A wave of nausea.
He needed to run.
The closest sink—his stomach twisted into a knot—to the laboratory.
Xczeelch caught the cool edge of the sink and let his body do its thing. Something big slowly made its way up his oesophagus—for a moment, he was sure his curled stomach did—and spilt into his mouth. First, as slime and yellow bile, bitter and churning, then big, firm globes cloaked in ooze.
They poured from him—one, two, three—some half-formed, some seeming almost living. Four, five, six—the eyes rolled down his tongue, plopping in the sink one after another. Some strings were still connecting them to his body somewhere deep, deep inside him, but as the orbs dropped down past his teeth, they snapped and dragged behind them, producing more bitterness over his already burning tongue. Seven, eight, nine—and he still couldn’t breathe. Ten, eleven. One lodged in his throat. He heaved until the pressure made his eyes water, and the biggest one, the twelfth, popped out with force, almost bursting on the sink’s enamel.
His vomit stared at him from the sink. Blue, green, red irises. White, yellow, black sclera. Xczeelch stared dumbly and started retching in earnest, almost crying in relief, swallowing big gulps of air between the bouts.
“Hey, Zilch, are you alright?” a high-pitched voice cut through his shudders. He spat and straightened up, enraged.
“I told you not to call me that stupid nickname!” He turned to see one of the keep’s visitors. The man’s mildly concerned expression turned into horror as he looked Xczeelch over. Something foamed from between his chattering teeth and dripped slowly from his chin.
“Wha- What is that? Should I call somebody?”
“No!” Xczeelch panicked and turned back to the sink—it stared back. A quick spell jumped from his fingertips, destroying the sink’s contents. “No, I- Everything is under control.”
“You don’t look too good…”
The man was too damn nosy.
“I’m not here for a beauty pageant!” He looked back and pointedly wiped his mouth with his sleeve, staining white fabric with gore and greenish slime. “Did you need something, maybe?”
The man’s horror turned to outright disgust, “I just thought you needed help!”
“I. Don’t. Get back to your kindergarten-level workbooks, whatever your name is.”
“Whoa, no need to be nasty. And it’s Gardener, as I already told you.”
“Get back to your entry-level workbooks, then, Gar-de-ner,” He made the name sound as nasty as possible to make the man leave more quickly.
The nosy researcher huffed and turned away on his heels, returning to his table.
Satisfied, Xczeelch turned back to the clean sink. The dread was slowly receding. Shit. He should’ve saved an eye for analysis.
He repressed a sigh and washed his face with water. Rinsing his mouth didn’t help much, though.
So much work down the drain, a monotone voice intruded on his thoughts. The sound of rustling pages poured over him like bitter chagrin.
“Was it you?!”
We are in public.
Xczeelch looked around, but nobody paid him much attention besides the Gar-de-ner man still eyeing him suspiciously.
He washed his face and quickly left.
“What was that?!”
Xczeelch was circling the small room he occupied, talking, as it would look to an unsuspecting observer, to himself.
Those were mine, the impassive voice vaguely dripped with venom.
“What?!”
He turned to the unassuming book bound in black leather lying still on the bed.
And it’s rude to destroy what took me months to build.
“How dare you use my body to-”
It’s the only one you let me use.
“But you could ask me! Warn me or something-”
No.
The likelihood of your agreeing is minuscule. I’d just have to do it anyway, but with you commenting.
“You can’t-”
Don’t let us turn to that argument again. You could’ve made me less aware. You could’ve made me less- you.
The book vibrated, sputtering ichor in disgust. Xczeelch suddenly got interested in a cobweb in the upper corner of his room.
That’s where we agreed to let things be the last time.
The thing was right. Of course, it was. For a short while they knew each other… were acquainted? Since he built the consciousness bit by bit in the blind, hopeless joy of creation? From the moment of its painful birth? Whatever you call it, the thing never strayed from hard, cold facts he once held dear.
“Should I expect more things like this?” He swallowed. “Growing organs, pain and vomiting out of the blue?”
Undoubtedly. But I’ll try to be more discreet.
And some things might even benefit you, my dear creator.