"It’s not a tumour.”
The doctors and nurses and the entire troupe of the surgery ward laid affixed sight toward the unhinged skull. Matter exposed, cerebral identities and memories twisted in cords like Escher-esque  hallways, travelling down to roots still unexplored. Certainly, Dr. Schwarz’s professionalism and knowledge was uncontested – his work with the CIA in his darker, earlier years had laid the foundations for a twisted understanding of the human complex and of its strange anatomical components. He was right – it was not a tumour, but something deadlier, infectious and alive.
It was the pretty blonde nurse with the voluptuous silhouette that fell victim to the thing, the animated goo that sprung from the corpse and unto her face, smothering her good looks with its vile unform.