Harvest

She woke up, her throat a screaming spot of agony and stabbing pains. She instinctively tried to swallow the build-up spit in her mouth.

“Ooouuww,” she croaked, tears springing up in her eyes.

Clutching the zone of what felt like inner destruction, she could feel how swollen it was. Desperation welled up in her. She had an interview in the morning, being sick was very inconvenient. It had been four weeks since she lost her job, the one she’d started when she was freshly graduated. 21 years of loyalty, but new management apparently came with restructuring, as they liked to call it. It didn’t matter to them that she had an apartment loan to pay off. A flatmate moved in last week to ease the burden. She seemed like a nice person, sharing her kombucha freely.

A wave of red hot fiery pain whirled through her body, starting at her throat, speeding along her veins to all of her extremities. She went rigid with shock from the intensity, and passed out.

A moment later she awoke again, feeling wetness cover her chin. Panic started to take over, and she hurriedly turned on the lamp on her bedside table. The fingers which had touched her face were red, slick with blood. Tears began falling down her cheeks, and she began to sob as she stumbled to the bathroom.

Anguish and shock rushed through her as she looked in the mirror. Half her face was covered in blood, and more was seeping out through her mouth. Her throat was visibly swollen. She intended to call the emergency number, when a voice suddenly spoke up.

“Those tonsils seem to be ripe for harvest. I see that my fertiliser has worked.” A high pitched, insane cackle followed.

Her flatmate. Dita looked to the source of the sound. The tiny, pale and golden haired woman stood there, her grin revealing sharp pointed teeth. She held up a knife. Dita’s expensive chef’s knife.

“I will make all the pain go away.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This one was based on these words, given to me by a friend: 44 yo woman, tonsils, horror

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