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Michael woke with a groan when his bedside clock blared its siren. His body ached in weird places and he couldn't remember exactly how he made his way home last night. The evening was a blur after his fifth glass of beer at the bar. Sixth? Seventh? There was that woman and giving her a car ride home but everything after that was fragmentary. Snatches of images and distorted sounds swam to the surface of his memory and then fled when he tried to latch on to them. He rolled over and sat up, slamming the clock to silence it. No time to think about it now - it would come to him or it wouldn't but right now his headache was killing him. He ran his fingers through his hair, twisting his neck left and right. With another stretch he stood and nearly sat back down again. His body felt heavy and stupid. Fucking hung over and a rough night. He told himself as he made his way to the bathroom.

The warm shower helped tremendously. Michael stood with his back to it, feeling the warmth soak in. Soap and shampoo followed shortly after and he was soon toweling himself dry. His headache was slowly fading but when he looked in the mirror to shave, he was consumed by a sudden and intense wave of vertigo. He leaned forward immediately and gripped the sink to keep him steady. Raising his head to try again brought a fresh wave of nausea and cold sweat to go with the vertigo.

When the room stopped spinning, he reached for his toothbrush and fought the trembling in his hand to hold it steady. His mouth smelled like death and felt far worse. The nausea drained away while he scrubbed and was completely gone when he finished brushing. He left the bathroom without looking in the mirror, superstitiously believing he'd get sick again. He padded naked to the bedroom to quickly dress himself, adding a sweater over top. The morning seemed to be especially cold and, anyway, today was.... He paused. What was he doing today? Working in the field? That didn't feel right. Wasn't he in the office today? For something? He could feel the nausea building in his stomach and temples again. It was the office, he finally decided. His shift supervisor needed him to come in for paperwork. Of course that was it.

Once he remembered what he was doing, his head began to clear again. And a little bit of alcohol will chase the rest of that bullshit away. Michael made his way to his small kitchen, feeling the cold tile against his bare feet. He bit back a curse when he opened the fridge - he was out of beer. The thought of a quick store run crossed his mind but quickly died when he glanced at the clock on the microwave. No time. Rushing, he grabbed his keys, umbrella and a small wad of cash from the end table by the couch.

His car was gone. Gone. Michael stood at the doorway looking out on the street. "Son of a fuckin' bitch." He whispered. "What the fuck did I do last night?" He walked around the property and then around the entire block. Nothing. No faded red Camaro sitting anywhere on the dark, rain-slick streets. I don't have time for this shit. Where was the... There. Fuck it. He walked the two blocks to the bus stop and waited. Fifteen minutes passed with his mood growing blacker and blacker. As hard as he tried, he couldn't remember anything from the previous night. I got the dumb bitch naked and we fucked. Where... where the hell did she live? No. Too far away from here. She was up near the lake. That's five goddamn miles away. No fucking way I walked back from that. The small white and green bus arrived while he was thinking. He was grinding his teeth and digging his nails painfully into the palms of his hands in a near rage - the car was all he had. The pneumatic bus doors hissed open and an older large black woman beamed at him. "Good morning!"

Michael grunted, barely concealing the snarl he wanted to make. No, it's not a fucking good morning, you dumb black bitch! The driver frowned as if she could hear this thoughts but he ignored her and walked to the back of the bus. He slammed down into the backseat with his arms spread out.

The rocking humming bus lulled him into sleep and he dozed briefly, head back and mouth open. There was an unending, dull gray featureless plain that stretched as far as he could see. He walked, slowly at first and then faster. Cold. Alone. No moon or sun in the sky. No noises. His footsteps made no noise and his voice was immediately swallowed by the unnaturally still air. A feeling of dread permeated his entire being. And, while he was entirely alone, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched - of someone looking over his shoulder. Someone that wished him harm. Michael snapped awake with a start, heart hammering in his throat. His nausea threatened to creep back and it twisted rusty screws into his temples.

He needed out. After his dream, the bus felt like a tomb. Too small. Too constricted. Everything around him was skewed with the sickness in his head and stomach. Shadows turned into crawling spiders and scuttling cockroaches in the corner of his eyes. The other passengers leered at him, laughing cruelly. He swore a woman near the middle of his bus looked exactly like his sister and he caught her glaring accusingly at him before she looked away. The driver's face contorted into a sneer and he knew she was just driving in circles to keep him contained. Michael gripped the metal bar in front of him, breathing shallow and fast.

When the back doors finally opened at the stop, he ran out. A pain below his knee made him stumble against the door in his rush to be out of the hellish place. The crisp, cold air seared his lungs and he pulled in deep lungfuls of it. People walking on the sidewalk gave him wide berth, whispering about him when they thought they were out of earshot. His stomach heaved and when nothing came up, he hawked out a sour wad of clear spit. His body felt heavy and awkward again. Michael leaned against the pole by the bus stop until everything passed and he could trust himself to walk straight. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he walked the few blocks to his company's head office. He focused on every step along the way, eyes on the ground as he swayed slightly.

The receptionist nodded a brisk 'Good morning' to him when he entered the office. She was young and blonde, very professional with her hair held up by black lacquered chopsticks and her dark business suit fitting tightly. Black skirt with a white silk top and a black jacket. Normally he'd take the time to chat with the lady but it was a measure of how he felt that he simply nodded with his eyes averted. Too many people looking at him and judging him. He made his way to the back, threading through the small maze of cubicles until he found the one he used. He sat and withdrew into himself. Everything was off kilter. Since this morning, everything was wrong. Except, no. Since the bar last night. The woman. That ugly bag of... His head shifted again. Everything around him tilted forty-five degrees while he broke out into a cold sweat. Why can't I remember? What happened lalst night? Who the fuck...

"...ily? Lilly!"

Michael looked up from this desk at the old man standing near the opening of the cubicle. A ring of thin white hair trailed down to a short, well-kept gray beard. Hazel eyes behind round, thin wire frame glasses. The man, looking all the world like a junior sized Santa Claus, watched her with authentic concern.

"Are you all right, Lily?" He asked.

"I..."

She looked down at her hands on her desk. Short, badly filed nails on slightly pudgy fingers. Black sweater covering her bra-less tits. Thick glasses sitting heavy on her nose.

"I'm..."

No. She was Michael. She had a sister. She worked with LandMark Development doing grunt work. He had an apartment and the Camaro Steve gave her. Her parents lived... they lived... where did they live? The memory of her grandmother came to her mind unbidden. Her gentle grandmother in that old glider, singing to her. The same memory she had last night when Michael tried to rape her. The blood. So much blood. Blood she happily licked off of Michael's neck. Eagerly fucking him - riding his dick until he came in her.

Lily ran to the bathroom, ignoring her boss when he called after her. Her coworker, Kathy, came out a moment before Lily reached the door. Once inside, she slammed the stall door open and went to her knees, stomach heaving from the thought of all of that blood and the man's cum inside of her. Mentally it all came together, blood and cum mixing in a disgusting pink mess.

She could feel him inside of her - this thing that wasn't her. An alien presence raging and pushing against her. Cursing and screaming wordlessly at her. He was a bright dot in her body, a nearly physical sensation. She felt him scrabbling at her guts with pinprick hands while trying to retake control of her body.

"No." Lily whispered. "No." She focused, visualizing the foreign essence within her and, as she did, she felt something flex. The screaming cut off suddenly and she felt his pull snap back, containing him into a vastly small space. The world around her vanished as she focused inward. Whatever she'd done came as a reflex, a motion similar to clenching her fist but as if she'd used the core of her being to do it. She... pushed at the thing. It will still there. Miniscule but there. As she pushed harder, something responded and pulled at the thing. Pulled Michael. She felt it sink within her.

Further and further the thing dropped (feeling ever so much like a fine grain of sand dragged through her belly) until it settled into her lower stomach. Lily gasped, eyes wide. A faint pulsing heat radiated out from where the thing lay within her. She was immediately wet. Her hands gripped the edge of the toilet seat and she moaned, pushing her large ass back and down as if grinding on an imaginary lover. Her nerves were on fire; every touch of fabric against her skin made her squirm. Made her whimper. She could tell her panties were soaked and her thighs were slick with it. It took a whole minute for the full body heat to subside, shrinking back to the pit of her stomach. The pulsing sensation diminished as the rush of sensations passed. It felt weakened.

Lily took a deep, shuddering breath. She'd never had a high sex drive but she needed to be fucked. Her pussy ached for it. Images of various sexual acts shuffled through her mind, ending with riding Michael. She could almost feel his dick in her as she remembered the way it slid into her, deep into her wet cunt. She made tiny grinding motions in the stall as her body echoed the way she'd slammed herself down onto him. She felt briefly ashamed and terrified when the phantom version of Michael came inside of her again. All that hot sperm filling her pussy. She moaned and licked her lips as her face flushed red. She could almost taste him.

The blood. Tasting the blood. Her hand touched her clit through her slacks briefly - not at the thought of fucking Michael but at the thought of the blood pouring out of his neck. She pulled her hand away and stood, bracing herself against the cold metal stall. She pressed her forehead against the wall, relishing the coldness of it. The feeling in her stomach reacted to her desire. Fueling it. Driving it. She was alive. Lights seemed brighter. Sounds were clearer. Her vision blurred suddenly as if she were looking through an old lead glass window. She reached for her glasses, accidentally knocking them crooked with twitchy fingers. She could see clearly without them. She slowly took the glasses off and stared at the thick, ugly frames as if her suddenly perfect vision were due to them.

While turning the glasses over and over, an intense itch flared out from her belly button. Lily pulled her shirt and sweater up and watched in shocked silence as her belly shrank. Skin from her sides and front pulled in while fat seemed to just melt away. One by one, her small fat rolls smoothed out. And then, just as suddenly, the process stopped. She still had a belly but she looked like she lost ten pounds in seconds. Her fingers tentatively explored the new expanse of skin but it was real. It was hers.

The throbbing above her pussy was even weaker now. The intense craving for sex was actually manageable and easier to ignore. Easier to ignore except for how soaked her thighs and panties were, that is. What's happening to me? She wondered. She remembered being Michael. She could clearly look back to the morning and see herself waking up and going through her routine. The brief glimpse of the face in the mirror had been her own but she hadn't seen it. The entire evening was clear with the exception of a few pieces between the kitchen and bedroom. Michael's blood. She couldn't remember the taste of it. No, that was wrong. The cloying scent that came with the blood and drove her wild was gone. She couldn't describe it. Couldn't think of what it compared to or what it was similar to or anything. Its absence hurt her. She wanted to experience it again. Badly. But, the thought of the whole evening twisted a knife in her gut. But that smell... an image of the most beautiful rose growing among midden.

There was a knock at the bathroom door followed by it opening. An uncertain voice called out. "Lily? It's Suzie. Greg wanted to know if you were okay or if you needed anything?"

Lily closed her eyes again to steady herself. "Yes, I'm fine. Just... Just a little stomach bug, I think. Thank you! I'll just be a minute more."

"Okay. He said if you needed to go home then just let Kathy know. I have some Tums in my drawer if you need them. Tea helps with it sometime, you know. I've been through it and it does get better eventually."

The door closed quietly while Lily briefly wondered at Kathy's comment. Women are crazy. She decided. Slowly, she counted to sixty and cautiously opened the stall to step out. The silence of the bathroom spoke volumes. The world seemed new to her. The slight buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead, the rush of water through hidden pipes and the very, very faint rustling of paper moving around. Colors were vivid and contained a vibrancy she'd never seen before - the glare of the light from the faux chrome faucets was blinding. She looked up in the mirror and nearly looked away again. Her own face looked ashen and waxy with cold sweat. Baggy, tired brown eyes stared back at her developing second chin and acne. She turned to look at herself sideways but couldn't see the weight loss through the thick sweater. She ran her hands down her front a few times to marvel at how different it was.

The walk back to her desk was filled with imagined whisperings from her coworkers. It took a huge amount of effort for her to ignore everything around her and focus on her paperwork. Five minutes later, she was still staring at the same sentence on the same form. The thing that used to be Michael was distracting her, as terribly weak as it was now. She was remembering the night Steve gave her the Camaro. Him. She corrected. Gave him the Camaro. They sat on the couch, watching some football game with the remains of half a case of beer littering the ground around their feet. She couldn't remember the conversation at all but she knew that's when it happened.

More time passed without her actually making any progress on the same document so she gave up. Lily sent a quick email to the secretary explaining that she wasn't feeling good and would leave early. She gathered her few things and left while avoiding everyone at the small office.

Dark clouds gathered to the south, deep blue and gray. A cold wind gusted suddenly, dragging little pieces of paper trash along the sidewalk. Lily hugged her arms close to her chest and walked quickly back to the bus station. She shivered and it wasn't entirely due to the cold - she could feel the tiny thing in her still buzzing weakly. The streets and side walk were mostly empty as everyone huddled inside their homes and offices. The drunk man from the night before lay on the bench again, covered with a scraggly blanket. Unmoving. Is he okay? She wondered. Should I check on him? I don't want to touch him. He's probably fine. Just sleeping it off. I'm sure he'll be fine.

A rank smell filled the air around her - moldy earth, rotten meat and something nearly like ... cinnamon? No, not quite that. Some semi-sweet scent mixed in with the rest and it made her step closer. As she came nearer, a spotty dark miasma rose from his prone form. She felt entranced, her eyes focusing on a point inside of the man but a thousand miles away at the same time. He was dying. Just a matter of time, now. Cancer. Multiple infections festering. Teeth rotting away. He moaned on the bench, twisting in some dark nightmare as her knee brushed the blanket around him. She hadn't realized she was so close. Surface images. Contact. Needles in his arms, laughing with faceless people. A fire in an old metal barrel. Holding a rifle on the side of a desert road. The sun so hot and high in the sky. Explosions. Terror.

The man thrashed on the bench. She'd reached out her hand and was inches away from touching his face. That smell. The one hidden with the others. It was like last night. That smell. Her eyes unfocused as she drew closer. Terror. Too loud. Booms. Screaming. Other people shouting. Pain.

"You... bitch! It is you!" The angry voice snapped Lily back and away from the man on the bench. The smells, sounds and memories faded quickly. A haggard, scrawny old man limped toward her. His bald head was spotted and a huge dark bruise covered the left side of his face. He pointed at her accusingly and his eyes were wild with anger and a touch of madness. Lily backed up, stopping with her back against the wall of the bus shelter. "You... fu... fucking whore!" Spittle flew from his mouth as he screeched at her. Wrinkles lined his weathered face and several teeth were missing behind sunken in cheeks.

Lily held up her hands. "I don't... Who are you?" She asked. She looked left and right but there was nobody around except for the man on the bench and, incredibly, he was still asleep. Moaning and shifting quietly but asleep even with this crazy screaming person.

"Who? WHO?! Who am - " The old man broke into a coughing fit, wheezing with every breath. "Michael." He said, his voice hoarse. "Michael, you bitch. You did this to me, you fucking cunt." He was so close to her now that she could smell him. Little flecks of spit flew at her as he ranted.

"That's impossible. You... no. It's impossible. You can't be Michael. I saw you last night. You're not... you can't be Michael." She finished lamely.

Michael's hands flew to her throat. They were nearly claws - bone and tendon but still strong enough to hurt. His voice was rough and raw. "What. Did. You. Do. To. Me?" His pale face was white with rage and the hands on her throat shook badly.

The piece of him inside of her reacted to Michael's rage and presence and she felt it struggle weakly against its bonds. She pulled at his hands, sure that she could get him off of her but not willing to hurt him ba...

Oh.

His sister was three years younger than him. Their father skipped out on the family when Michael was five and the mother constantly blamed him for it. He hadn't been an easy child. The mother worked two jobs and it was his job to watch over his sister. When he was fifteen, their mother caught him steal $10 from her purse. She beat him badly for it but he didn't fight back. Not because he wasn't bigger (he was) or stronger (he was) but because he had other ways of working out his frustrations.

Lily pried Michael's hands off of her neck. It wasn't hard; he was so weak now. She leaned in to him. Her voice dropped. "Is that how you looked when you raped your sister?" She felt an anger welling up deep inside of her - something she'd never really felt before. It was a fiery, destructive thing. She held his wrists in her hands and stared at this husk of a man. This disgusting pig that took advantage of his sister over and over until she cut her wrists to escape the pain. It burned inside of her, this rage. Michael's mouth was working but no sound escaped his lips except for a quiet gasping noise. "Was she weak and powerless like you are now? Frail? Did you cry when she died? No, don't answer. I can see it. You cursed her. For taking away your whipping boy. For taking away your toy." She could feel his heart beating erratically in her chest. When she closed her eyes, she could see all of the veins tracing throughout his body. She growled, mentally clenching a fist around his diseased, blackened heart. It withered and died within him.

Michael coughed, spewing blood. He blinked at Lily, once, twice and then toppled over backwards. He died with his eyes open, laying at Lily's feet. She could feel a light wink out of him. It was a warm little sad light that flared brightly for a single instant, started to pull towards her and then vanished like the flame of a candle blown out with a single puff of air. You should be screaming. Her mind told her. You should bring your hands up to your mouth and scream. A man just died. In front of you. This man just fell over dead and you know you had something to do with it.

The bar door opened and closed. She couldn't take her eyes off of Michael. There was no creeping horror at what happened; she watched in calm, slightly detached satisfaction as a bar patron felt clumsily at Michael's neck for a pulse. Images of Michael's sister danced quietly through her head. Used over and over as she begged him to stop. And then she stopped begging and it was just a matter of time. A great big clock ticking down the seconds of her life. She liked to think that the girl (wherever she was) smiled at the violent passing of her brother but, in reality, she didn't care. He was nothing. An excuse of a human that should've ended his life as a stain on his mother's bed sheets.

People shouted and moved around her. The faint sound of sirens screamed in the distance. Lily turned in the general direction of her house and started walking. Nobody stopped her. In the confusion, nobody noticed her standing near the body. It took her three hours to find her way to her house and she was barely tired. She'd never walked so much in her entire life yet she only felt refreshed. For most of it, she dwelled upon the last twenty four hours and what had happened. She wasn't a fool - the essence inside of her, the piece of Michael was his soul. A sliver of it, perhaps. She'd taken it from him the previous night when she fucked him. Or when she sucked him. She'd taken that piece of him and it'd done something to her. Her stomach was still the same as earlier and she still didn't need her glasses. The soul itself was quiet now - as if it had shrunken into itself to escape her notice. It was barely there.

She went through her evening motions in a near trance, barely thinking anything at all. She started by cleaning the broken glass in the kitchen and then worked her way through cleaning the whole house without even meaning to do it. It was calming in a way, not focusing on anything in particular and letting her body work. Relaxing after all the mental stresses she'd just been through. When she ran out of things to distract herself, she wound down and got ready for bed. She expected to feel guilt or shame or something bad when she crawled beneath the smooth sheets but there was nothing. She wasn't hiding her emotions - there was just nothing there.

Michael's soul was dying inside of her. It howled like a puppy in a hurricane, tugging at the titanium bonds that held it in place. Lily felt herself grow wet at the struggle. Whatever the sad little thing was doing, it made the pressure build in the pit of her stomach. Her hand went under her cotton sleeping pants and into her simple white panties. Her pussy lips were so slick and engorged. She opened herself with two fingers and slid a third inside, groaning at the way her arousal twined with the thing inside of her. The struggle turned to a shudder as the last remaining piece of Michael was pulled into her sexual desire. Two more fingers joined the first and she pushed and rubbed with all three. The pressure in her cunt built higher and higher until the orgasm rode through her body, making her arch her back and scream in pleasure over and over again. She'd had one or two stronger orgasms before but this one was... delicious in a way she'd never experienced in her limited sexuality. It felt heave in a sense. Solid. Her brain couldn't decide how or why it was different but there was no doubt in her mind that it was. She wanted more but touching herself was nearly painful at the moment.

Somewhere along the way, Michael had finally died inside of her. She no longer felt him at all. Not a trace. Burned out by my orgasm. She smiled at the imagery of him screaming into nonexistence as her body shook. The orgasm made her relaxed and lazy, like a cat soaking in a sunbeam.

As she fell asleep, she realized she hadn't had a bite to eat all day and didn't feel the least bit hungry.