Biters

Never had he been this euphorically going to bed. Although he can’t wait to wake up again, he was rather tired after tonight. The slightly drunk, young man walks into his bedroom with a smile. A smile he had worn ever since the end of the party.
 

Stan switches the light on and starts undressing. He throws his shirt on the chair by the desk. The desk was littered by a half-eaten bag of potato chips. He would clean that up in the morning. Right now Stan isn’t thinking about cleaning. He just wants to lay his head down and stop the room from spinning.
 

He drops his jeans and as he lifts his right foot Stan notices that it’s stuck. He noticed too late. The drunk, young man stumbles forward with his feet still in his jeans, bumping his knee into the chair. It did not hurt much though. A giggle escapes his mouth; he was somehow glad he got to the chair because, now he had something to hold on to while stepping out of his jeans.
 

Almost done now. Just the socks. He can still hold on to the chair for the next act; he has to lift his foot high enough to reach for the sock. However, as if his mind was sharpened by the dangerous stunt with the jeans, his socks came off with ease.
 

He lets out a small, humorous sigh of relief and walks (without lifting his feet) towards his bed. His hands are dangling beside his body and his shoulders are pointing to the floor. He lets himself fall on his back on his bed. Stan’s bed isn't happy with that all, judging from the squeaking, protesting sounds it makes. His stomach (filled with all different sorts of drinks) isn’t happy with it either, but after letting out some air – noisy air – Stan got it under control.
 

He gropes around for his sheets and pulls it from under him on top of him, his feet sticking out as always. Now the sleepy drinker has some time to think. The kiss is still lingering in his mind. Finally he had the guts to kiss his crush Laurel. Was that really the way it went Stan? He thinks to himself. He answers aloud in a drunk mumble: “naaah”. First of all she came to him. Secondly, if he hadn’t drunk that much he would’ve chickened out for sure. But it happened anyway and he was glad –“fucking glad” he thinks and a smile curled around his alcohol flavoured lips as he closes his eyes. “why now Stan?” her voice says in his mind. “why not earlier? I knew you liked me long before.” He still doesn’t know. Fact is, they kissed and that is all that matters now. He plays it over and over in his mind and rolls over on his side.
 

He was dozing of, thinking about Laurel, when a sudden itch starts on his back. Not the casual sleepy itch he knows. No, this was definitely different. His hand makes its way to his back to scratch when the itch moves up his back surprisingly fast. Surprisingly, because it made Stan open his eyes in surprise. His hand follows to scratch. Got it! He scratches and closes his eyes again, a triumphant smile on his face.
 

Again an itch. But now it was also tickling and spreading. Both hands reach for the spot on his lower back, but when they reach it, it isn’t his lower back he feels. It feels like sand and it is a hand full of sand. In horror Stan sends his sheets flying of him. He stands up, his hands clapping and scraping the sand off his back while he does it. Not so sleepy (or drunk) he jumps toward the light switch above his bed, one hand still scraping and clapping.
 

The light switches on and a shriek sounds through Stan’s bedroom. The bed was full with sand. Black sand. Moving sand. It had a peculiar shine to it. Stan doesn’t waste time to think about what it is and reaches for the door, but a terrible sting shoots through his lower back, making him cramp.
 

The sting didn't feel normal, just like the sand didn't look normal. The pain the sting had awoken didn’t faint, it was in fact, expanding slowly, like a small hole that grows larger and larger. One word shot through Stan’s mind: eating. Wherever the sand (was it even sand?) came from, it was eating Stan’s back, it was eating Stan! Blood was now flowing in a small stream to his underwear.
 

Terrified he manages to reach the doorknob and as he opens it he throws one quick glance at his bed. The heap of sand had grown and had actually moved toward him. Stan let’s out a disgusted scream and runs for the bathroom. The bathroom door had a lock on it, maybe that would hold back the heap of sand if it decides to come after him. Stan would later find out that wouldn’t be enough.
 

Stan enters the bathroom in a hurry. He swings the door shut and switches the lock on. His hands wait a second after releasing the door, but it’s safer to stand back a little, so the sobering, young man slowly backs away from the door. His lower back is hurting with each step he takes. The house was completely silent except for Stan’s panting and a queer hissing sound. It was faint, but it definitely is there and it's coming from his bedroom.
 

He looks around for something to protect himself with. There has to be something here, right? He has absolutely no idea what he is looking for, but maybe he would know when he would find it. Toothpaste, hair gel, dirty towels in the corner…then his eyes fall on the bathtub faucet. “Water” he thinks “Maybe I can wash these fuckers off my back”.
 

So he grabs the shower head hanging over the bath and lets it rest on his shoulder, the shower head pointing at his back. He turns it on, but steadily; the wound on his back was painful as hell and it had grown an inch or two already in the five minutes that had passed since he scratched his back. To his surprise the lukewarm water eased the pain a bit, but more importantly, when he looked down the drain hole he saw some of the sand wash away. It actually worked! He closes his eyes in relief and his breathing slows down though still shaky.
 

He turns the water off and hangs the shower head back. Some of the sand was scattered around the drain hole and now Stan notices something that explains how the sand could have moved. The bright white colour of the bathtub revealed it to him: the sand was not sand. It appeared to be some kind of bug, a little smaller than a tick. Without giving it much thought Stan grabs the shower-head again and makes sure no bug escaped. When he turns the water off for the second time a thought crosses his mind: “There is a whole heap of these fuckers in my bedroom”. He looks at the door, thinking what to do next. So far none of the little monsters has come in. Maybe he would be safe here. But if they do come in, there will be no way out.
 

Stan listens for the hissing sound, but can’t hear anything. He walks toward the door again and listens carefully. No sound. But then, suddenly, like a black rug, thousands crawl from under the door. They black out the white tiles completely. Stan takes a step backwards just in time to keep himself away from it. But one step was all that he could manage. Within seconds most of the bathroom floor was crawling with the monstrous bugs. They creep up Stan’s legs, up his torso, up his neck. At this point the helpless, young man tries to grab the shower-head again, but it is in vain. The bugs start eating on his skin. Stan opens his mouth to scream, but he can't because his mouth fills up with bugs, creeping down his throat immediately. His body now is completely covered with bugs and Stan feels the strength flowing from his body. Not able to stand on his feet anymore, he falls down on his knees, on his face. Dead.
 

“Stan? Can I ask you something?”
”Sure Laurel, anything.”
“Why have you never approached me before?”
“…well, I…I don’t really know”
“Why now Stan? Why not earlier? I knew you liked me long before.”

She smiles and doesn’t give him time to answer. Their faces move towards each other and they kiss. A long, tender kiss. Like a first kiss could only be in books and movies. When they release each others lips, Laurel speaks her last words to Stan:

“Well, I ought to go now. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
“Don’t let the bed-bugs bite.” And Stan's long-time crush throws him one last smile, before she goes.