A hunk of metal drifting in a sea of iridescent stars,
blinking, reflecting in the station windows, but she doesn’t see—
Christine is where she’s always wanted to be,
alone
with the fungal root harvested from a wandering star,
away from it all,
like she was as a girl in the garden at home
in a world of her own.
The root is her prize and hers alone.
She sits and watches for hours at this dark, alluring little thing—
speaks to it and greets it good morning and wishes it good night
when there is neither in the black vacuum—
keeping it alive, secure in the lab
as it’s growing, always growing.
Hers and hers alone.
Oh, what joy to never see another soul,
to wake up with the sole purpose of feeding the root,
to watch it grow,
black as tar and pulsating—
growing, always growing
as the mold spreads,
and Christine is inhaling, always inhaling,
for what use is a filtration mask with such
a harmless specimen?
It is what keeps her connected, her root,
and the mold is spreading, growing in her now,
and she is changing, always changing,
waking each morning, growing closer to the root,
as if they were becoming one,
as the microscopic spores dance and drift into her open holes,
settling and seeding
as the mold takes over her mind.
She is unaware, complacent, no longer performing tests on herself,
coughs and sneezes blood into white paper sheets,
her hair falling out in clumps forming a sleek dark carpet
on the cold metal floor
as she wanders down the station corridors
in blood-soaked coveralls,
and she sheds her skin and peels it off in the shower
and it drops heavy to the wet tiles like thick pig skin
and the blood flows in the running water
and the steaming shower makes the flesh burn
that is no longer hers
as her bloated eyeballs push forth and pop out of her skull—
but she doesn’t feel a thing
because she is one with the mold.
Christine rots from within
but she is alive,
for the root has her mind
and they are a dyad.
They are legion
and they are many,
plotting a course back to Earth—
and there the mold will keep growing, always growing,
and Christine will make roots where she was once never able.
