Wearing Your Heart On Your Back

20260517

Written for Bradley Ramsey’s “Halls Of Pandemonium”, Day 17.

Cathy wasn’t surprised that her brother Carl ignored her calls for weeks. But she was surprised, and immediately concerned, when he then called her.
“Hey, Cat.” His voice was quiet. Worn. Vulnerable.
She expected him to announce he’d had a, a near death experience or something equally transformative. Whatever ripped away his hardened layers of armour had to be serious.
“I…” A soft huff. Breath tripping over words which weren’t quite ready to leave the throat. “Don’t laugh.”
His tone managed to occupy a surreal space between a snarled order and a whimpered plea.
“Mmhm?” Cathy did her best to sound encouraging and serious and not at all flabbergasted.
“I need help.”
That had been increasingly true for the better part of two decades, but Cathy shrewdly judged now was not the time to say so. Instead she offered another “Mm?”
“I… Um. Actually, could you come over? It’ll be… easier to show you.”
He added under his breath, possibly not intending her to hear, “And I don’t want you thinking I’ve gone mad.”
While Cathy knew the proper response would be immediately rushing to her brother’s side, she had a hairdresser’s appointment booked and… but she promised to head to his right after, and pick up lunch on the way there to boot.
Carl didn’t argue. Didn’t even complain. Just mumbled “Righto.”
She had to actually ask what he wanted, and not only didn’t receive a minutely detailed set of instructions, he actually said “Oh, just… whatever looks good.”
What on earth was going on here?
Cathy arrived at her brother’s flat with freshly trimmed curls, a jute shopping bag full of food, and her mind awhirl with confusion. Bracing for Carl to announce he’d been given six months to live, or been abducted by aliens, or sucked into a cult.
“Hey.”
The brusque greeting, without smiling or meeting her eyes, was normal. Carl’s slumped posture and the dark bags under his eyes were also normal, though Cathy felt sure both were notably pronounced. He was definitely a bit pale. And given how he was wearing a hoodie, hood up no less, indoors in warm weather, he must be feeling a serious chill.
“Hello!” She held up the bag. A peace offering to cover her tardiness, a fault that always set him off. “I got mixed udon at the good noodle place, and cupcakes at the bakery.”
“Oh. Nice.” Carl smiled, but… it looked deliberate. A mindful display of gratitude. Effort he only bothered with for birthday presents and the like.
At her limit, Cathy demanded “What’s wrong?”
Carl winced. Waved her in. Headed for the kitchen in a wooden, uncertain fashion, his body following familiar motions while he tried to figure out what to say. Or just get up the nerve to actually voice it.
Kettle on. Bowls out of the cupboard. Cathy joined in, unpacking her bag onto the little kitchen island which served as both food preparation and dining space.
Cutlery. Pull the little stools over, so they were sat facing each other.
Now out of comfortable busywork, they sat in silence for a moment, watching steam waft off their food.
Finally Carl picked up his fork - and said “You promise you won’t laugh?”
“Yes, I promise.” Cathy said patiently. “You’re clearly not messing about, so…”
“Mm.” Carl shook his head and started poking noodles around his plate. “It was, must’ve been two months ago? I was at the pub, and… you’d been having a go at me again. Saying I should get counselling. And I was… venting. And Dominic told me about this med he’d been trying, meant to help you open up and stuff. So I take the link he gives me and sign up for the trial. ”
Oh, for - why would he take any advice from that fool?? While ignoring hers, no less!
Cathy bit her tongue and kept her face neutral. Well, she tried, but Carl scowled and grumbled “Go on. ‘Men! They’ll do anything except therapy!’. Humph.”
“Mm.” Cathy twirled her fork in her noodles, counted backwards from seven, then as mildly as she could said “Do you still have the links from Simon?”
“Who?”
“The guy I work with, who’s done a bunch of therapy, and recommended stuff for you to try?”
Of course he shook his head. But… he looked like he was honestly trying to remember. Not just shrugging it off.
“Fine.” Cathy scrutinised him. “What’s happened, then?”
“Well…” Carl grimaced. Clearly bracing. Then unzipped his hoodie and pulled it off… followed by his shirt… and before Cathy figured out questions he’d turned around.
She gasped. Her fork clattered on the table.
At first glance they looked like tattoos. Dark spindly pictures scrawled across his skin, painting his entire back and most of his arms in twisted scenes and angry words. But nobody would get such personal, painful visual confessions etched into them.
“A-apparently I got off lucky.” Carl muttered. “When I called up Dom, he said he’d sprouted spikes.”
“What on…?” She knew most of the stories shown here. The ones she didn’t recognise ate at her. “What are they? Do they hurt?”
“Oh. Yeah, but… that’s not the problem.”
Ugh. Typical Carl. Then again, how many of these scenes recorded him having “manliness” beaten into him?
“Thought it was a rash at first. Started in my lower back. Managed to take a picture, to send to the study people, you know, and…” He shuddered. “It keeps spreading. I’ve tried, I thought maybe if I used the stuff you kept sending me that’d… and some of it helped? I think? But, but it’s still getting bigger, and feels deeper somehow, and…”
He trailed off. Swallowed hard. Whispered “Last night, I started hearing voices from them.”
“I…”
It did feel like the eyes on the figures were watching. Judging.
Cathy bit her lip. Floundered for what to say.
“E-eat up before it goes cold. And I’ll… I’ll call… I’m sure someone will be able to help.”

Prompt was “Write about a character who discovers that their past trauma is now manifesting physically on their body in horrifying ways…”