Henry woke up groggy and annoyed, his alarm shrieking to the heavens. He groaned and slipped the sheets off his chest, knowing that if he slept in any longer he would miss the interview.
He slid out of bed and begrudgingly slid into a polo and a nice pair of slacks, running both over with a lint roller just in case.
A coffee and a cream-cheese bagel later, he was energized and ready to take it on, only taking a moment to glance at the raised red ring on the underside of his arm as he stepped into the car.
Raising his eyebrows, he gasped and rushed back inside, quickly changing into a long-sleeved shirt. He didn't want to miss the interview, no sir, but he also didn't want the wound to be visible.
He rushed back to the car and slid the key into the ignition, and then he was on his way. 'Just a minor hitch,' he thought, absentmindedly itching the bump, 'nobody'll notice.'
After a short and uneventful drive, he arrived at his destination; covered in glass from foundation to the roof, it was a shining building of staggering height,
and home to the loans company he planned to work at. Thumbing the bump and fixing his hair in the rear-view mirror, he gave himself a quick peptalk and headed inside.
The skin on his arm felt tight; it almost seemed as if the infection was pulling it taught.
Nervously, with a shakier voice than he wanted, he asked the receptionist to lead him to the interview. He followed her to a finished, dark red door, with a glossy golden plaque. 'Everett Baker'.
"Head right inside," she said in her smooth receptionist voice, and she turned away and departed, her heels clicking the whole way down the hallway.
Well, it was now or never, and that was just when Henry noticed the pain in his arm.
It was a peculiar throbbing sensation, like his head did after a bad hangover, but it was localized near the ring.
"Wait!" Henry called, gasping as the throbbing intensified, "where's the bathroom?"
The receptionist turned calmly on her heel and nodded to the left. "Oh, just down the hall, dear," she cooed, before saying: "We can reschedule it for another time, if you need?"
He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, and he rushed as fast as he could without running.
The throbbing kept getting steadily worse, and it felt like it was spreading, his skin feeling stretched out as far as it could.
The bright, fluorescent lights were quite a change from the dim corridor, and he only hoped that they could help him see what was going on.
Quickly, he ducked into a stall and peeled the sleeve off of his aching skin.
"Oh, oh God," he whispered, words escaping his lips. He cursed as he saw the rings, hundreds of rings, all over his arm, on his hands, on his ankles.
They were sticking an inch above his skin, transparent, lumpy, and tinted red, and then the eyes opened.
He cursed louder as he realized they were worms, neon pink and with a nasty pair of pincers on 'em, and they were on his skin, in his skin, in him.
He leaned against the stall as he screamed, pinpricks in his skin, spikes in his flesh, barbs digging into the juicy meat below.
He screamed as they dug in one at a time, squirming beneath his epidermis, worming their way into his blood vessels, into his chest, cleaving through bone and muscle.
The worms feasted.