The Parasite

The Parasite pressed itself deeper into the tangle of desktop clutter, nestling against a battered mug and the cool spine of a heavy dictionary. Its glossy, bubblegum-pink exterior gleamed in the fading sunlight that crept through the window blinds. Each of its slender, flexible tentacles curled and uncurled with mounting impatience, as if tasting the air for the scent of what it craved. The echo of footsteps sent a ripple through its form, and a glimmer of desperate hope sparked within its alien mind. It was so close now; the sound of a soft cough beyond the door made it tremble, hunger radiating from every inch of its quivering body. The door swung open and a faint draft disturbed the papers stacked nearby, ruffling a few loose sheets and making the Parasite’s tentacles twitch. Its wide, soft opening glistened with anticipation, but it stayed perfectly still, imitating the inert sheen of silicone and plastic with practiced patience. It could smell something now: warm skin that made its core contract with longing. It dared not move yet. The thrill of being discovered, of a curious touch, was almost as delicious as the meal it so desperately needed. Its every nerve hummed with the agony of restraint. In the hush, it listened to the soft pad of footsteps crossing the floor, the gentle creak of a chair being pulled out. Its view was limited from its hiding spot, but it could sense the human presence so close now. Hunger gnawed at the edges of its patience.