Becoming

But becoming what exactly?

The coffee cup slipped from fingers that wouldn’t close, shattering on tile. Coffee veined the grout, metallic on the air, like pennies pressed against the tongue.

He knelt. The shards slid away, his grip half a beat behind. In the broken pieces, his face fractured, each reflection slack, eyelids at half-mast, eyes ringed in red.

The crossword lay smeared where his palm had dragged through ink. The five-letter word for “deterioration”—D-E-C-A-Y—stared up, letters moving on the page.

At the café, the barista’s smile faltered. She handed the cup, then scrubbed the counter hard, circles widening beyond the stain.

The drive stretched. Traffic lights burned white instead of red. Twice he pulled over, eyes streaming. In the mirror, pupils had swollen until only a rim of iris remained.

At the office, the receptionist startled. “Oh! I didn’t hear you.”

She angled the desk between them. “You’re… quieter than usual.”

Tara from accounting stopped mid-greeting. “You look…” She trailed off, then added carefully: “Different.”

“I’m fine.” The voice came out flat, drained of tone.

She pressed her shoulder blades into the chair.

The boardroom froze when he opened his mouth. Slides blurred; his tongue produced sounds thick and guttural. Mrs. Dillinger flinched before she caught herself.

“Perhaps you should sit down,” Henderson said, pen tapping against his notepad. No one moved. Chairs creaked but no one spoke.

In the restroom mirror, his face had refashioned, skin waxy, eyes wide. He touched his cheek. The sensation came back cold, delayed.

He drove home hugging the shoulder. At a crosswalk, a dog clawed at its leash until its paws scraped raw. A child wrapped both arms around her mother’s thigh and refused to move until his car had passed.

Leftover pizza clung greasy to his tongue, copper-sour. He spat it into the sink. By the window, he crouched beside the potted basil. Fingers sank into soil. The smell filled his lungs, cool and damp. He scooped some into his mouth.

The grit crunched between his teeth. No nausea came. The soil settled in his stomach. His stomach unclenched. His body steadied.

That night the bed was unbearable—raised, soft. On the basement floor, the concrete held him evenly. Curled, he slept without turning.

Morning: hair clogged the drain. Nails had thickened at the edges, palms roughened. Hot water pricked his skin until he turned it cold.

At work, conversations stopped when he walked in. In the elevator, a man intentionally stepped out at the wrong floor. His supervisor avoided his eyes. “Take sick leave,” he said. “As much as you need.”

The words eased him. He sat at his desk, staring into the monitor transfixed.

On the drive home, his reflection stayed in the side glass jaw jutting past his ear, shoulders folded, posture bent. His throat clicked with each breath.

He called his sister. She answered on the second ring. He opened his mouth to say her name, but what came was low, guttural, closer to an animal cry than speech. She didn’t hang up. She kept calling his name, louder each time, her voice breaking. He pushed harder, but what left his throat was snarls and wet consonants that made her gasp. The line went dead. When the phone rang back, his hands no longer worked the screen.

He never returned to the office. Days passed without measure. Food in the fridge spoiled untouched. Only the garden drew him.

He crouched outside, clawed soil into his mouth. Heat pulsed under his skin, through his veins. His ribs refused to spread; each inhale snagged halfway, then broke open. His breath came smooth. He would never eat human food again.

Packages appeared at the base of the steps, never the porch. Neighbors lingered at the edge of the yard, listening, then moved on. Curtains closed in sequence when he passed their houses.

Mirrors gave him nothing. But in the basement window at night, the silhouette waited: eyes wide for dark, limbs compact, the body closer to the ground. His shadow bent sharply at the waist, an angle no spine should hold.

A face flashed, a name, then was gone.

Words failed. Breath rasped in his throat. Awareness shrank to weight, to the pulse of soil under concrete.

He stayed in the basement. His chest pressed into the floor, palms spread wide against its cool surface.

In the dark, he breathed. Each exhale rattled in his throat, damp and uneven.

—Sal