sputum

Photo by Dario Brönnimann on Unsplash

Hiram Johnson, 67, of Kay Moor, West Virginia, heaves back and forth, seized by a coughing fit so intense it flings his massive six-foot-seven frame this way and that like a dog wringing out a chew toy. His ordinarily pallid complexion deepens to a rich, fiery vermillion as each wracking expulsion takes its toll on his weathered body. Great, throbbing veins break out visibly on his neck and forehead, so swollen that they cast shadows as if they are etched into his skin in bas-relief.

Hiram hacks away like that for minutes which seem to bleed into an eternity, although he is used by now to enduring such agonising tortures.

At last, with one final thunderous explosion erupting from the depths of his lungs, something warm, wet, and soft dislodges itself inside him. Hiram’s mouth immediately floods with a briny, salty flavour attended by a sour undercurrent like the taste of spoiled clams. With a harrumphing wretch, Hiram gags and spits out a glossy mouthful into a 4 oz. glass jar he procures from a box next to his chair containing dozens more just like it.

Hiram wipes a bit of excess bile from his lips, shaking what he can into the jar and wiping the rest on his stained overalls, before quickly screwing on the lid to form an airtight seal.

After a few minutes of controlled breathing, somewhat recovered from the ordeal, he peers into the jar to examine its contents. This latest specimen is quite impressive, about the size of a very large strawberry; by far his largest to date. He would weigh the specimen later just to be sure, but experience suggests to Hiram that his latest gob must weigh at least a full ounce, although he suspects it’s actually pushing closer to 1.5oz.

Hiram stumbles over to the light switch, flicks it on, and again studies the jar’s occupant, this time with the benefit of the light. He holds up the jar and turns it around as if he’s admiring the way the light catches the facets of a precious gem. The bulbous fleshy lump’s moist exterior glistens in the light and reveals itself to be mostly red in colour with just a few streaks of darkish brown. Hiram has always been curious to note the progression from one colour to the next, and this latest specimen is by far the reddest he has yet produced. When he is satisfied, Hiram places the jar on a shelf next to countless others of identical make and manufacture, each containing a similar specimen produced in the same fashion. On the far end of the shelf, opposite the collection’s newest additions, sit his oldest specimens. They are grey and whiteish in colour and much smaller than the monstrosity he has just heaved up. From left to right, the contents of each jar grow larger and run the gamut from almost clear, to greyish white, to dark yellow, to green, and finally, to ever-darkening shades of brown and red.

Sluggishly, as if responding to the barely heard echo of a distant call, each of the specimens begins—from the stringiest, iridescent gobs on the farthest end, to the darker brown reddish splotches nearer at hand—to lurch and wobble before Hiram’s eyes. They act almost as if they are trying to reach out to one another. Almost as if they are trying to make contact.

Hiram watches the contents of the jars jiggle and dance for hours until, by turns, each one settles back into motionlessness, once again seeming to be nothing more than a disgusting collection of mucousy slime.

Eventually, the toll on his worn out mind and drained body comes due, and Hiram feels himself slipping into unconsciousness. But even as he does so, another dimly aware part of him feels a kind of wriggling deep in his chest; a tickle of sorts in his upper abdomen; an itch with the potential to grow into something horrible. And as Hiram Johnson, 67, of Kay Moor, West Virgina, falls irretrievably into sleep, that same dimly aware part of him hears a sound. A sound uncannily like that of breaking glass.