The Pimple

By Gillian Ainsworth

The day Sarah noticed the scar on her knee it was no bigger than a pimple. When it reached the size of a raisin, a head pushed through her skin. She vomited.

“Hello,” the mouth said, as a tiny hand cleaned its face. “What’s up with your knee?”

“You!”

“Wrong! You’re in the wheelchair. I can fix you.” It shrugged.

“I’m talking to an apparition. I’ve lost it!”

“Only the use of your leg. Your brain works. Watch.”

Its tongue slithered out, consumed its body, wiggled like a worm into her knee joint.

Tingling…

Movement…

She stood.

“Thank you,” she whispered.