His womb crimps suddenly and sharply inward, imploding down into a tiny point around the embryo in his belly; it drives his body forward, his feet dragging forward as his belly strangles itself further into a hard ball against his spine, crumpling in unholy reverse like a paper ball on rewind.
His face meets the door, cracking his nasal cavity.
His mouth flies open to scream, the edges of his lips stretching beyond limit, carving new lines in his face.
The skin of his mouth protests as he draws a heavy breath into already heaving lungs, his chest grating against itself as he seethes.
“No more chocolate for you,” he manages, and his hearts ram his ribs.
This thing... it’s going to kill him.
Then it’s going to wear him, like a puppet.
Like the Midnight Monster.
No, no no no no.
He swallows and rests against the door for a moment, drawing in big gulps of air with a loose jaw to fuel his next physical expenditure.
Soon, it’ll be time to buy new clothes – he can feel the thing growing inside him, dividing, stretching him, the hard tumour of it stretching across the surface of his abdomen like a thick twist of gall on a tree branch.
New clothes are always nice, he reasons, snapping out of it, but he desperately needs the thought of it growing so fast to be a rotten pear on the ground of his hardwood flooring, and not a ripe one, dangling from his psyche’s beanstalk.
“I need to eat, even if you don’t,” he says, softening his tone until it closely resembles the Doctor’s most revolting soothe. He smiles, showing the white of his teeth as he adds, “… Daddy needs some food, sweetheart. Shall we go to the Kitchens then and sample the soup? We must keep up our strength.”