Bad Blood

• Peter Locke, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2016

It was September 12th; 1999. Jackson was in a New York acute care facility after returning from a two week holiday in the Amazon rainforest, where he had acquired a parasite which was currently burrowing its way through Jackson’s organs and into his heart. He was only semi-conscious, but still
could make out small snippets of the conversation. The last thing he heard were these three words before he completely lost consciousness; pin him down!
Jackson felt that he was in a dream running through the streets, shooting and slashing people by the hundreds. Next thing he knew he was hit by a SWAT van, and was now wide awake. He found himself in the middle of Times Square, sprawled on the rough pavement. The SWAT van was there too, ready to try again. Jackson ran into the middle of the square and looked around nervously. He had just watched himself murder all those people. He glanced at his reflection in a shop window. The poison was creeping up his face. Suddenly, his left-side vision went blood red. The poison had reached his eye. The parasite had taken complete control. More police officers swarmed in. His eyes started to dart around. Every time they moved someone seemed to die, and he started to think terrible thoughts.
“YOU DID THIS TO ME,” he screamed, “YOU SHALL PERISH FOR YOUR IGNORANCE!” His vision went black. He started to spew blood. Jackson gradually regained control of his body as he realised that he had been shot in the mouth. He looked up and saw that he was holding a stop sign that was lodged in an officer’s throat. The officer’s handgun clattered to the ground as his grip slackened.
Jackson turned and staggered towards a SWAT trooper.
“Please – HELP!” Jackson heard what sounded like a million gunshots at once and blacked out. After what seemed like years, he regained consciousness. A thousand wounds closed and the same amount of bullets were drawn to his lungs. He spat on the ground and three bullets grazed it. People panicked and guns were loaded.
Jackson spat; three men went down. He spat again; two more joined them. He spat and spat until there was but one man remaining. Jackson walked towards him as the officer shot five rounds from a berretta into Jackson’s forehead.
He grabbed the man’s chin with his right hand and the back of the man’s head with his left.
“No – please!” said the officer, “I have a wife – and children!”
“It’s too late now.” replied Jackson. “It’s all your fault – you did this to me!”
CRACK! “Well – he did shoot me – like a lot.” Jackson said to himself as he scanned his surroundings. “If anyone deserves their neck to be broken, it’s him.” He started running and he didn’t stop until he reached the nearest police station. He stumbled in and shuffled over to the commissioner’s desk, pulled out a pistol and shot himself in the throat repetitively until there were no more bullets in the clip.
He looked at himself in the reflection of the window and did a double take. He saw a deep hole through his neck, exposing the top of his disfigured spine. He watched it as his neck regrew and refigured, as if nothing had even happened. He sprinted outside and onto the street. He snuck up to the closest house and ran up to the front door. He tried the handle but it wouldn’t budge. He ran around the back but that was locked too. He picked up a rock and threw it at the window.
He climbed through the jagged glass, into the kitchen and picked up a bread knife. It was a little blunt, but it would have to do. He hesitantly cut into his chest and carved out a chunk of flesh from his heart. He screamed as he pulled the parasite – a black seven-legged beetle – out of its chamber. He just stared blankly at it as it crawled away; leaving Jackson’s lifeless body sprawled across the floorboards.