The guard is helpless, and can’t move on their own. But they can’t be left behind in the vault like that. The cops who carry them flinch and look away from their stomach, awkward as they lift them.
The guard is loaded into the backseat of a car. They’re in a daze during the whole drive, mystified by the pain. Once again their stomach clenches, trying to force up their coworker. It makes them gag and blanche, tears pricking at their eyes. This must be fake. It can’t be real. Such a thing isn’t possible. The muffled begging and screaming trapped under their skin eventually peters away into soft crying, drowned out by the rough groans of their stomach. The guard is, however guilty, grateful that they’ve settled down. Each inch of their skin throbs in dull pain, stretched beyond its limits. Having a body push and kick at it is no help. If this is a dream, it’s the most vivid one they’ve ever had. They wonder how sick their brain must be to have come up with something like this.
Eventually they’re brought into an office. They aren’t sure when they got there, just that they’re on a couch. The cramps make it hard to… focus. It’s more comfortable than a car.
A man walks in, and regards them. He sighs.
“… You’re the latest one, huh?”
The guard blinks blearily at him. “L-latest…? Isn’t there something y’ can do? Th-the hospital?”
“And have you take up a bed while every doctor can only watch?” The captain sighs. “There’s not much to be done, aside from cutting you open.”
As if to back up his words, there comes a loud bubbling. They feel their stomach crimp, and liquid trickling inside. Their coworker flinches, then begins thrashing out on instinct. As pained as it is, their stomach is more determined than deterred. It grumbles, and carries on with its work.
The captain’s eyes roam over the guard’s distended belly. Resigned. “…And I don’t think your partner there could stay still long enough to save either of you.”
“You can’t… help…?” They ask weakly. “Please, please, you have to, I can’t—“
The way their voice cracks is pathetic, and they know it, but all they can do is sniff and desperately hope for some way out of this. Every additional movement under their skin makes them nauseous. They can’t imagine being responsible for— for…
They gasp as a sharp kick hits them.
“All I can do is give you painkillers.” The captain steps forward, cool and grim, and pokes their middle. They cringe away from the touch, but can only go so far without falling. The weight is too encumbersome for them to do much other than wobble, anyway. The skin is stretched and raw, and the touch is painful. The pressure inside them is overwhelming. Inside, their coworker thrashes back at the touch, and their stomach growls with malcontent.
“Jesus. Never get used to it.“
Hot shame floods their face. Being prodded at like a freak show, told there’s nothing to be done… Why did it have to be them? Why did it have to be this? Is there no other way? How is any of this even possible?
The captain steps away, and the guard closes their eyes, unable to pay attention to much more than the pained way their insides squeeze, strangling another life. A life that they knew, that they had chatted with, had shared a coffee with, had greeted in the mornings. They were not close, but this was a person. A person that they would never see again. That anybody would. A person still breathing with a ragged, raw breath, barely heard over the churning muscle keeping them entrapped.
A hand snaps its fingers. Vaguely, the guard acknowledges the paper cup and pills pushed their way. It takes a few tries for them to swallow, each try making them shudder. The guilt is cloying on their tongue. The water splashing over their coworker’s body only seems to fuel their desperation. Or anger? They can’t tell. It makes no difference. They can understand being hated for this.
“I’ll come back and check on you in a while. Ask you some questions, when you’re not...” The pause, stretching awkwardly onwards, is interrupted by a muffled shriek. The guard pinches their eyes closed again. Perhaps the captain says something else. All they can hear is the returned pleading. It begs them to ask for help, to let them out, to please consider the time they knew each other.
“I’d— hh, help if I could…” The guard strains. This doesn’t seem to comfort them. Instead, their coworker thuds a fist against their insides, and screams until their throat goes raw and not even the pain can distract them from suffocating the guilt is. It fills up their throat, gagging them on shame. And the whole time, their stomach just works away. It cares not for the troubles of the body it belongs to. The organ is made to grind food down, to dissolve it so it can be put to use. This is more than it’s ever had at once, more painful and far more whole and alive than anything it’s had inside it, but everything inside it is food. Why else would it be there?
Time slips away from them. They aren’t sure how much. Awareness slips in and out of their grasp, until eventually they nod off. Their dreams are snipped, stressful. It’s filled with squirming bodies, dull music, and squeezing, grinding pressure. At some point there was silence, save for the gurgling. But there was still movement beneath their skin, disgusting and unnatural. They shirked away from it, and felt ashamed for doing so. Then their thoughts fell into the dark again, and they didn’t have to dwell on it any longer.
This time, the awareness sticks. They are staring up at a ceiling. Their gut feels heavy. The pain is back, but is vague and achy, no longer the sharp and distressing threat of being split open. Amorphous, like a bruise.
Their skin shifts subtly, as the muscle grinds against the limp body inside. The guard is afraid to move, to discover this isn’t some nightmare. They woke up already. It should be over. Slowly, like their skin will crack if they go too fast, they press a hand against their stomach.
The mild pressure is so relieving, and the simple sensation makes guilt claw at their throat again. Heat bubbles beneath their fingers. Clearly their stomach has been hard at work, scalding from the effort of digestion. Dread shocks into their veins, deadly and cold.
“Please,” they ask, but don’t know who. “Please, please, please be okay.”
Both hands roam over their belly, sinking their hands deeper, searching. It’s soft soft soft, and each new inch makes them choke up until they’re hyperventilating. Tears blur their vision. All they can do is cry. But they keep pressing their hands against their stomach, because the pain eases up if they put pressure, and there’s still the outline of someone inside them, even if they’re surrounded by liquid that’s churning far too obscenely. It's disrespectful. It’s the only way they can think of it.
“M’ sorry,” They babble to the open air. “I’m so sorry.”
They struggle to sit up. It’s easier now, when the weight is molding closer to the shape of their body. The thought makes them flinch. Again, when the contents of their stomach sloshes and rumbles with the changing orientation.
The captain watches. The guard wishes he wouldn’t, or at least had the decency to look more uncomfortable.
“Can you open me up now?”
“Now?” He glances at their belly. “No, we tried that with one of the other poor saps this happened to. At this point it’s… better to just let things finish their course.”
Defeat. Crushing, all encompassing. It can’t be worse than whatever their coworker was feeling. “God…”
“Hey. Listen, I’ll put you in contact with the people who had the same happen to them. Maybe you can find some solace together.” He checks his phone, and scribbles numbers on a slip of paper.
They stare at it. All they can hear is the roar of their own gut, turning over the last remains of their coworker. Each twist is another sound they won’t be able to forget.
