I’ve always been a paranoid person—about bugs, specifically. I used to constantly worry I’d bite into a fly in my sandwich, or find a roach lurking in my toilet. Hell, I used to have panic attacks at the idea of swallowing a spider in my sleep, so I’d stay up until I passed out from exhaustion. After my best friend found me comatose on my bedroom floor, I knew it was time to get professional help.
My psychiatrist diagnosed my phobia easily. The hard part was finding an effective medication. I tried what seemed like hundreds of pills, liquids, and injections. Nothing worked—not without debilitating side effects, at least. I was at the end of my rope…until my psychiatrist suggested an experimental medication.
“It hasn’t been approved for human trials yet,” she admitted, “but results so far have been very promising.”
I was ready to try anything, but figured I should still ask questions. “What does it do?”
“Basically, it overwhelms your fear receptors—makes you so scared that your sympathetic nervous system can’t handle the input and shuts down.”
I shivered. “That sounds intense.”
“Only for a short while.” My psychiatrist steepled her fingers, regarding me carefully. “After the panic, though, comes a complete lack of fear. You won’t be afraid of anything. Even bugs.”
“…Really?”
“Really.”
I accepted.
Swallowing pills before bed had become routine, but that night, it gave me a sliver of hope for the first time in months. I stood still, trying not to think about the possibility of an ant’s nest erupting from beneath my bed frame, and waited for something to happen.
Minutes passed. I felt…nothing. No abject terror, no unnatural bravery. Nothing.
And then, an itching. A strange tickle, starting at my feet and quickly crawling up my legs. My heart soared. It was working!
I looked down.
Thousands of ants blanketed my legs, a carpet of gleaming exoskeletons so thick that I couldn’t see my own skin. They poured from under the bed in waves, climbing and covering my entire body before I could blink, before I could scream. When I did scream, I choked on ants as they rushed down my throat. All I could hear was the chittering and clicking of their mandibles deep inside my ears, all I could see was a writhing darkness prying its way beneath my eyelids.
My fear…I felt like I was dying. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My nerves were on fire as I collapsed, writhing in pure terror. This was my ultimate hell.
Suddenly, a barely-audible snap. A rushing feeling. And…calm. Blissful, unparalleled calm.
I crawled into bed, and the ants crawled with me.
After waking from the most restful sleep I’d had in years, I checked the medication bottle more closely.
“Common side effects include: Excessive sweating, hot flashes, hallucinations…”
Hallucinations. Of course. The ants weren’t real, just a product of the pills to crank up my fear.
Over the next week, my nervous system was repeatedly tested. Opening kitchen cabinets brought waterfalls of maggots cascading to my feet. Taking a shower wasn’t complete without at least ten roaches sneaking into my hair. And every night, I fell asleep beneath a monstrous horde of ants absorbing my bed. Without my phobia plaguing me, the sheer amount of insects almost made me laugh.
When my best friend heard how wonderfully my treatment was going, she insisted we should celebrate. “A night out, just the two of us! I’ll come pick you up? Pleeeaaase?”
Despite not being much of a partier, I decided to indulge her. Honestly, I felt like celebrating too.
I had just finished plucking the last of the centipedes from my dress when I heard a knock at the door. Time to go! Grinning at myself in the mirror, I turned, crunching spiders beneath my heels as I strutted out of my bathroom. The ridiculousness of the situation wasn’t lost on me. I knew that the old me would have been paralyzed with fear at her entire apartment being covered in bugs. But now, with those miracle pills—and the reassurance that the whole experience was a hallucination—all I could feel was relief.
With a smile on my face, I opened the door.
…Screaming.
So much screaming.
My friend’s hands on me, pulling me out of my apartment. Slamming the door. Rushing me to the elevator, to her car, peeling out of the parking lot.
The screaming wouldn’t stop.
I wanted to tell her that everything was fine. There weren’t really any bugs. It was all a product of my mind.
I wanted to tell her. But I realized my mouth was already open. And we were both screaming.
We hurtled down the highway. I didn’t know, didn’t care where we were going. Away. Away, away, away.
…My phone rang. My psychiatrist. Numb, I picked up.
“I’m sorry, but we need you to return to your apartment immediately. The testing period hasn’t concluded, and we can’t risk variables in the experiment.”
Experiment.
“It hasn’t been approved for human trials yet, but results so far have been very promising.”
I hung up.
My friend and I clutched each other in her bed that night, shaking, wide awake. We didn’t speak. Eventually, she drifted off. But I…I couldn’t. The room wasn’t dark enough. Hot enough. Moving enough.
I don’t know how I got back to my apartment. I just remember the calm. The skittering of legs. The squeaking, hissing, clicking.
I waded through it all.
And when I fell asleep that night, I was not afraid.