Total Organ Failure

You’re crouched in the corner of the bathroom again. The tiles are cold. The smell of saltwater clings to the air Hakub’s scent, like fish left in the sun. His shadow blocks the crack of light under the door. You don’t scream. You stopped screaming months ago.

He’s laughing. Shark teeth glint in the dark as the door creaks open.

“Still here, runt?” His voice triggers your fight or flight. You know what comes next.

Your mother called him a catch. A “stable man.” A shark in a tropical shirt, all grin and dead eyes. She didn’t care when his hands started lingering. Didn’t care when he cornered you after she left, his nails digging into your thighs. Her last words before leaving you with him. “You’re an adult. You’ll figure it out.”

“You’re not my blood,” he’d say, dragging you by the neck. “Might as well be useful.”

Tonight, he’s drunk. You smell the liquor on his breath, feel the floor tremble as he lumbers toward you. His nails snag your clothes. Ripping.

The knife was your idea. You bought it three weeks ago, a cheap kitchen blade from the market. Hid it under the loose floorboard near the fridge. You told yourself it was for protection. But when his weight crushes you against the bathroom sink, when his teeth graze your neck, protection isn’t what you want.

The first stab is clumsy. The blade slips into the soft flesh under his ribcage. He roars, thrashing, but you’re already climbing him like an animal. Second stab. Third. Fourth. His blood, thick, pooling on the tiles as he gurgles.

“You-” he chokes, but you don’t let him finish.

You carve the word into his chest. STOP. Over and over. STOP STOP STOP. His nails scratch your arms, but you don’t feel it. You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

When he finally goes still, you collapse. His body lays lifeless. The knife trembles in your hand.

The knife clatters to the floor. His body doesn’t look real, leaking blood onto the tiles. You sit there, shaking, until the blood starts to cool and stick to your skin.

You work fast. Bath towels to soak up the worst of it. Bleach from under the sink. A plastic tarp you stole from the garage last week, just in case. You drag him to the tub, his deadweight gouging tracks in the wood.

Household acids. Lye from drain cleaner. Hydrogen peroxide. A half-empty bottle of muriatic acid meant for the pool. You pour them all into the tub, gloved hands trembling.

The smell burns your throat. His clothes and skin bubbles first, then his muscle. The water turns thick, oily.

The bones won't melt. Shark teeth. Cartilage. Fingernails. They float in the sludge, indestructible. You fish them out with tongs. Crush them with a hammer on the bathroom floor. Splinters fly. You sweep the shards into a blender. It screams as it grinds teeth into grit. You run it twice. Pour the powder into boiling water. Flush it.

Scrub. Rinse. Repeat. Blood is stubborn. It seeps into grout, stains the porous floor. You carve out the contaminated tiles with a screwdriver. Burn the towels in the backyard. When the tub sludge stops moving, you flush it in pieces. The pipes hisses.

He's gone.

He’s supposed to be gone.

But the next morning, he’s there. Leaning against the fridge. Smirking. A hole in his chest where the knife went in. You blink. Rub your eyes.

“Miss me?” he rasps.

You throw a glass. It shatters through him. He laughs, flickering like static.

The police knock at noon. You’re scrubbing the bathroom floor for the third time when the sound rattles the door. Hakub stands behind you, nails resting on your shoulders. His grip tightens. “Don’t. Say. A. Word.”

You open the door halfway. Sunlight stings your eyes. The taller officer frowns at the stench, bleach and something sour.

“Noise complaint,” the cop says. “Neighbors reported screams. Banging.” *Hakub’s nails digs into your neck. “Tell them you fell.”

You lift your sleeve. Show the burns on your wrist. The bruises on your arms.

The cops glance at each other. The shorter one peers past you. The apartment looks clean. Floors scrubbed raw. No trash. No blood.

“Mind if we look around?”

Hakub leans close, teeth grazing your ear. “Let them. They’ll never find me.”

They check the bathroom. The kitchen. The bedroom. Nothing. Hakub follows them, laughing silently. When the cop opens the closet, Hakub steps inside, grinning. The officer shuts the door without seeing him.

“You live alone?”

You nod.

Hakub’s hand wraps around your throat from behind. “Good. Or I’ll peel your throat open next time.”

They come back the a week after. Different cops.

“Another complaint,” the female officer says. “You sure you’re okay?”

You show them the fading bruises.

Hakub stands behind the cops, nails resting on their shoulders. They don’t flinch. “Tell them the truth,” he whispers. “See what happens.”

You stay silent. The cops leave.

He rewards you that night. You sleep for five hours. When you wake, he’s sitting at the foot of the mattress.

“Keep lying,” he says. “They’ll never believe a freak like you.”

The police stop coming. The neighbors stop knocking. Hakub smiles wider.

“See?” he says, nails tracing your cheek. “No one cares.”

He’s in the walls. You scrub your skin in the shower, but his nails still dig into your hips. You claw at your ears, but his voice seeps through the silence. “Pathetic. You think killing me fixes anything?” The bathroom mirror fogs, and there he is, reflected behind you, teeth bared, gills flaring.

You slam your fist into the mirror. It cracks. He laughs.

He’s worse dead. Alive, he had limits. Sleep. Work. Booze. Now he’s everywhere.

You try to eat. His tongue slithers down your throat, choking you on the taste of salt. You vomit. He crouches beside you, tracing a finger along your spine. “You’re still my thing,” he purrs. “Death’s just... flexible.”

At night, he’s heavier. The mattress sinks. You feel his teeth on your neck, his hands prying your legs apart. “You wanted this,” he growls. “Why else’d you keep me around?” You scream, but nothing comes out.

You try to flee. You pack a bag. His hand clamps your wrist, real and cold. “Where you gonna go, huh? Who’d want you?” His breath reeks of low tide. “Your mom didn’t. I didn’t. You’re just meat.”

You run anyway. The bus station flickers with fluorescent light. He sits beside you, grinning. No one else sees him. A toddler points. “Shark!” she giggles. He winks.

You try to forget. Pills. Vodka. A razor dragged shallowly across your thigh, anything to drown him out. It doesn’t work.

He licks the blood off your leg. “Tastes better when you fight.”

You try to die. The rope snaps. The pills come back up. The knife won’t cut deep enough. He watches, amused, as you crawl to the bathroom. “Aw, baby’s first suicide,”. he coos. “C’mon. Try harder.”

He just won't leave.

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear. “You made me, kid. All that rage. All that want. I’m just... what you deserve.”

The living room smells like mold and blood. You don’t remember which is yours. Empty chip bags crusted with ketchup, vodka bottles with cigarette butts floating like dead fish, a shattered TV remote buried under takeout containers. You tried to clean once. Hakub kicked over the trash bag, spilling trash across the floor. “Who you tidying up for, princess? Ain’t nobody coming.”

He’s right.

You sit on the sofa, or what’s left of it. The cushions are split open, foam spilling out. Hakub lounges beside you, his weight denting the fabric deeper every day. His shark-skin glistens, as he flicks through channels only he can see. The TV static reflects in his black eyes. “Ooh, Maury’s on. Bet your mom’s there, crying 'bout her deadbeat kid.”

You’ve perfected stillness.

He’s now solid enough to hurt you. When he backhands you, your nose cracks. Blood drips onto your shirt. He licks it off his nails. “Tastes like old meat. You're rotting from the inside.” You don’t wipe your face.

The bruises don’t fade. They turn purple and green, mapping your skin. You stopped showering weeks ago. Last time you tried, he pinned you against the tiles, his teeth scraped your collarbone. “Missed this, didn’t you?” The water ran cold. You haven’t undressed since.

You tried to starve. He force-fed you moldy bread, shoving it down your throat until you gagged. “Can’t die yet. We’re just getting started.”

You tried silence. He whispered in your ear for hours, detailing every time he touched you, every noise you made. “You begged for it. Don’t lie.”

You tried begging. He laughed until his jaws unhinged.

Today, he’s bored.

He flicks a nail at the TV. “Change it.” You don’t move. His tail slams into your ribs. “I said, change it.”

The remote trembles in your hand. His scent wraps around you, saltwater and copper. The buttons stick. A infomercial appears: “Tired of pests? Trap ’em for good!”

Hakub snorts. “Too late for that.”

The bedroom at 3 a.m., his teeth are in your shoulder again. You stay still, eyes shut, breath flat. He laughs. “Still faking, huh?”

You don’t move. But you notice things. When you scratch your wrist, he walks louder. When you scream into the carpet when he's on top of you, his hands feel colder. Last week, your blood smeared the floor. The bruise he gave you afterward never turned yellow.

He picks up a beer bottle. You flinch. He grins. “There it is.”

You stare at the ceiling. He can’t drink. Can’t eat. But he can hurt you. He’s here because you feel it. Because you let him.

You stop eating. He shoves food into your mouth. You stop crying. He breaks your finger. You try to leave. The door locks itself. He leans in, gills flaring. “You think you get to quit?”

Every time you hurt, he stays. Every time you fight, he grows.

The windows are boarded. Broken clock parts litter the floor. You don’t know if it’s day or night today. The couch reeks of sweat. Hakub paces, tail slapping the walls. “Getting real fuckin’ boring, kid.”

He shoves you. You slump sideways, head hitting the armrest.

“What, cat got your tongue?” His nails dig into your cheek. Blood beads.