The Alien

No-one seems to know how long the foul thing took to establish a hold on me. They tell me it had been there, growing steadily, for a long time before making its presence clear to me. Within a comfortable fold in my innards it latched on to my flesh, taking advantage of my bodily functions and feeding off my waste. Foul thing. They come in all sizes, I'm told, but this one attained a prodigious level before I knew. But how I knew! At the end of a long day I felt particularly tired, and weak, and nauseous, but when I rose in the night to throw up I suddenly felt the griping, stabbing pains in my side. Over and over again the waves of agony sliced through me. In hospital they photographed my insides, to reveal the ugly, misshapen entity lodged just below my ribs. Immediate thoughts of gory movies sprang to mind, but I have been assured there is no risk of sudden exit through my chest. We have formed a bond, and I must learn to live with my lodger. I am in no immediate danger, as long as I follow the rules. I must feed my alien correctly or face its wrath. It hates saturated fats, and sugar, and anything at all that tastes good, but if I eat them the pains return. Otherwise I rarely notice these days that I share my body cavity with an alien. Rarely.

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Because I need to get back into the writing habit.

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It's just a gallstone. Don't worry!

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