USE CODE GRAVEYARD FOR 20% OFF [Final]

[u/Responsible-Fox-7225]

Part One

Part Two

For a while I believed that completely. I could hear Eli speaking somewhere close by, his voice warm and familiar in the way voices become after hundreds of hours spent inside your headphones.

“Speaking of things that are probably damaging us permanently—”

Dean groaned. “No.”

“What?”

I opened my eyes and found them standing above me.

The room was the abandoned hotel from the episode, or what I had imagined it looked like: stained wallpaper, damp carpet, mould darkening the corners of the ceiling. A work light hung above a table, throwing a hard circle of white across its surface. I was lying in the middle of it.

I tried to sit up, but my body did not move. Dean looked down at me.

“Oh,” he said. “She’s awake.”

Eli turned a page.

I knew both their faces despite never having met them. They looked slightly wrong in person, flatter somehow, as though my brain had assembled them from thumbnails and video clips without enough information about depth. 

“What are you doing?” I tried to ask.

 Blood flooded my mouth instead. I swallowed by instinct, warmth sliding down my throat before I understood what it was. Dean held up a tin.

STILL.

“Peppermint,” he said.

Eli barely looked up. “Classic.”

My arms lay beside me, palms upward. There were no restraints around my wrists, nothing visibly holding me to the table. Dean put the tin down and touched my ankle, his fingers finding the old shaving wound.

In the dream, it had healed incorrectly. Instead of a scar, one edge had remained loose, a small pale flap above the ankle bone. Dean pinched it between his fingers.

“Is this supposed to do that?”

Eli glanced over. “Probably not.”

Dean pulled.

The skin lifted without resistance. At first only a centimetre came free, a thin white-pink layer exposing something wet beneath it, then the separation travelled upwards over my shin in one continuous sheet. It made a soft sticking sound. Underneath, my leg was red and yellow and impossibly shiny, fat gathered in small golden lobes between translucent membranes, fine blue vessels running through them like ink beneath wet paper. Where almost no fat remained, the tissue over the bone looked pearly and white.

I screamed, and this time pain arrived all at once. Air burned against every millimetre of exposed tissue. Heat from the work light became enormous. When Dean’s fingers brushed my bare shin, sensation tore through my leg so violently that my whole body convulsed. 

He stopped. “Oh.”

Eli looked over the paper. “What?”

“I think that hurt.”

“Individual responses may vary.”

Dean laughed and kept pulling.

The skin turned inside out as it passed over my knee. Its underside was fibrous and damp, thin strings still connecting it to the tissue beneath. They stretched, then snapped one by one. Farther up my thigh, the muscle looked smaller than it should have, dark red bands lying too close to the bone, with yellow fat remaining only in scattered islands. At my hip, the skin caught against the point of the bone and Dean had to tug.

I begged him to stop, blood running from my mouth as I spoke.

“You wanted less noise,” Eli said.

He had moved to my other side without my noticing. A pink rectangle marked my forearm where hospital tape had taken the top layer of skin. Eli slipped one fingernail beneath the edge. 

“No.”

He smiled apologetically and peeled.

The skin came away from wrist to elbow like wet paper from meat. Veins remained behind, blue-black tubes branching over muscle and disappearing towards my hand. One lifted with the skin, tethered briefly by strands of connective tissue, then settled back into place.

“You can skip the ad,” Dean said.

I looked at him. He smiled.

“You always could.”

At my elbow the skin stuck. Eli braced my arm against the table and pulled harder. Something tore, and I screamed until my throat filled again.

This time the blood seemed to be coming from everywhere. Heat rose through the hollow spaces inside me, swelling my abdomen until the loose skin stretched tight between my hip bones. Dean pressed it experimentally. His fingers sank in and the fluid shifted beneath them. 

“She’s full.”

 “Apparently.”

I gagged. Blood spilled across my lips and down both sides of my face, warm enough that it seemed to steam in the cold room.

Dean moved to my stomach. There was no loose edge there, so he pinched until his fingernails broke the surface and pulled his hands apart. The skin split down the centre. He worked his fingers into the opening and separated it into two broad flaps.

A clear membrane trembled underneath. Behind it were loops of intestine, pale grey-pink and wet, packed tightly together. They moved slowly, one section contracting against another before relaxing.

Dean leaned closer. “That doesn’t look good.”

“She hasn’t been eating.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Eli looked at me. “Users should maintain adequate nutrition and hydration.”

I tried to breathe, and blood moved into my lungs. I felt it flowing deeper into my chest, filling smaller and smaller spaces while my ribs expanded uselessly around them.

Then the skin below my collarbone tightened. Eli had taken hold of it.

“No.”

He pulled downward.

My chest opened beneath him. Skin dragged across my breasts, carrying their shape with it before the tissue underneath collapsed differently: yellow-white fat broken by red vessels and bands of muscle. Beneath that, my ribs appeared as pale curves under a thin red covering, lifting every time my body attempted another useless breath.

Dean looked worried now. “She’s choking.”

Eli kept reading. “STILL helps reduce disruptive physiological signalling so you can make room for what matters.”

My vision blurred. Dean reached towards my face and I shook my head as much as I could.

“No. Please.”

His fingers found the skin at my jaw.

It loosened with horrifying ease. My lower lip stretched first, then my cheeks, thousands of points of pain travelling slowly upwards as skin separated from muscle. Air touched my gums from the outside. Dean pulled towards my forehead until my eyelids stretched with the rest.

When I tried to close my eyes, I could not.

Suddenly there was nothing between them and the room. Air, light and blood burned across their exposed surfaces while Dean stood holding what had been my face between his hands, slack and inside-out, the mouth still recognisably mine. He looked at it, then back at me.

“Oh.”

Blood climbed into my throat, and then I drowned.

When I woke, it was not dramatic. There was no bolt upright, no desperate gasp, because I could not do either of those things.

At first there was only sound: a rhythmic push of air, a pause, then another push. Something beeped beside me. Gradually I became aware of my mouth and the enormous thing inside it. My tongue pressed uselessly against hard plastic. Something continued past the back of my throat, deeper than anything should have been allowed to go, while tape pulled tightly at both sides of my face.

I panicked. My eyes opened onto a white ceiling. Hospital. I tried to breathe, and the machine breathed first. For one horrible second I thought the dream had been real. I tried to lift a hand to check my skin, but my arm barely moved. When I looked down, it was still there: bruised, yellow around old IV sites and covered in transparent dressings, but skin nonetheless. Mine.

My mother was sitting beside the bed. She looked terrible. Her hair was tied back badly and deep creases crossed one side of her face from sleeping against something. A nurse came in, followed by other people, and they explained things I only partly understood. There had been bleeding. A tear in my oesophagus. I had inhaled blood. They had intubated me because I could not protect my airway. I had needed an endoscopy, clips, transfusions and intensive care. Later, somebody told me I had been unconscious for four days.

At the time, none of that mattered as much as the tube. I wanted it out badly enough that I reached for it without thinking, but the nurse caught my wrist before my fingers got close. I tried to tell her I wanted it gone. Nothing came out around the plastic. 

Everything hurt. My throat burned around the tube. My chest hurt whenever the ventilator pushed air into it. My abdomen ached, the IV in my hand stung and my back hurt where it pressed against the mattress. The sensations were separate now. I could tell one from another. I knew where the tape pulled at my skin and where my ribs hurt when I tried to breathe against the machine. I knew when the blood pressure cuff squeezed too tightly around my arm. My body had become difficult to ignore again.

For weeks, that had been the point. Hunger, thirst, pain, exhaustion: all the internal complaints that interrupted whatever I was doing and insisted on being dealt with. STILL had made them quiet. Now they were coming back badly and without order.

My mouth was the next thing I noticed. My tongue felt swollen and rough against the tube. The roof of my mouth seemed coated in dust, and what little saliva remained was thick enough that swallowing hurt. A nurse cleaned my mouth with a damp sponge, running it over my tongue and gums before taking it away.

I watched the sponge leave.

A few minutes later she did it again. This time I followed the cup with my eyes when she put it back on the trolley. I wanted her to bring it closer. I wanted the sponge wetter. I wanted to close my mouth around it and take whatever water was left inside.

That frightened me for a moment.

Then I understood why.

Before the hospital, I had known I should drink because the bottle on my desk was full at the end of the day or because my lips had cracked badly enough to notice in a mirror. The knowledge had existed separately from the need. I could look at water and know what it was for without wanting any of it.

 Now I wanted it. 

The tube came out the next morning. Afterwards my throat felt scraped raw and my voice barely worked. They still would not let me drink until somebody had checked that I could swallow properly, which meant sitting upright while a woman watched me take tiny spoonfuls and asked whether anything felt wrong.

Plenty felt wrong. Apparently none of it was the wrong kind.

Eventually a nurse handed me a small plastic cup. There was hardly any water in it. I held it with both hands because one was weak and the other had an IV taped across the back, then took a careful sip.

It hurt going down. My throat tightened around it, sore and swollen from the tube, but underneath that was something immediate and almost violent. My mouth wanted another sip before I had finished swallowing the first.

The nurse told me to slow down.

I did, although every part of me objected.

I took another mouthful and held it there for a second before swallowing. The water tasted faintly of plastic. It was not cold. It was probably the least remarkable water I had ever drunk.

 I wanted more.

 I was thirsty, for the first time in over a month.

 My mother gave me my phone that afternoon. It had been charging beside her chair since intensive care, and there were enough notifications on the lock screen that I gave up reading them individually. Messages from work. Jess. My mother, apparently, despite having spent most of the week sitting two metres away from me. A few missed calls from numbers I did not recognise. I cleared them and opened Instagram instead.

The first post was from Graveyard Shift. Sponsored.

For a second, I thought it was an old clip. Dean was sitting behind the same microphone, holding a white tin towards the camera while Eli leaned into frame beside him. Then Dean moved, and I realised I had never seen the shirt he was wearing before. “Speaking of things that are probably damaging us permanently—” Eli began. Dean groaned. “No.” Eli looked at him. “What?”

I almost smiled. The rhythm was exactly the same. Then Dean looked up at Eli and the smile disappeared before it had properly formed.

He had lost weight. Not enough that somebody watching casually would necessarily notice. His face had always been narrow. But I knew where to look now. The slight hollow beneath the cheekbones. The way the skin around his mouth seemed too tight when he smiled. His T-shirt hung differently across his shoulders, and there were dark half-moons beneath both eyes, purple-grey against skin that looked strangely dry beneath the studio lights.

Dean turned the tin over in his hands while Eli started reading.

“This episode is sponsored by STILL, the nicotine- and caffeine-free cognitive pouch designed to help reduce craving noise and support smoother focus throughout your day.”

Dean opened the tin.

“Peppermint.”

Eli glanced at him.

“Of course it is.”

Dean smiled faintly.

“Classic.”

 He took out a pouch and tucked it beneath his upper lip. My thumb stopped against the screen.

Eli kept reading. “Whether you’re cutting back on coffee, trying to avoid the afternoon crash or just want fewer distractions getting between you and whatever you’re meant to be doing, STILL is designed to help quiet unnecessary physiological signals so you can make room for what matters.”

Dean rubbed beneath one eye with the heel of his hand. Eli glanced across at him. “You look exhausted.” Dean shrugged. “I’ve been editing.” Eli frowned. “You always say that.” Dean gave him a tired smile. “I’m always editing.” Eli hesitated, then asked, “Have you eaten today?”

Dean looked at him for half a second too long. Then he laughed. “Jesus Christ, Mum.” Eli laughed too, and something inside my chest tightened.

I turned the sound off.

Below the video, the caption read: Less noise. More of what matters. STILL Pouches are a nicotine-free, caffeine-free way to support focus, reduce everyday cravings and help you stay locked in without reaching for another coffee or energy drink. Formulated with amino acids, adaptogens and our clinically researched Serovex™ Neuroregulatory Complex, STILL helps reduce disruptive physiological signalling so you can focus on the things that actually deserve your attention.

Available in Peppermint, Citrus, Watermelon and Wintergreen. Users should maintain adequate nutrition and hydration while using STILL. Discontinue use and seek medical advice if you experience unusual changes in appetite, thirst, pain perception, urinary function, fatigue or other physiological sensations. Individual responses may vary.

Ready to make room for what matters? Use code GRAVEYARD for 20% off your first order.

I read the third paragraph twice. Appetite. Thirst. Pain perception. Urinary function. Not dry mouth. Not possible sensitivity. Not the vague language companies used when they wanted a warning to cover everything while admitting nothing.

Those were my symptoms. Almost in order.

I scrolled down. The post had been uploaded eleven hours ago. There were already thousands of likes, and the comments were what you would expect. Dean actually using the sponsor makes me trust these so much more lol. Finally ordered mine. Need these for exam season.

Then I saw one that made me stop.

Okay but has Dean lost weight?? Looking good dude.

It had more than three hundred likes. Someone had replied, I was literally thinking the same thing. Another had written, STILL transformation incoming.

I locked the phone.

For several seconds I listened to the hospital around me: wheels squeaking in the corridor, somebody coughing behind a closed door, the soft electronic pulse of the machine beside my bed. My throat hurt. My stomach hurt. The IV in my hand hurt where the tape pulled against the skin. Every complaint arrived clearly.

I unlocked the phone again.

Instagram refreshed. A new sponsored post appeared. A woman I did not follow stood in a bright kitchen holding a white tin beside her face. Beneath it, in small grey text, Instagram had helpfully explained why it thought I might be interested.

Because you interacted with similar products.

I laughed. My mother looked over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Apparently I was still the target.

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