The Spider
by Andreas Flögel
For Derek it was
clear that his life went completely off the rails because his coworkers from
the scrapyard, Arthur, DJ, and Enrico, had not the slightest amount of
compassion and no sense of when a prank went too far.
Derek's three
coworkers were resolute fellows with sun-weathered skin and calloused hands, at
home in the dusty expanse of the scrapyard. They were the undisputed kings of
scrap, their lives playing out amidst the crunch of metal and the roar of the
press.
Derek seemed like a
foreign object in this world. He needed the part-time job at the scrapyard to
help pay for his studies, a circumstance that did not win him the respect of
his colleagues. They saw him as a weakling, an intellectual who had strayed
into their world. His reserved nature made him the target of their jests. They
taunted him with mocking remarks about his "soft hands" and his
"sensitive soul," while he tried to gloss over their digs with a
strained smile. Deep inside, however, the mockery gnawed at him.
So, Derek was quite
surprised when they asked him one Friday to join them for a beer after work to
celebrate Enrico's moderate win in a lottery. Reluctantly he agreed.
Unsurprisingly,
the evening consisted of a
series of well-worn stories Derek had often heard in the break room, punctuated
by drinks and mutual backslapping. Even though the others tried to include him
in their display of camaraderie, it always felt a little forced and artificial.
As if to compensate, they kept pushing tequila after tequila on Derek who was
already feeling the booze taking hold.
Arthur told that old
story again, the one they'd all heard a hundred times, or so it seemed. About a
blonde chick who'd forgotten something in a wrecked car destined for the scrap
press. She was wearing a very short mini-skirt, and when she leaned forward to
search the car, Arthur claimed he could see she was completely naked underneath.
Derek was just
considering how to make his exit when a loud crash rang out, making him flinch.
DJ had slammed his empty glass upside down on the table.
"Hey, what's
wrong? Can't you take hearing the story anymore?" Enrico laughed, glancing
sideways at Arthur.
"Caught a
spider. The beast was crawling across the table as calm as you please." DJ
pointed to his glass, Arthur and Enrico leaned forward with interest.
Derek took a step
back from the table.
"Is it
dead?" He noticed his voice wavering.
Arthur, DJ, and
Enrico huddled together, the overturned glass and its contents at the centre of
their interest.
"Nah, it's still
moving and trying to escape." Arthur waved him over. "Come, have a
closer look. That's a big one with hair all over."
Wanting to hide his
fear, Derek tried to look. His eyes locked onto the glass, and a cold wave
washed over him. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat
against the sudden silence in his ears. His breath hitched. His vision blurred,
the spider's form magnified in his terror. He felt a cold sweat break out on
his palms, and his knees threatened to buckle. A tremor ran through his body,
his muscles clenching and unclenching involuntarily.
"Oh man, look at
him," DJ chuckled, a cruel edge to his voice. "He's about to
faint."
"Cut it
out," Enrico said, though a smirk played on his lips. "He might
actually pee himself."
Derek's stomach
churned. His knuckles went white as he clenched his hand into a fist. His eyes,
wide and terrified, were fixed on the trapped creature, his mind painting
vivid, horrifying scenarios. His skin crawled, imagining the spider's hairy
legs brushing against him.
"Please,"
he begged, his voice barely audible. "Just... get it away from me."
Arthur, enjoying the
spectacle, moved closer, the glass inches from Derek's face. "Take a good
look, Derek. It's not going to bite."
Derek squeezed his
eyes shut, a whimper escaping his lips. He shook his head violently, his body
trembling uncontrollably. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest tight with
panic. He felt a wave of dizziness, and he fought to stay conscious.
The laughter of his
colleagues echoed in his ears, a cruel symphony to his terror. When they
finally removed the spider, Derek shrank into himself, his body limp and
trembling. He felt drained, his heart still pounding, his skin still prickling
with phantom sensations. The image of the spider, magnified by his fear, was
burned into his mind, a terrifying reminder of his deepest phobia.
Before Derek could
fully regain his senses, Enrico was beside him, guiding him back to the table.
"Oh, come on,
we're just kidding. The spider's gone, it can't hurt you anymore. Be a good
sport and have another drink with us."
Arthur smiled
encouragingly, and DJ held out a glass of tequila, filled to the brim, to
Derek. To avoid further embarrassment, Derek downed it in one gulp. It was to
be the first of many.
***
Derek groaned, a
sound that seemed to vibrate through his entire body. His mouth tasted like a
dry, cottony wasteland. He swallowed, or tried to, but his throat felt like
sandpaper. A dull, insistent ache pounded behind his eyes, each pulse a tiny
hammer against his skull. He tried to move, but his body felt like a leaden
weight, every muscle screaming in protest.
He cautiously lifted
his head. The room spun, the furniture blurring into a chaotic swirl of
colours. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the world to stop its dance.
His stomach lurched,
and he clamped a hand over his mouth. He rolled onto his side, the movement
sending a fresh wave of pain through his head. He could feel the bile rising.
Derek slowly sat up,
his head swimming, and his body protesting with every movement. He was in his flat
but could not remember how he got home after the evening with his coworkers. All
he had were hazy memories of tequila shots, raucous laughter, and his
colleagues' grinning faces, each one accompanied by a fresh wave of
self-loathing. He felt like he'd been hit by a lorry. He swore never to touch
any alcohol for the rest of his life.
Derek glanced around
the room, his eyes struggling to focus, then he saw it. A dark, hairy shape on
his forearm. His breath hitched in his throat. Horrified, he frantically shook
his arm, but the thing remained at exactly the same spot, on the inside of his
arm near his armpit. He blinked, trying to clear the fog of the tequila. The
shape got more distinct and terrifying.
It was a spider. Not
just any spider, but a large, hairy one. Derek's heart lurched, a frantic
drumbeat against his ribs. His stomach churned, nausea adding to the already
overwhelming misery of his hangover.
His phobia, amplified
by the lingering effects of the alcohol, seized him with a primal terror. He
wanted to scream, to fling the creature away, but his body was frozen,
paralysed by fear. His eyes widened, fixed on the spider, his mind conjuring up
grotesque images of its fangs sinking into his flesh.
Derek felt the spider
moving, its hairy legs brushing against his skin, and he imagined it crawling
all over his body, into his hair, into his very being.
Derek grabbed a
corner of his blanket and tried to flick the beast away with it. The action
took all his courage. But the fabric slid over his arm without resistance, the
spider remaining in place.
As much as he loathed
it, Derek had to take a closer look. Just the thought made him break out in a
cold sweat. But finally, he managed to fix his gaze on the creature.
Those assholes! They
had tattooed an absolutely lifelike image of a spider onto his arm.
***
The first thing Derek
did, his hands trembling slightly, was to yank a long-sleeved shirt from the
closet. He pulled it on and meticulously adjusted the cuffs until the tattooed
spider was completely hidden from view. He couldn't bear to look at it, the
realistic image a cruel mockery of his deepest fear. It wasn't just the picture
itself, but the feeling of it being on him, a permanent, inked reminder
of his vulnerability.
He remembered a
childhood incident that had cemented his arachnophobia. He'd been around eight,
maybe nine, and someone had given him a beautifully illustrated book about
animals. It was full of exotic creatures, and Derek had eagerly devoured its
pages. He'd been fascinated by the colours and the detailed graphics.
Then, he'd turned a
page, and a photograph of a tarantula stared back at him, its hairy legs and
menacing fangs rendered in terrifying detail. He'd frozen, his breath catching
in his throat, a wave of cold dread washing over him. The image had burned
itself into his mind, a grotesque and unforgettable vision.
He'd slammed the book
shut, his heart pounding, and shoved it to the very back of his cupboard,
behind piles of forgotten toys and outgrown clothes. He'd never opened it
again, the fear too visceral, too overwhelming. The tarantula had become a
symbol of his deepest anxieties, a creature that haunted his nightmares and
made his skin crawl.
Now, years later, the
tattoo on his arm felt like a cruel echo of that childhood terror. He knew it
was just a picture, a prank, but his body didn't seem to care. He shuddered,
pulling the sleeves of his shirt down further, as if trying to bury the fear
itself.
Derek, hands shaking
slightly, fumbled with his phone, his head still throbbing like a bass drum. He
found Arthur's contact and pressed the call button, holding the device to his ear
with a trembling hand.
"Arthur?"
he croaked, his voice rough. "It's Derek. About… about the spider."
A groan echoed from
the other end of the line. "Derek? Man, you're killing me. What time is
it?"
"It's… it's the
spider," Derek repeated, his voice rising in panic. "It's… it's on my
arm. The tattoo."
"Tattoo?"
Arthur mumbled, a hint of dawning comprehension in his voice. "Oh, right.
Enrico’s Halloween leftovers."
"What? What do
you mean?" Derek’s heart hammered against his ribs.
"It's not a real
tattoo, man," Arthur said, his voice thick with sleep and the lingering
effects of tequila. "It's one of those… temporary things. Enrico still had
a bunch from Halloween. You know, the kind that reacts with your skin."
"Reacts?"
Derek’s voice was barely a whisper.
"Yeah, yeah. It
gets darker for the first 24 hours, something about the ink reacting to your
skin, but then it starts to fade as your skin sheds. Gone in like, two weeks,
tops." Arthur yawned loudly. "You were all for it last night, by the
way. Said it would help with your fears, some kind of… aversion therapy."
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "You were so hammered, man."
Derek’s stomach
lurched. He vaguely remembered something about agreeing to… something. But the
details were lost in the tequila haze. "So… it's not permanent?"
"No, man, relax.
Just… just let it fade. Look, I’m dying here," Arthur groaned. "Get
your shit together and don't bother me with this right now. My head feels like it’s
exploding. See you on Monday."
Before Derek could
respond, Arthur hung up, leaving him staring at the phone, a mix of relief and
lingering anxiety swirling in his mind. Two weeks. Two weeks of a spider on his
arm. He shuddered, pulling his sleeve down further, and then went to get an aspirin.
***
Derek's weekend was a
slow descent into a personal hell. The fake tattoo, far from being a harmless
prank, became a relentless tormentor, a constant reminder of his fears. Every
glance, every accidental brush of his arm against something, sent shivers of
revulsion down his spine. The spider, now a darker, more menacing shade, seemed
to mock him, its lifelike detail a constant source of anxiety.
He spent hours in the
bathroom, scrubbing his arm with soap and a rough washcloth, the skin turning
red and raw. He tried everything: nail polish remover, rubbing alcohol, even a
dab of his strongest cleaning solution, but the image remained, stubbornly
clinging to his skin which now was red from the abuse. The more he scrubbed,
the more agitated he became, his phobia feeding on his frustration.
He tried to distract
himself, immersing himself in movies and video games, but the spider was always
there, lurking at the edge of his mind, a constant, nagging presence. He
couldn't focus, couldn't relax. He felt trapped, imprisoned by a drawing
rendered on his skin.
By Saturday evening,
desperation had taken hold. He stared at his reflection, his eyes bloodshot,
his face pale and drawn. The spider, now a dark, almost black, blotch on his
forearm, seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. Derek couldn't take it
anymore.
A wave of irrational
anger washed over him. He needed to get rid of it, to erase it, to obliterate
it from his existence. He rummaged through his toolbox, his hands shaking,
until he found what he was looking for: a small, metal brush, its bristles
stiff and unforgiving.
He hesitated for a
moment, his heart pounding, then, with a surge of reckless abandon, he pressed
the brush against his skin. The metal scraped against his flesh, the pain sharp
and immediate, but he didn't stop. He scrubbed, harder and harder. The metal
bristles dug into his skin, a searing pain that mingled with the burning
sensation from his earlier scrubbing. Derek gritted his teeth, pressing even
harder. Tiny droplets of blood welled up and dripped onto the white porcelain
of the sink, staining it with crimson.
He scrubbed
furiously, the repetitive motion a desperate attempt to erase the image that
haunted him. The pain was intense, a sharp, stinging sensation that radiated up
his arm, but he ignored it, his focus solely on the dark, persistent spider.
Finally, the image
began to break apart. The once-clear lines blurred, the dark form fragmented,
until only a smudged, indistinct shadow remained. He stopped, his breath coming
in ragged gasps. Derek felt exhausted, the wound throbbing with pain. The
spider was gone, no longer recognisable. His arm was a mess, a patchwork of
raw, red skin, oozing scratches and dried blood, but the tormenting image was
destroyed.
Relief washed over
him, so intense that it almost brought him to his knees. He felt lighter,
freer, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He cleaned the
blood from his arm and the sink, his movements slow and deliberate, savouring
the feeling of normalcy returning.
Derek stumbled into
his bedroom, his body aching, his mind exhausted. Wrapping a blanket around his
arm, he suddenly felt the sensation of little legs wandering over the tortured
skin. A quick touch to his arm, and the pain reminded him that the fake tattoo
was now gone. Once again relieved, he climbed into bed to sleep off his
hangover.
***
It was Tuesday, and
Derek, looking pale and drawn, finally ventured back to the scrapyard. He’d
skipped Monday. His arrival wasn’t met with cheerful greetings. Arthur, Enrico,
and DJ eyed him with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity when Derek entered
the break room. "About time," Arthur grumbled, his arms crossed.
"We were starting to think you'd abandoned us."
"Yeah, where've
you been, man?" DJ added, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Derek, his voice
hoarse, offered a sheepish smile. "Sorry, guys. I wasn't feeling well. But
to make up for it, I brought donuts," he said, holding up a box of
pastries.
The offer of sugary
treats softened their expressions. They descended on the box, their initial
irritation momentarily forgotten. "Alright, alright," Enrico said,
grabbing a glazed donut. "As long as you're not contagious."
Derek, still feeling
shaky, sat down heavily. "I'm fine now. Just… a rough weekend."
Arthur, mid-bite,
raised an eyebrow. "Still hungover from Friday? Man, you're a
lightweight."
Derek looked at his
coworkers shovelling donuts into their mouths, followed by sips of coffee. He
swallowed, his stomach churning. "No, it's… it's my arm." He
hesitated, then, with a deep breath, he rolled up his sleeve.
A collective gasp
filled the air. The once-tattooed area was now a grotesque mess. The skin was
swollen and inflamed, covered in patches of angry red and oozing with thick,
yellowish pus. It looked like a battlefield, a testament to Derek’s desperate
attempt to erase the picture of the spider.
Arthur recoiled, his
donut, his fourth one, falling back into the box. "Holy shit, Derek! What
the hell happened?"
Enrico winced, his
face contorting in disgust. "That's… that's nasty."
Derek, his voice
barely a whisper, explained what he had done. "I… I tried to get rid of
the tattoo. With a metal brush."
A moment of stunned
silence followed, then Arthur burst out laughing. "A metal brush? You're
kidding me, right?"
"No," Derek
said, his face flushing. "I panicked."
The laughter died
down, replaced by a mixture of concern and disbelief. "You really messed
yourself up," Arthur said, shaking his head. "You need to get that
looked at, man. That's a serious infection."
Derek scanned his
colleagues, his eyes searching for a reaction. The silence grew heavy, and then
he spoke, "Don't you see them?" His voice sounded strained, his eyes
darting around the room. "The spiders? They're everywhere."
Arthur, Enrico, and
DJ exchanged uneasy glances. "See what? Derek, we just see your arm. It's…
it's really bad," Arthur said, his voice laced with concern.
"Exactly!"
Derek exclaimed, his voice rising. "You pretend not to see them because
you're in on it! You infested me with them! They're crawling all over me,
inside me!" He gestured wildly, his movements jerky and erratic.
His colleagues stared
at him, their expressions a mix of confusion and alarm. "Derek, you're not
making any sense," Enrico said, his voice low and cautious but also a bit
slurring. "There are no spiders."
"You're all
lying!" Derek shouted, his eyes wide and frantic. "You did this to
me!"
A sudden wave of
dizziness washed over Arthur, and he swayed slightly. "Man, I… I don't
feel so good," he mumbled, his voice slurring.
Enrico and DJ echoed
his sentiments, their faces pale and their movements sluggish. "Me
neither," Enrico groaned, his eyes drooping. "What's happening?"
Derek smirked, a
chillingly calm expression replacing his earlier frenzy. "The
donuts," he said, his voice low and menacing. "I added something.
KO-drops. You're all going to pass out. And then… then I'll get rid of the
spiders."
His colleagues, their
bodies heavy and their minds clouded, could only watch in dazed horror as Derek
continued. Only DJ attempted to grab Derek, but his movements were too
sluggish, and when Derek took a step back, DJ crumbled. His coworkers followed
him in doing so.
"My life is
over. There's only one way to kill the spiders," Derek said, his voice a
chilling monotone. "Fire. I'm going to burn them away. All of them."
He looked at his coworkers, his eyes filled with a terrifying intensity.
"And you… you're going to pay for what you did to me."
He turned and strode
towards the storage area, his movements purposeful. His colleagues, their
bodies paralysed by the drug, could only watch, their eyes wide with fear, as
he disappeared among the racks.
A moment later, the
metallic clank of a petrol can echoed through the room.
END
