Into You (Part 3)
Created | Updated Oct 11, 2020
Into You (Part 3)
It may have frightened me, but I’m curious. I lean down to see what it might be made of, to try to guess its properties of locomotion. As my face gets closer, the tiny Rorschach blotch humps up at its center and extends a thin tendril toward me. I bolt through the bathroom door, after losing grip with the knob twice. I run to the kitchen.
I’m not sure why I’m standing there, naked, breathing in ragged gasps. It wasn’t that far. The fright? Yes. But why the kitchen? Then it hits me. The back of my brain suggested a weapon. A knife. A BIG Honkin’ KNIFE! A knife, because I don’t own a gun.
The utensil drawer rattles when I fling it open to its full stop. Everything shifts forward, jumbling even more than usual. I spot the carving knife and grab it, poking the tip of my middle finger on the companion meat fork. A dull throb starts and doesn’t seem to want to subside. No matter; I’m armed now.
Slowly, cautiously, still nude, I go back to my bedroom and approach the bathroom. I peek in. The magnifying glass and the safety pin are lying on the carpet in front of the sink, but the tweezers are on the lip of the counter. My clothes are where I piled them, and the bath towel lies partially across them. The blob is still on the counter, near the empty wine glass, and it’s undulating, forming various irregular shapes, like an amoeba.
An idea pops to mind. The glass. Over the blob. And everyone’s safe.
I step as quietly as possible into the bathroom, attempting to not attract its attention, not make myself known. My stealth capabilities seem to be working. I reach forward with my left hand; I brandish the knife in my right. My wrist is over the top of the blobby thing, and I’m holding my breath.
My fingertips touch the glass and I slide them downward to get a grip. The black blotch shifts, twists as if turning toward me, and starts to rise up in a small heap. With the flick of my wrist, the wine glass is inverted in my hand, traveling down over the top of the thing. It does something I wouldn’t have supposed it could do: it jumps.
Unfortunately for Blob-o, it launches itself straight upward… right into the ‘bottom’ of the wine glass. I slap it down against the counter and my heart sinks as a thought flashes through my mind. It’ll shatter! It doesn’t, but a small chip off the rim skitters into the sink, and a hairline fracture starts running to the stem of the glass. The black glob clings to the underside of its parabolic prison, reaching downward with several tentacle-like appendages.
My breath is chuffing from my mouth like steam from an old iron railway train. My left hand trembles, not wanting to touch the wine glass, but obligated to do so. My right hand shakes, and that’s not a safe thing while holding a knife.
Think! I tell myself. And I do. I have to contain this thing. In a container. With a lid. Where? The kitchen, again. Bottom of the cabinet with the other canning supplies. Do I leave this thing here? Will it still be here when I get back? How fast do I have to be to do all this? Just go, Lynne! Just GO!
I set the hefty knife blade centered on the base of the wine glass’s stem, lending it some weight to keep it in place. Rushing into the kitchen, I flip open the cabinet and rifle through the jars and lids. It seems to take forever for me to match up a medium-sized jar with a lid and a rim. I bound back to the bathroom, ready to implement The Plan, when I hear the knife clatter into the sink. I stand agape in the door jamb.
Mister Blob-o has stretched himself from the countertop to the apex of the inside of the wine glass. The little black thing is tipping the glass at an angle, almost to the point of no return. I stretch forward and smack the glass back down to level. The amorphous critter inside slides down the inside of the glass and coalesces in a thin circular blot, constrained to the size of the glass’s rim.
I place my left elbow on the up-ended base of the wine glass and prepare the lid and rim, setting them together on the countertop. With my left hand, I scoot the glass—and the blob—toward the edge. With my right hand, I line up the pickling jar just below the ledge. I take a breath, keep my eyes open, and slide the glass over the top of the open jar.
The black blob tumbles down into its new prison, though it attempts to slap a tendril on the rim. Heedless of making contact, I grab the lid and slap it onto the screw threads and spin it down… tight. I let the glass plop onto the carpet and, despite its plush pile, the fracture line gives way, and there’s a jagged triangle of glass lying beside the broken wine glass. I brush them off the carpet, between the base of the toilet and the sink cabinet.
My legs feel unsteady, perhaps because I’ve been hyperventilating, perhaps from plateauing on an adrenaline rush. I pick up the magnifying glass and the safety pin in my free hand, then sit down with my back against the sink. I take a few moments to compose myself, to get a handle on my thoughts and try to figure out how to proceed from here.
Clutching the pin against the handle, I train the magnifier upon the thingy in the jar. The image is blurry until I find the optimum distance to hold it in relation to the squirmy thing slogging around in the jar. At first, it slides like a viscous liquid along the bottom, then it slithers up the sides, exploring the extent of its captivity. From the outset, I had thought the thing was completely black, with no discernible features, but the more intently I examine it, the more nuances I find.
There is a definite sheen to its exterior, almost oil-like, with infinitesimal rainbow hues. When it extends itself, the gloss goes away, as if the exertion taxes its outer skin to its limits. Though I see nothing that passes for ‘eyes’ on this thing, it seems to know where things are. I place the tip of my left index finger on the side of the jar, and the blob rises up on a pseudopod and flattens its ‘top’ end against the glass, spreading out to the circumference of my fingertip. Flustered, I pull away.
