I saw it, a violent blurring, in the periphery. Of my seeing.

The floaters had found me again. Even after the great care I had taken in peeling, pummeling, burning, and burying my body. And you really have to pummel a body once it’s been infected by floaters. I put a good two hours into it and, boy, were my arms tired. Ha. H a. H  a.

I had been infected for weeks. Eating cats. Scraping my face against asphalt. Jumping off two story houses. Anything to try and beat them out of me. Nothing worked. I finally had to accept my only option. You start at the toes. Cut along the tips, a sharp blade, piece of glass, the lid to a sardine can. Whatever you have handy. Get in between the toes, into the webbing. Then, get a good handful, cuz it’s slippery. And start peeling. Pass out. Start peeling again. Pass out. It gets tedious.

But once you get past the thighs, it’s a lot easier. It’s like you’re taking off a long, warm, wet t-shirt. Made of your own flesh. At the armpits, you just bend over and gravity takes over from there. Your skin slips off like a silken negligee into a heap on the floor of your rented apartment, an apartment, by the way, from which you will not be getting a security deposit back.

And in that heap of what once enshrouded you, the floaters are twitching, still trying to figure out what the hell is going on.