The Laughing Milipede

Sandra couldn’t stop laughing. The millipede that forced its way into her mouth and was now making its way down her throat tickled her with its many bristle-like legs. She wondered why wasn’t the gag reflex kicking in, but somehow all that she could feel was waves upon waves of laughter coming from somewhere deep within, now finding way to the surface. This wasn’t just the reaction to the tickling sensation. The amusement that she felt was greater than everything she ever experienced in her over thirty years of life. It touched on something that was always buried inside of her. A profound change in her perception, as sudden as a click of a button. Her entire existence, all of the universe, was an elaborate joke, and she just had been explained the punchline.

Just a moment ago she was watching TV when the magician came on. He was standing in front of a concrete wall, dressed in a tuxedo and a ridiculously large top hat. His face was painted white, with smudges of rose on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His eyes were fixed on the camera and he was smiling with just his mouth. A broad, insincere grimace that didn’t reveal his teeth. Sandra thought her show went into a commercial break without her noticing, and this was an ad for life insurance, local used cars dealer, or something just as uninteresting to her, so she ran her fingers on the remote. The strange man was on all of the channels. At this point she was already oddly fascinated, so she just kept watching, as the man took off his hat, and gestured towards it with his other hand. He kept silent, but he didn’t have to explain - this was the moment when the magician presents his hat to the audience, to assure them that it is empty before he reaches in to pull out a rabbit, a pigeon, or maybe a bundle of paper flowers.

Somehow the magician filled the entirety of Sandra’s view now. Like the living room dissolved into nothingness, leaving her and the man suspended in a still, dark void. Even if she could, there was nowhere to avert her gaze - the performer was all there was to look at. So she did watch as he indeed put his hand into the hat. What he did retrieve was no rabbit. It was a large, squirming millipede with a dark, shiny body, segmented and flexible. It crawled from the hat onto the magician’s arm, at which point he put his hat back on. Then it traveled up on his shoulder and circled his neck once, before descending down the other arm. He held his hand in front of him pointing at the camera with his finger. No, not at the camera. Deep down, Sandra knew he was pointing at her.

She didn’t want to reach out to him. She did her best to resist the urge, but under the gaze of his stern, unblinking eyes she felt compelled to raise her right hand and touch his finger. It didn’t feel like touching another human being. It was just… glass. The spell was broken. She was kneeling before her TV, touching the warm, but now dark screen with her index finger. She giggled. She felt really stupid. This whole thing was absurd, but whatever was this short hallucination, it seemed to have ended.

But as she retrieved her finger from the screen, there was a spark of static, and the TV came back to life, flashing shapes and colors so fast she couldn’t follow any of it. She felt her eyes stinging, but - again - was unable to look away. Then she felt it. On her hand, up her arm, hundreds of little myriapod legs brushing against her naked skin. Between the images flashing before her eyes, the millipede intruder now crawling up her neck, and her overpowering inability to move, Sandra had one last clear thought: “I should be scared, why am I not scared?”, but all she could feel was her giggle growing into laughter, flushing over her like a tidal wave.

The millipede gnawing at her insides was the funniest thing that had ever happened to Sandra. Out the open window, she could hear other tenants of her building laughing just as hard. That was good. The more, the merrier.