Tapeworm

'Starter' – crossed my mind. "Bzzz... dzzzz... tzzz" came from above. A sign of the end. Tiny flies and mourners buzzing around, taking turns in their vigil for the dying. The flickering light cast shadows of the thick cable—or rather, an attempt to hide it. The ceiling morphed into a wall at a strange angle, drawing the eye to the top edge of a cabinet. From its white surface, I slid down to a neglected wall, where dingy white paint met tired green. This border rushed left until it stopped at the pale pink hue of a balding man bent over a stack of papers. In one hand, he held a pen; the other supported his head. He shook his head, seemingly unable to believe what he was reading. 

He looked like a doctor.

Actually, he was a doctor.

Why was it so cold?

The desk was nice enough, but the floor seemed like a relic from another age. I noticed my bare feet—actually, I wasn't wearing much of anything. Where was I, and what was going on?

I tried to stand, but the doctor gestured firmly with his pen—or maybe it was a fountain pen. I couldn't tell. 

 - Just a moment... I'll get back to you - he said suddenly from behind the desk. 

 I didn't make it. His head dropped back into the previous position. 

Why was I sitting on a chair that seemed stolen from my old school, wearing an open-backed gown with my bare backside on the cold, chipped plywood? The four bolt heads pressed into my skin—forever cold, regardless of the season. So unhygienic. Who knew where this chair had been or what it had been involved in before?

I tried to lift myself again, but the armrest slipped away, convincing me to stay put, exactly as I was. 

 - Excuse me - I finally mumbled - but...

I didn't even know what to ask. 

 The head behind the desk lifted and answered, brimming with energy.

- How are you feeling?

- I... don't really...

- Ah, memory's fuzzy? - he said with a grin. - If you'll allow me, I'll clear it up a bit for you. Your head's probably still buzzing from the operation.

Operation? What operation? Before I could voice my question, he continued.

- You came to our facility in rough shape. Lucky for you, I was just finishing my shift when we met.

- Lucky?

- Yes. - He replied, setting aside the papers and settling into his chair. - Had you ended up with one of those hacks, the last thing you'd remember would be arriving at the hospital.

My head throbbed. The doctor kept talking as I tried to process. I'd been admitted with symptoms of intestinal torsion—or something like that. It turned out I'd been fortunate to land in the hands of a seasoned specialist who quickly diagnosed me and took me straight to surgery. And that's where my clarity ended. 

 What happened next felt like someone changed the channel mid-film to a sport I didn't recognize, in a language and dimension I couldn't understand. For fifteen minutes, the doctor enthusiastically explained why they couldn't remove the parasite. Worse still, the damn thing was still inside me. They were waiting for some kind of decision. Meanwhile, they had to look after it.

- Excuse me—what?

- Incredible, isn't it? I couldn't believe it myself - he said, beaming.

- Wait, sorry, but... look after it? What do you mean?

- Well, yes. You're still under strong medication, - he said, returning to the papers on his desk. Nervously rifling through them, he muttered,- Do you know what day it is?

It took me a moment to realize I had no idea—not even the month. 

 The doctor handed me a document. - You were admitted over a month ago, and as I said, straight to surgery...

***

- How's the patient?

- Stable. He's out; you can start.

- Doctor, don't you have a home?

- Of course I do, Nurse Barbara. I just couldn't leave this poor bloke like that.

Ping, clank, whirr, zzt—the equipment hummed as the surgical team prepared for what seemed like a routine operation. 

- Lucky he didn't end up in Zakiewicz's hands, - someone quipped. - Looks like a decent guy.

The room chuckled briefly.

- Scalpel.

- I swear, this tapeworm's more likely to sing than Doctor gets home on time - another voice chimed in. More laughter. 

 Then

- silence.

- What was that? - the doctor asked sharply.

Everyone froze, listening. Amidst the usual symphony of beeps and hums, a faint but distinct tap-tap... tap-tap-tap emerged.

- Do you hear that?

- Oh, come on - someone muttered - That's Morse code.

****

- And so, the operation was halted.

- You're joking, right? - I asked, staring at the serious expression on his face.

- No joke.

- So you're telling me... you didn't remove the parasite...

The doctor raised a finger to his lips. - Shhh.

- Excuse me?

- He doesn't like being called that - the doctor whispered. - If you insult him, we'll be back to square one.

I was speechless. Questions raced through my mind.

- And since the surgery... it's been a month? I don't remember... 

- You've been in a medically induced coma—for safety and testing.

- What kind of testing?- I demanded.

The doctor approached with a file. - Intelligence tests—for him. - He pointed at my stomach. 

 Suddenly, the world spun into darkness.

I woke up to a concerned face hovering over me. - He's back. - a young woman announced.

I glanced at the documents. The tapeworm's name was Sigmund, and his IQ dwarfed mine. While I was out cold, the world had gone wild. Renowned scientists, Nobel laureates, and random gawkers had visited. Even local patients came to snap selfies with me. News of Sigmund had traveled the globe.

***

In a remote Maasai village, a young boy ran into his mother's hut.

- Mum! Mum! A white devil swallowed a wise man and slept for two moons!

He hid under her skirts for a week.

***

Celebrities, athletes, and politicians vied for attention. Even groupies snuck into the hospital, hoping to marry the parasite.

- Wow... - was all I could muster.

- So, what now?

- We're waiting.

- For?

- Approval for a new host—and your euthanasia.

- Since I've already been under, why wake me up?

The doctor handed me a pen and paper.

- Legally, you must consent to save a life more intelligent than yours. The findings are clear: you're a threat to Sigmund's wellbeing.

He smiled nervously and pushed the papers closer.