Student ID: 1914672

The Lights are On

Scott looked up from his book as his mum bustled through the door. She’d turned sideways to

squeeze through, and her sizeable frame almost clattered the small glass of orange juice onto the

carpet. She sighed a stiff blow of exhaustion as she unstuck from the door frame and righted herself.

“I swear that door keeps getting smaller,” she panted. Since the start of the lockdown she’d

taken up an interest in baking, but he had yet to see the cakes she had made other than the small

crumbs scattered around the home. Apart from this, she’d also taken up a serious shopping

addiction - constant deliveries ambushed the house at all times of the day: clothes, gadgets and most

importantly, food. “Here, I’ve got your breakfast for you pet, it’s a bacon sandwich. I’m planning on

making a new cake today, walnut and ginger. It’s meant to be very healthy, should flush out this

infection you’ve got. Unless you’re allergic of course…”

Scott looked back down at his book and mumbled a “thanks”. Despite her clearly exhausted

body, her mouth still seemed to be working just fine.

“…on the news they said that the symptoms are … ooh what was it that man said … sorry

that Ros Atkins has such beautiful eyes I couldn’t concentrate —”

“Hallucinations,” he muttered.

“Ah yes, hallucinations. I remember back in 1985 I took this pill in Magaluf, I can’t

remember what Jackie said it was. She was wild back then, drunk all the time. She said she saw

dragons all night and then dumped her kebab on a bouncer’s head! Of course, she’s settled down a

bit since then —”

“Thanks for the food, Mum.” He looked up from his book and gave her a smile. She looked

back with tears in her eyes, and rubbed them with the back of her hands. She looked down at the

plastic tray and placed it on the floor. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah sorry petal. It’s just emotional you know. Seeing you all alone in here, whilst all
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the others go out and live their lives. It’s so unfair, you know? You’re twenty-one, you should be out

in a club, chatting up girls, finding yourself. I remember when I was your age —”

“It’s okay Mum it’s only seven days. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, darling. Just remember to take your vitamins, yeah?” He nodded, and she slowly

backed out the room. She had more ease getting out than in, yet it still took three grunts before she

broke free. He turned back to his book in the hope of forgetting the result of this morning’s events.

He knew about schizodronia, but the realisation of the next seven days of his life became apparent.

Maybe I’ll be asymptomatic, he thought. That had been known.

Anxiety wrecked the rest of his day, forcing him to watch TV all day in the comfort of his

bed in the hope that it would calm him down, yet the stress hung over him like a maelstrom of

angst.

He didn’t sleep that night. He heard Mum head upstairs to bed, and fought the urge to go

downstairs and be himself again. Through the night a fever developed, however the news said that

wasn’t a symptom and he pinned it down to stress. It had happened before, one time especially a

couple years ago during the Coronavirus pandemic. He’d convinced himself he had it, told everyone

he needed to isolate. He even boarded himself up in his room and didn’t touch anything with his

hands for two days before his test came back negative. Anxiety had always been a part of his life

and this time was no different.

At some point in the early morning, he had floated into unconsciousness. It was dark in the

room now, thin slits of bright light creeping out from behind the curtains. He pulled them open and

outside, dog-walkers and families trundled past in the sunshine. He stepped back and caught himself

by accident in the mirror.

His face looked like ashen death. His eyes, once vibrant and powerful, barely hung open,

two large dark bags hanging off them like clothes on a washing line. He fingered the small pot of

hair gel and brushed his hair back against his scalp.
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“Room service, room service! Come and get your grub, boy!” Mum called from outside.

Something seemed strange about her voice — it sounded rough and alien. “What the hell are you

doing in there?”

“I was just washing my face, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean, son? I’ve just brought you your breakfast, why are you getting upset?”

She opened the door and stood holding a tray of steaming food. The accent was gone, and a puzzled

look overcame him. “What’s wrong, pet?”

“I just — I just thought I heard someone else’s voice that’s all.” He looked around. “Never

mind.”

At that moment, her disguise cracked, and a great roaring laughter filled the room. The

cutlery on the tray, jiggling with each heave, produced a cacophony of clinking.

“Wait, wait, wait! It was you??!” he shouted and eventually she calmed down.

“Yeah of course it was me, you silly sausage! Who else would it be?!” She began to laugh

again and caught herself. “I thought it might cheer you up, ya know, with you being all by yourself

and that? Barbara used to do it all the time back in Corfu, I can tell you. Once —”

“— Okay, okay, I get it. Very funny,” he sighed. “Can I have my breakfast please?”

“Breakfast, love? This is your dinner!” She burst out laughing again and placed it on the

floor at her feet. “You need to be careful, darling, get your sleep. Also, that walnut cake yesterday

was GORGEOUS, one of the best I’ve ever made. Couldn’t help myself, had to taste the lot!

Anyway, I’ll leave you be, let me know if you need anything. I’ll be downstairs watching the telly.”

She squeezed back out the door, and Scott looked down at the tray on the floor. There was

something off about it, as if the food itself were alive. It writhed and squirmed in a pulsating brown

sludge that moved as one — expanding and contracting with each of his breaths. The plate itself

began to disappear under the slime, crawling over itself to multiply. Slurping sounds surrounded the

tray as it digested the plate in front of him and grew into a throbbing brown mess. A tendril began to
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reach around his hand and tiny mouths nibbled at his nails, tearing the skin away to leave glistening

red meat behind. A dry, piercing scream escaped him as he dropped it onto the floor. It spilled out,

overtaking and overpowering his floor before it filled the room, just one beating brown lung

breathing with him.

“Scott, what are you doing? Are you okay??”

He was gasping for breath. The mince had scattered over the floor in a circular shape, and to

the right lay two smeared brown footprints. She left and returned with a mop bucket and a dustpan.

“Sorry Mum, I dropped it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It was in my hand one

minute and the next, it was on the floor!”

She sighed, and began to clear up the mess. “It’s okay, darling, these things happen. I think

there might be some more downstairs I can reheat for you but it might take a few minutes.”

“That’s fine, thank you.”

He picked up his glass and headed into the ensuite. What the hell was that about, he thought.

Where had that come from? He glanced down at his hands and saw the skin around his nails. Bits of

dry skin hung off untouched and his fingers remained intact. As he rinsed them under the tap,

something red shone out against his skin on his right arm. He peeled back the sleeve to reveal a

raised spot, a sore. It was hairless and adorned a crisp red outer ring with a pale blotch in the

middle. He took off his jumper and t-shirt to check for others, but it was only the one. He ran his

finger along it, and the bump seemed to scream with pain on touch.

“I’ve left your dinner next to the door!” Mum shouted from the other room. “Don’t drop this

one!”
***

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The rest of that evening passed uneventfully and sleeplessly. Similar to the night before, the

struggle for sleep hit him hard and a long night passed with relative inactivity. He fell asleep to the

sound of birds chirping and awoke later that evening to a knock at the door.

“Darling, please, you’ve got to eat,” Mum called. “I’m coming in!

Her large frame barged through the door and her face appeared with her familiar tray of

food. This time the food seemed to stay stationary, and she placed it on the floor.

“You need to eat boy, or the virus is gonna get ya,” she whispered. She cracked her knuckles

and stared into Scott’s eyes. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of fear and growled:

“it’s gonna get ya, it’s gonna get ya, IT’S GONNA GET

YA… ”

She looked at him lying on the bed, and tilted her head back to screech. The demon at the

door howled in glory, an ear-splintering shrill that shattered the windows on his right and sent the

shards whizzing across the room. They rotated around her head in a vortex of daggers and with one

swift movement, she hurled them towards him. The shards pierced his skin with intricate precision,

peppering his body with delicate needles. A wave of pinpricks fired up his body from his toes

through to his brain. Blistering fire gripped his attention, and he let out a screech of his own. He

buried his head in his hands, as the chant rose and rose with gusto, and with force snapped his eyes

shut. The world turned black, and a singular electronic whine hovered on the air. He waited for

clarity, but no more chanting arose. He lifted his head and saw her standing against the wall

shuddering.

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“Mum?” he whispered. She looked at him, and two red beads burned holes into his brain.

“Mum, what was that?”

She inhaled quickly and headed out the room. A shiver tinkered along his spine as he poured

himself a fresh glass of water.

He settled back down on the bed and reached for the remote. The TV hummed into life, and

Ros Atkins’ face lit up his screen:

“…spreading rapidly around the world. The virus, called ‘schizodronia’ , has tripled in cases in the

past forty-eight hours, causing mass panic and disruption across the country. Despite the surge in

infections, the advice from Downing Street remains the same: stay at home. Known for its

frightening ability to mentally cripple its victims through hallucinatory episodes and insomnia,

‘schizodronia’ threatens to bring the country to a standstill. Prime Minister Jason Davids had this

to say…”

He dashed the remote at the wall. The picture flicked back to black, and a whimper escaped his lips.

“Am I going crazy?” he whispered. The silence in the room was almost tangible, and he

buried his head in his hands. “What the FUCK is happening to me?!!”

Hey, hey, what’s the matter, little man? A small voice filled the room. I can try and help, you

know.

He sat up straight, frozen in motion. “Who are you?”

Can you at least let me out first? It’s so dark in here! The voice seemed to squeak from

within him. C’mon Scott, I want to see you.

He watched as his hand floated towards his right sleeve. His fingers slipped under the cuff

and gradually peeled it back against his skin. The coolness of his own touch let out a dry squeal

from the small voice. Underneath the sleeve, the red sore gasped in panic at the sudden change.
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Oh, hello there, it cried. Its face was tiny but recognisable and remained wrinkled in the

bright light from above. All of its features were perfectly in proportion — two beady little eyes, a

small button nose and a great beaming smile that shone out against its red background.

“Are you real?” he whispered, and the sore’s grin shone back at him. “Does that mean yes?”

Yes I’m real. To you, anyway.

“So you’re not real, then?”

The sore stared back at him with that same, unshifting smirk. Would I be able to do this if I

wasn’t?

At that, it clamped its teeth together in a grimace. A fire burned under his skin where the

sore was, and he scratched at its surface. In a flash, the pain was gone.

OI, DON”T DO THAT! the sore howled. Its face was crumpled up in anger and shone in

redness. That wasn’t very nice, Scott.

“SORRY, sorry!!” he hissed back. “You bit me first!”

Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I forget how painful it can be, I do apologise. How are you

feeling? Not that long left of isolation!

He shot a glance up at the door to his bedroom, but it remained closed. “I think I might be

going mad.”

Oh no, Scott, you’re not going mad. It’s normal to feel a little crazy when you’re cooped up

all alone, but you’re not now! You’ve got me, so we can be best friends TOGETHER! The final

word escaped him like a helium balloon in the wind, squealing and spinning into oblivion. Its tiny

mouth seemed to blow a kiss towards him, and he physically recoiled at the action.

“Okay if you’re sure,” he replied. “I think I need to go to sleep.”

Before meeting my friends?! the sore shouted back.

It flicked his eyes towards the other sleeve. As he peeled it back, a line of three red faces

beamed up at him.
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Hi, Scott!

Hello!!

Nice to meet you, Scott!

***

A searing pain across his left forearm sparked him back awake. He drew his fingernails across it and

a chorus of screams shrieked back at him. He let out a moan and rolled over onto his side. More

screams filled his head with each turn. He rolled back the duvet and across his right arm, five more

spots had joined the one from yesterday.

What the fuck was all that about then, eh? One of the sores spat a droplet of clear fluid that

danced down his face and onto his chest. Forget about us, did ya?

“Sorry, sorry, I’m new to all of this. Did I hurt you?”

The sore scoffed. Hurt us?! You damn near killed us!

“I didn’t realise you were there! Can I do anything to help?”

The sores shot a look at each other. A hushed silence fell over them, aside from a couple of

tiny squeaks of an unheard conversation. After a couple minutes, the conversation fell away, and the

one nearest to him cleared its throat.

Why are you staying in your room, Scott? The sore had readopted that grin, and all across his

arm they mirrored the same expression.

“Because I tested positive,” he replied. “What’s your point?”

It’s a great honour to be chosen like you have, you know. Not everyone gets this chance for

greatness.

“That’s what scares me. How am I the only one I know who has it?”

Because, Scott, you are spec—

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A bang on the door cut the conversation in two, like a reaper’s scythe silencing the gallows

crowd. A breathy “morning” instantly revealed who was there and, soon enough, Mum’s chunky

frame squeezed through the opening.

“Pff, that was easier than a couple days ago. Think I’ve lost a bit of weight, what do ya

think?” she called across the room. “Wait, did you not eat your dinner last night?”

“I wasn’t that hungry.”

“What do you mean you weren’t hungry?! You’ve got to eat, otherwise you’ll get sick!”

A small cough from his arm made him pull the duvet back over him. “Sorry, Mum.”

“It’s okay, dear.” she sighed. “I’ll bring you a slice of cake with your lunch.”

Fat bitch, the sore hissed from beneath the covers. She ought to try eating some fruit every

now and again.

He raked his nails back and forth across his forearm. A cacophony of screeches filled his

brain, a mental abattoir of pain. The screams rose with volume like nails down a blackboard. He

clasped his hands on the side of his head and shouted aloud. His body stretched to full and tensed

every muscle, his own shouting matching the sores ensemble that refused to shift.

His shouting ceased as he gasped for air and he concentrated on the voices rattling in his

head. They weren’t just cries, they were sounds. A thousand wails at once, all unison in voice and

pitch, calling for him:

Fat bitch, Fat Bitch, Fat Bitch, FAT

BITCH, FAT BITCH…

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His hands turned into talons and raked red down his cheeks, blood forming on impact and

drizzling down onto his sheets. The voices kept coming and coming before a firm slap across the

face sent him into spasm.

“SCOTT, WAKE UP!!” Mum screamed, and the chorus fell flat. “Scott, answer me!! Oh my

God, where’s the phone?!”

“Wh--what h-happened?” He took his hands from his face and looked at her. She was stood

at the end of his bed shaking. A thin trail of sweat dampened her underarms, and on the floor lay his

empty trays of food. A mixture of ketchup and egg coated the carpet around the tray and a foot away

lay her phone, upturned and buzzing.

“You just started shouting and grabbing at your face. I thought you were having a panic

attack!”

He looked down at his hands. They were clean, and the sheets remained white. His arms

remained smattered in sores, but the beaming smiles and the screeching was gone. He poked one of

them with his finger, and clear liquid oozed out. It glistened on his finger, and he wiped it on his

duvet.

“I’m going to call Dr Jones, see if he is free to come and take a look at you.”

“No, no, Mum I’m fine, honestly! It was just a headache.”

She picked up the tray and started arranging the food back onto it. “I’m worried about you,

poppet, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Oh, look at the mess I’ve made, I dropped it in all the

panic!”

He realised it was a lost cause and pulled himself out of bed. As he spun to head into the

ensuite, a gasp from behind froze him in place.

“What are all those marks on your back?” she called across the room. “Are those sores?! Oh

my God, does the virus do that? Or maybe you have bed bugs? Quick, go in the toilet so I can check

your sheets, I don’t want to catch it off you!”

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He shuffled into the dingy little bathroom and locked the door. In the mirror, his face looked

pale and drained. His hair hung messy down over his eyes and a red fingerprint remained just

beneath his right eye. On his neck, a large red sore began to grow.

“I think it’s just the virus,” she called from the other room. “I’ll change your sheets over

anyway, just in case!”

“Thanks, Mum!” he shouted back and buried his face in the flannel. Its warmth spread

across his cheeks like a snug blanket on a cool winter’s morning. Peace injected into him with each

reheating of the flannel and after a couple minutes, he placed the flannel back into the sink. He

glanced up at the mirror, now slightly misted, and gasped.

Hello, Scott. Nice to meet you, the neck sore whispered up at him. It was the size of a golf

ball and still shone bright red against his warmed skin. On its face, the familiar beaming smile

watched him as he looked in horror at the monstrosity now on his neck.

“Sheets all changed! I’ll go make you some more breakfast!” she shouted from other room.

“You can come out now.”

She’s a problem, Scott. She’s going to disrupt our plan.

“What plan?” he hissed back. “That’s my Mum!”

All in good time, my boy, you have much to learn. For now, you just have to trust us. She

ruins everything!

He crumpled back on his bed and switched on the TV on his desk. He flicked through the

TV guide to no avail, and settled on a morning breakfast channel.

“…schizodronia are rising across the country. Hospitals are already at breaking point with patients

roaming the corridors in clear hallucinatory states, with nurses struggling to keep them contained

to their wards. The army has been rolled out across the country to provide help in hospitals as well

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as set up temporary care centres for those most seriously affected. We now go across to our health

correspondent Sarah Mackie at the University Hospital in Cardiff for the latest…”

He switched to a different channel, but similar headlines filled the screen. He turned off the

TV again and sunk down under the covers. He reached for his book on the side-table, but a sharp

voice from his neck shocked him still.

Would you like to know the plan then, Scott? Would you like to change the world?

“What do you mean?”

You’re not infected. You’re liberated. You’re the only one who can see clearly in this world,

and we must help those people that are not like us. They must be changed and if they are not

willing, they must be… corrected.

“Wait, what are you saying? How on earth have I been “liberated”?”

Your schizodronia. It enables you and has freed you from the bounds of normal human

knowledge. You have the world at your feet, and it’s only right that you make a change with it. We,

together, can enlighten the world. Staying in this room isn’t going to help achieve that, though, is it?

“But if I leave the room I’ll infect my Mum. She could die…”

They must be infected to see the world for what it is. They won’t die, not if they are

compliant.

He pulled himself up out of his bed and headed through to the bathroom. “So what’s the first

step then?”

Now, we must wait. the sore rasped. But get ready, because tonight we change the world.

***

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Rise and shine, Scott, the soft voice whispered up from his neck.

He rubbed his eyes and pulled himself up from the bed. Outside the window, the crisp

electronic light of the streetlights illuminated the room in an eerie dull grey. He twisted to see the

time on his watch: 3:08am.

Instinctively, he reached across to his neck to scratch, and a small whimper caused him to

snatch his hand away. He pulled on some trousers and narrowly missed standing on the tray on the

floor at the foot of his bed. He bent down to inspect, and a cool whiff of pesto hit his nostrils. On

the tray, beside the cutlery, was a small bowl of ice cream, now just a light-brown mush. He

scooped some up on his spoon and watched tiny flecks of unmelted ice cream shimmer in the

artificial light. He gagged at the texture and placed the tray on the bed.

C’mon Scotty, it’s time! This voice rose up from his tricep, and a roar of cheers erupted from

all over his body. A flood of ecstasy shot through his body like bolts of lightening as hundreds of

shining red smiles grinned up at him. The cheer felt so good, just pure happiness and joy spreading

across his skin in one wave of euphoria. He cheered himself quietly, and the sores echoed back to

him louder than before. He could feel the rush of blood streaming through his body, and with each

second another surge pounded after the first, stronger and more powerful than before.

“I’m ready, sores,” he said. “I am at your command.”

Good boy. We must leave this room. Grab that tray.

He did as asked, as if the sore had picked up his puppet strings and moved him towards the

door. He suddenly felt out of control, a backseat passenger in his own vehicle. He was watching his

hands through a screen pick up the tray and unlatch the door. It felt like a movie, and he was the

lead.

The door made a dull thud as it hit the wall behind. Each footstep across the landing made a

soft creak, yet he was single-minded. At the end stood the door to his Mum’s room.

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Three rattles on the door awoke the beast behind. He could hear her footprints and a soft

yawn floated through the closed door.

“Scott, is that you?” she called. “If so, go back in your room. You know you can’t be out

here!”

“I need your help with something,” he replied. “Don’t worry, I won’t infect you. I’m

wearing a mask!” A small cheer shivered up his arms.

“Okay, okay, just step back, I don’t want to be too close!”

The door crept open and there she stood. She was in a light pink nightie, adorned with small

images of roses plastered all across. Her hair stood up at right angles, and her eyes, half-open, bore

holes in him from across the threshold.

“What do you want, Scott? It’s 3 in the morning!” she hissed. “You said you were wearing a

mask!”

“You need to be liberated, Mum,” he commanded. “You are trapped in this world, and I can

be the one to free you.” He took a step towards her, and a flash of panic lit up her eyes.

“Don’t get any closer, I’m warning you.”

Take another step.

“Mum, I can show you what life is really like. You haven’t experienced anything like what I

am … it’s life.”

Keep moving.

“Get away from me. It’s gone to your head, you’re gonna kill us both!!”

Don’t stop, Scott.

She backed into the door frame. “Scott, what are you doing?! Oh my God…” She saw his

body. “Scott… your skin.”

“Don’t worry, Mum. It’s part of the transformation process.”

“The process?? Oh my God, it’s corrupted your mind.”

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Hit her, Scott.

She must be corrected.

Do it, NOW!!
An overpowering surge of violent screams filled around his head. He looked down at his

arms, and the mouths started champing their teeth in unison. The din filled his senses and he

watched from behind that same screen, helpless. His arms raised the tray up to head height and

swung, the sound of metal on bone sending him briefly back into control, before the sores retook

the wheel. The tray went flying on impact and clattered against the wall, sending cutlery and

crockery clanking to the floor. She screamed in pain and fell into the wall, a trail of blood trickling

from her temple into a red stain that had formed on the carpet.

Her hands were shaking as she picked her head up and glanced at him. “W-why d-did you

do that, Scott?” she whimpered.

Don’t listen to her.

“You didn’t listen to me. You don't have a choice, you must be freed.”

She pulled herself to her feet and went to run into the bedroom but he blocked the door. She

was trapped against the wall, a spider in a glass awaiting her fate. At his feet, a plate lay split in two

next to the cutlery. He picked up the plate shards in his hands. They were cut almost perfectly down

the middle, and the pieces felt weighty in his hand.

He threw one of the shards at her head and she ducked. The shard split again into smaller

fragments and white crumbs of china dusted over her hair in a light drizzle.

Don’t mess this up, Scott. Remember why you’re here.

He knelt down and placed the remaining shard at his feet. “You must be freed, mother,” he

roared with the strength of a thousand voices. “You are trapped in a lie!!”

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He grasped the knife from the floor and lunged towards her. He planted the kitchen knife

into her neck and a sickly howl erupted from her. He retracted, and a spurt of blood coated his chest

in hot, sticky fluid as she crumpled to the carpet. The roar of the sores outshouted his Mum’s last

dying screams, and that familiar wave of ecstasy shimmered across his body in one continuous

stream. He arched his back and let out a cry of his own this time, screaming from his lungs until he

couldn’t any more. He raised the knife to his lips and licked along the shaft, filling his mouth with

the taste of his victory. The blood soothed his dry throat, and he let out another scream, this time

blood gurgling at his lips and spilling over his chin.

She is free now, Scott, the neck sore called. But your work is not yet done.

“No, master,” he replied. “I must liberate.”

He pulled the knife up to his own neck, and slashed across. His own scream filled his brain

and harmonised with the sore cheers once more. He had won. He could feel the overwhelming

power surge through him as he sliced and and sliced at his own body with the knife, before his legs

collapsed in on themselves. He lay on the ground, just a bundle of meat and bones, lifeless. The

sores one by one began to shrink and fade, with its dying words and beaming smiles, they muttered

themselves into oblivion.

Good boy.

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