White. Purple. Black. The color of its skin flowed from one color to the other. He saw it.
As if he expected the oversized fetus to sit up and talk, he stared at it, almost willing it to do so.
It did not, of course. It could not.
It was dead.
Scott poked the motionless hump of meat on the livingroom carpet. The only sound it made was a light crackling, and the slight tearing of its fluid drying on the carpet. He has no idea where it came from. Scott paused.
The sight of its back, the skin drawn tight over its spine, reminded him of this mother. Feeling his mother's white-hot skin through the wet wash cloth he used to sooth her. He whispered words of empty encouragement to her. Her favorite, which had been in response to her fear of what awaited her after death, was "It will welcome you mom. It all loves you."
Scott jumped. The thing that was dead had moved, its oily black skin crackled as it stretched.
It was growing.
Its head moved, but the rasping sound he heard was not its skin separating from the carpet, but its attempt at speech. The head moved because it was trying to talk.
Scott lowered his head and tilted his ear toward the thing's mouth. The thing's stretching and writhing became more intense, like someone waking up after a long, thorough sleep.
The whisper was so faint, but it spoke.
Scott's face went white, but the message took a second too long to get to his brain. Before he had a chance to move away or stomp the abomination, which had now grown to the size of an oversized turkey (with the slimy pale skin to match) into the carpet, the fetus grabbed on to Scott's ear with newly formed teeth.
Scott screamed. He grabbed and pulled at the thing on his ear, but it would not let go. He kept pulling and pulling and could finally see the thing attached to him.
The thing's face was not only a caricature of Scott's face...
It was Scott's face.
Scott let the turkey fetus go, which was now the size of a five year old child. Scott heard a wet mop-slap as the thing hit the floor. When Scott's vision cleared, he saw a mini version of himself crouched in a three-pointed attack stance in the middle of the room.
Scott trembled against the living room wall, not even holding the gnarled, gaping hole of where his ear had been. He had stopped screaming. The only sound in the room was the steady, raspy breath of the thing in the middle of the living room. It focused on Scott's eyes as it focused on him, like he was dinner and it hadn't eaten in weeks.
It finally broke the silence. It lowered its head, looked Scott straight in the eyes and said, in a voice that was faintly like Scott's,
"It all loves you," then lunged at and devoured Scott's face.
