[ WP ] He thought it was finally gone , but the next night it returned .

Blake pulled open the dilapidated cupboard door. Myriad bottles lined the shelves, their generic sameness overwhelming what senses he still possessed. The pain was beyond intolerable. The single bulb burning above the oven did not lend itself to deciphering the maddeningly small print, so he threw an entire shelf's contents on the counter. Aspirin, hydrocortisone cream, Pepto-Bismol, a box of useless circular bandages; but nothing that would sooth the beast that was his leg. The second shelf he scattered across the yellow and white checkered table, between three day old water glasses and plates still speckled with toast crumbs. A naked prescription bottle caught his eye. After a needless struggle with the child-proof cap he peeked at the contents. There were 2 left. He threw them in his mouth and chewed with a hunger, powering through the intentional bitterness. 
 
 The throbbing in the hole in Blake's leg started to subside after about an hour. It was by no means gone, but the absence of his heartbeat reverberating through the gaping wound was a small relief. Finally able to collect his thoughts, he limped back down the dark dirty hall to the single bedroom. As he reached for the light switch he hesitated, if only long enough to visualize what he knew he was about to see. 
 
.. 
 
 The first time it happened was at 4:47 the morning after his 22nd birthday. Even though he knew he would be hungover he had set his old fashioned bell-style alarm clock. When the hammers began to rocket back and forth between the metal circles Blake screamed. He threw back the sweat soaked sheet to see what had apparently exploded on the back of his calf. The creature dropped the chunk of flesh out of its mouth, bounded to the floor, and ran off into the darkness of the small but disheveled room. 
 
 Over the years the little-thing became less timid, but never to the point of friendliness or direct contact. It would watch Blake from the shadow of a doorway, or above the stove, gawking with its dead-gray eyes. Sometimes it would leave what appeared to be small gifts, mothballs, bottlecaps, buttons, in the corner of the kitchen. Even in his outrage Blake had tried leaving food out on several occasions, but the little-thing never ate it. As far as Blake could tell, it only consumed human leg meat once a year. His leg meat. 
 
 After what most sane people would consider an exorbitant amount of time, Blake decided he had had enough of having his leg gnawed upon in the middle of the night. He set a quiet vibrating alarm that he kept in the pocket of his basketball shorts while he slept. 4:40 am, June 20th, the day after his 38th birthday. He awoke, removed a knife that he had stowed in the drawer of his rotting bedside table, and waited, eyes closed, breathing steady. 
 
 He thought for sure it was luck. He half expected to find the knife 5 inches deep in his own leg, but instead he had skewered the tiny beast. He carried the small body outside and stomped on its head to be sure. He tossed it into his compost heap, and, for good measure, used his boot to close up several small holes which he assumed were tunnels that led to where the little-thing had been sleeping. 
 
.. 
 
 As Blake moved the light switch to the on position, he thought he was prepared. 4 years of freedom. 4 years of not dreading his birthday. He was not prepared. The light threw itself to his bed, where he saw a little-thing seated on the top of the flaking headboard. The little-thing that he thought was gone. The little-thing that had once again feasted upon his sub-limb. Blake grabbed a greasy leftover glass from the dresser and threw it toward the bed where it shattered into a shower of glitter. The little-thing scurried down the peeling bedpost onto the stained rug, where it sat staring at Blake. A moment later, from underneath the bed, a second identical little-thing emerged.
