The Migraine

Excedrin’s just not gonna cut it today.

Percivale looked at his reflection in the spotty, rusted mirror of the train station. He'd just vomited in the sink a moment ago, his hand numbly cranking the cold water spigot to rinse out the basin. Even the sound of the rushing hiss was horrible, assaulting his senses like the lashing out thousands of tiny whips, like the whispered flight of millions of poisoned darts, all aimed for his brain. His migraine had started the day before, something he actually had time to prepare for because it always started with stupidity. It was as if he couldn't think straight, like his thoughts were wading through mud and smoke, and the sheer effort of attaining coherence had left him frustrated and in a foul mood all day. This morning, however, the fogginess had changed to a dull ache on the right side of his head.

 

He knew this one would be bad. The aura that he saw in the peripherals was especially ecstatic, a frisson of color and distortion, and the blind spot in the upper left of his field of vision grew and grew, a black hole that swallowed everything and left only indistinction. There were times when he was blind to everything on the left, and there was one time he'd gone blind in the center and couldn't read or see anything clearly on the edges. That had been scary. This wasn't as terrifying because it was familiar, this throbbing pain. The bad news was that today was the day that Percivale had his interview.

 

For the last hour he'd ridden the commuter rail into Boston, cradling his head and desperately hoping for the Excedrin to work. He kept telling himself that if he could just pull it together and get through this interview, he could collapse and feel horrible the moment he got back on the street. Past bleary eyes he looked down at his smart phone, seeing that he had half an hour to walk from North Station to the Financial District, and he couldn't delay any longer. His skin felt prickly and cold beneath his dress shirt and slacks, but it always did that when his headaches were bad. He'd get through this. He always got through these headaches, and this job was worth the temporary pain.

 

Bracing himself, he pushed back into the main station and grit his teeth, jamming his earbuds in to block out the assault of noise. He put on shades to try and mediate the glare of signs and then sunlight once he got outside, and that helped. The bracing, frigid air actually helped with his pain, the swelling of everything eased for a little while as he walked along at a brisk pace, keeping up with the tide of people. After a while he began to feel slightly better, and by the time he got to the proper high rise building and caught the elevator to the twentieth floor, he was well enough to pretend to be calm, cool, and collected.

 

The interview itself was, as all interviews ever were for him, stressful. His blood pressure lifted as they asked him questions, his pulse pushing back into his head bit by bit. There were times when he missed portions of what was said but he was certain no one had noticed. Within an hour the interview wrapped up, hands had been shaken, a tour of the office had been provided, and he was back down on the street.

 

By now the pain was excruciating. His vision flickered with every heartbeat, and everything assaulted his senses at once. Percivale's eyes grew wet with tears that he wiped away in great embarrassment, and he quickly walked down an alley, and then another one, just to escape the noise. His sense of direction was entirely gone and he had no idea where he was. Trying to look at his phone was pointless because the blind spot was back and he couldn't make sense of anything on the display. At that moment a gust of freezing wind ripped the phone from his tingling fingers and threw it to the ground yards away with a sharp clatter. Percivale ran after it, hands out, unable to spot it amongst the trash by the curb, and soon a patch of ice spilled him onto his side by a dumpster.

 

For a long while Percivale lay where he was, stunned and dazed. It felt good to lay his head on the cold, filthy ground, the hum of buildings all around him a soothing infrasound against his flesh and bones.

 

The police report was filed days later:

 

Thirty-year-old white male found dead in an alley off of Well Street. License IDs as Percivale Andrews. All signs point to death by natural causes, the most likely aneurism, with protrusion of the right eye due to hemorrhage. Autopsy report to follow.

 

A handwritten note in the margin, entered in after the fact, scrawled erratically by a nervous hand, added something else.

 

Subject found face down in alleyway, right eye protruding. Blood trail issued away from socket, and a scrape in the ground was flanked by foot prints. Something crawled its way out of eye socket? Per autopsy, portions of brain were hollowed out, as if eaten away and nested in. Was something actually living in his head? How is that possible?

 

 

 

How is that possible?!