suggestions! Maybe we could come up with another activity!” the man pleaded as he ran towards the kitchen.

The vermin found its way up the bridge of the man’s nose and crawled up to his hairline.

The man tore open his junk drawer, throwing pamphlets and screws and other parts to old appliances to the side. His eyes caught the claw hammer, and he gripped it tight. In one swift movement, he slammed it into his hairline.

* * *

The man awoke several hours later on his kitchen floor, groggy and with shooting pain in the front and back of his head. The back of his head had taken the brunt of the fall to the floor and had a patch of crusted blood to match the one on his hairline. He slowly sat up and leaned against a cabinet.

“What happened?” he wondered aloud.

“You missed”, the vermin replied.

In the time that had passed, the vermin had made its way down to the man’s sternum. It wasn’t stationary, but it wasn’t moving with the speed or erraticisms it had on the man’s hand. The man rested his hand on his thigh and exhaled deeply.

“Perhaps I was acting hastily earlier. Let’s start over, okay?” the vermin asked.

“This is going to be my hell, isn’t it?” the man responded. “There is nothing I can do to change this. It is going to be a constant conflict inside my body. There will be a maelstrom every time I want to think. I will be forced to fight you whenever I want to eat, sleep or cry. You will never stop trying to make me something that I am not.”

The man pulled his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, removed one and lit it. He took a drag.

“This will be my endless torment; I know this is inevitable. You can at least answer my question: what are you doing here, vermin?”

The man closed his eyes and rested his head against the cabinet.

The vermin shook a bit and recited “Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”

The vermin shook violently, and then dug in deeper.