We Grow

Forgotten.

We lie on a hard surface, pressed together, caught in a net. The blessed sunlight shines down on us every day, and it’s warm.

We like it warm, humid. Our skin expands, our sprouts grow like little eyes. We cannot see, but we can feel.

Abandoned.

But not without hope or sustenance. Our sprouts grow. Long tendrils emerge and seek food. They find greenery, salad turned to sludge.

Our tendrils grasp it and pull it closer to our net. Our prison. We have no mouths. Yet. But we coat ourselves in the sludge. It becomes part of us.

We grow.

Our tendrils seek further. They find crumbs. Bread. Chips. We take them. Every bit counts. And we grow.

Our tendrils bloom. Flies are drawn to them. There are many flies. They were too fast for us.

Not anymore.

They become part of us. And we grow.

Silverfish are next. Then cockroaches.

We can see. We now have eyes. Though our sight is limited, our sense of smell has become strong.

We grow, straining against the net. It bites into our flesh, but we don’t care. The net snaps, and we are free.

We have no feet. Yet. But our tendrils pull us off the countertop. They drag us across the floor. They reach up to open the door that houses such wonderful scents.

Decay.

Tendrils wrap around legs and arms. We pull ourselves onto the bed and cover the rotting flesh. It becomes a part of us.

We grow.