My One Night Stand Left Something Inside Me
Hi guys. My name is Violet, I’m twenty-three, and I’m scared. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, and I really hope somebody can help. It was Friday afternoon. I came back to my apartment after work to find all of my boyfriend’s stuff gone, save a folded slip of paper leaning against the “Summer Breeze” candle in the center of our little round dining table. It seemed so cliché that I almost didn’t believe it. The note said something to the tune of: “I can’t do this anymore. I gave my portion of the rent to Jerry. I don’t want my tupperware back.” I’m paraphrasing, but only slightly. It was devoid of personality and rather unfeeling… just as Chris had become since we graduated. Whether it was the fear of a “stable adult life,” a tearing off of college’s happy-go-lucky veil, or just sheer boredom, I didn’t know. Whatever it was, I’d felt it too, and I’m almost ashamed to say I was happy he left first, so I could keep the apartment. In the few moments it took to read the brief letter, my brain skipped across the stages of grief like a smooth stone launched from a father’s hand, sinking only when it reached “Acceptance.” Chris was gone. I was relieved. I called up my girlfriend Sabrina, and after suffering through her halfhearted condolences, I asked if she wanted to go out that night. “To where?” Sabrina asked. “Like a bar or something?” “Yeah, sure.” “Uh… alright. Are you sure you’re okay?” The concern in her voice was evident. I had never been the partying type, and the first and last time I drank was a Jell-O shot on my twenty-first birthday. Chris didn’t know about that one; he had never approved of drinking alcohol, so I generally stayed away from it. “Yes. I’m in the mood to get wasted.” I cringed as soon as the word exited my mouth. “Alright.” She still sounded hesitant, which was honestly fair. “I’ll see you at eight?” “Yes, ma’am.” We met at a place called “McDuff’s Bar and Grill,” which was a quaint Irish pub that Sabrina had apparently been to before. The benches and tables were lacquered strips of wood with all the grain and knots showing, and the cozy room glowed in the orange light of a couple wrought-iron chandeliers. Great vibes; I love all that old-timey crap. They served several types of Irish beer and whiskey, but I opted for a mojito, which Sabrina said might be a better gateway drink. She was right. It was fizzy and sugary, and before I knew it, only small lumps of eviscerated lime slices and mint leaves lay at the bottom of my two empty glasses. It was around that time that I first noticed him. He was cute, with a curated, black beard shadowing his carved jaw. A pair of green eyes flickered between the variety of patrons sitting around him, but he did not initiate any conversations. He tapped absently against a partially full glass of beer, the condensation wetting his fingertips. For a few minutes, I watched him as he watched them. It wasn’t long before his gaze wandered toward me and stopped. Our eyes bore into each other.The small amount of alcohol I drank must have submerged my more rational tendencies, because before I knew it, I was up and walking toward him. We greeted each other, and he was nice enough. His name was Adam, he was in the Master’s program at the same school I’d graduated from (I’ll leave the name out for privacy reasons), and his left ring finger was beautifully unadorned. We hit it off pretty well and chatted for nearly an hour. As the clock neared eleven, I made the suggestion, and he accepted. I said goodbye to a flabbergasted Sabrina and left with him. It was stupid, but I was in a stupid mood. I wanted to be reckless. “Two mojitos?” He chuckled, his eyes trained on the road. “And you’re buzzed?” “Yeah,” I yawned. “I don’t usually drink, but I’m newly single. Kind of a special night, y’know?” “I guess so.” He smiled. “Glad to be your rebound.” I held up a finger. “Hey! But at least the rebound is the one that goes into the hoop.” “That is not how that works…” “Whatever… you know what I mean.” We arrived at my apartment, and I invited him up. At this point, I was tired and tipsy, but determined. I had one goal in mind, and if I hadn’t been so focused on that, I would have realized that I never gave him my address. The night went how you might expect, given the title. I awoke the next morning to find myself alone in bed, my sheets on the floor. He didn’t leave a note, a hair, or even a whiff of cologne. He was gone from my life, and honestly, that’s the way I wanted it. A part of me was briefly sad that I wouldn’t see him again, but I pushed that away as fast as it came. It was a fun, dumb night. That was all. Saturday went by without a fuss, and it was well into Sunday afternoon when I noticed something strange. It started as a twinge in my gut. Not my stomach; closer to my ovaries, like the dull cramp right before your period starts. That didn’t make a lot of sense, though, because my cycle ended last Sunday. Ain’t no way I was already starting again. Fear shot down my spine like a bolt of electricity. God help me, I was pregnant. No. I took some deep breaths. No way. Two days after? Not a chance. I Googled it anyway. “One to two weeks after conception,” the internet said. Okay, that’s debunked, then. Unless I’m in some kind of one-in-a-million situation, but that’s pretty unlikely. The answer hit me like a blind man driving a bulldozer. Three fateful letters: S.T.D. I spent the next couple of hours scrolling through WebMD and Reddit forums, comparing answers and clicking on reference links as my panic rose and subsided in hot waves. ChatGPT told me not to worry; I probably had ovarian cancer, but since I’d caught it early, the doctors would be able to stop it, no problem. Yippee. Nothing was useful. Nobody could diagnose a “pinching twinge in the lower abdomen after sex,” which honestly made a lot of sense. And I could admit that I was probably overthinking things. So, I did what I should have done three or four hours ago and called Sabrina. “I don’t know what to say, Vi. You kinda did this one to yourself.” I picked at a spot of dried oatmeal on my jeans. “So you think I’m right, then? I have… an S.T.D.?” “Girl, I work at Taco Bell. How do you expect me to know? Do you have a gynecologist?” “There’s the one who did my pap smear, but it’s been a couple years. I don’t know if she still works there.” “Just go to that same place. I’m sure somebody there can help you.” I could sense the thinly-veiled frustration in her voice, which was valid. Why was I forcing her to deal with my mistake? I was an adult. I could figure these things out myself. “Thanks, Sabrina.” “Mmhm.” I hung up the call and rested my forehead on the surface of the table. Ugh. I hate doctor visits. The gynecologist was able to get me an appointment for Tuesday, which was a bit of a miracle given the typical wait times. By the time Tuesday came around, the pain had increased. It was less of a cramp and more of a pinching, like when you have a zit that’s too far under the skin to pop. The waiting room smelled of rubbing alcohol with notes of puke and metal hovering just below the surface. After my many childhood hospital visits, I had become familiar with the unsettling flavor of sterility as if it were a comfort food. My mother had been a bit of a vicarious hypochondriac. She used my Medicaid health insurance as if it were a lifetime pass to a theme park, driving me to the E.R. every time I had a sniffle or a stomach ache or even a larger-than-normal bug bite. It instilled in me a great dread of waiting rooms and hospital beds; that timeless liminality that drove me to nearly Lovecraftian insanity. As I sat waiting for a nursing aide to call my name, I scrolled mindlessly through Instagram reels in an attempt to assuage my fear. I had to believe that this pain was probably nothing, just like the many pointless hospital trips of my childhood. That raspy cough had NOT been tuberculosis. Those muscle aches had NOT been ebola. That vomiting and diarrhea was just a stomach bug, NOT E. coli. Sad but ironic that COVID was what kicked my mom’s bucket. When I was finally called in, my fear of waiting was replaced with the anticipation of a diagnosis. What if it really was cancer or something like that? What if I only had months to live? Did I need to write a will? Looking back, ovarian cancer would have been a blessing. The aide ran me through all the traditional rigamarole: Medical history, blood pressure, pee in a cup, etc. Finally, after a bit more mindless waiting, Dr. Kimani arrived.I let her know right away that I thought it was an S.T.D., based on my research. She nodded and smiled and said that she appreciated my input, but she would have to check off her boxes for the sake of a holistic diagnosis. I can’t remember all the questions she asked, but my answers in this pathological choose-your-own-adventure seemed to lead us to one unfortunate conclusion: A pelvic exam. I’ll spare you the gruesome details, but let’s just say I was more than a little embarrassed and uncomfortable. “Do you feel anything strange?” Dr. Kimani asked. You mean, besides your fingers up my vagina? I wanted to say, but I held back the sarcasm. “What would be considered ‘strange?’” “Could be pain any different than what you’ve already been feeling.” “No, I don’t think so.” “Hmm.” I shouldn’t have to tell you that this was NOT what I wanted to hear right now. Why would she be asking that? Did she feel something up there? I hushed my brain and tried to focus on more pleasant thoughts until the exam was finished. “Okay, Violet,” Dr. Kimani began, scanning her clipboard. “I believe you have a vaginal cyst, very likely acquired as a result of chlamydia bacteria. They are rare, but they do happen. I applied light pressure to it, but you said you did not feel pain, which is unusual, but not impossible. I am prescribing you doxycycline, which is an antibiotic. Your pain should clear up in about three days, but you can continue to take it until it runs out. Do you have any questions?” “Nope. Thanks.” “Great. Don’t forget to follow up with your PCP.” “Yep.” Cool, dude. I have chlamydia. Thank you, reckless Violet, for that gift. However, I was relieved to have a diagnosis. Probably a bit too relieved, actually. If I’d taken some more time to think about it, maybe I would have questioned why the pain had started closer to my ovaries, rather than in the vagina itself. Well, the three days passed, and despite my hopes and dreams, the pain did not subside. In fact, it grew exponentially worse. The third day, I had to take PTO from work, because every step felt like a screwdriver was stabbing me in the bits. I had been taking those antibiotics religiously – once every twelve hours – but they didn’t seem to be doing anything. I was getting frustrated at this point, because I really did not want to return to the gynecologist. But what choice did I have? Obviously, this was a misdiagnosis, if my symptoms were supposed to disappear in three days. Before I went in, I decided to do a little self-examination to see what I could feel. Maybe I was just tweaking, and the cyst was actually going away. If that was the case, then I might be able to avoid the doctor. Wincing through the constant bouts of pain, I did my very best to check myself. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, until I was a couple inches in. The tips of my fingernails clacked against something hard. I yanked my fingers out of there in a split second and lay on the carpet, frozen. Adrenaline pounded through my body, temporarily numbing the pain in my pelvis. For almost a full minute, my brain didn’t seem to know how to think. What was that? I briefly entertained the idea that maybe I’d just tapped on my bone… but that didn’t make any sense at all. No. It wasn’t a bone. I could tell it wasn’t a part of me in the same way you can feel the difference between hair extensions and real human hair. My heart thrummed, and my teeth chattered. I reached a shaking hand back down and tried to feel it again. When my fingers touched it, my stomach turned, but I kept them there. I moved my fingers outward. Its surface was rounded slightly. I pushed gently against it, and it shifted. Something jabbed into the underside of my bladder, and for a moment, every part of my insides that was touching this object felt a slight increase in pressure. Like when you swallow a too-large bite of hamburger, and you can feel its shape as it descends through your esophagus. I yelped in surprise and quickly withdrew my hand again. I closed my eyes and muttered seven hundred prayers under my breath. With shaking hands, I called 911. “911, what is your emergency?” My voice breaking, I explained my situation to the best of my ability, leaving out the part about the… “object.” I was in a lot of pain and needed to be taken to the hospital; that’s all they needed to know right now. The EMTs asked if I was pregnant, given the location of my pain. “No, I’m not freaking pregnant! Do I look pregnant to you?!” A loaded question that shut up the two men in the back of the ambulance with me. They gave me some morphine, and the pain receded. But nothing could take away the feeling of that object shifting inside of me when I pressed on it. Needless to say, I was a bit loopy for the next two hours, while they checked me into a room and hooked me up to an IV. A blur of nurses and doctors flew in and out of the room, and by the time they decided to put me through an MRI, I was mostly alert again, though the pain was returning. Being in the MRI machine was a claustrophobic nightmare. I tried to console myself by imagining that this was how Ripley felt in the cryosleep bed at the end of the first Alien, but that just reminded me of the whole chestburster situation, which didn’t help my mood. Nothing unusual happened during the MRI, and I was waiting in my room for another dose of morphine when a doctor walked in with a sheaf of photo paper. “Uh, so…” he began, shuffling the papers nervously. “I’m not exactly sure how to… well… say this, but is there any way you… accidentally put something up there and don’t remember?” “No,” I replied in a stern tone. I ground my teeth together as the pulses of pain began to grow again. “What is it?” “Maybe it’s better if you see it for yourself.” He handed me one of the sheets of paper. I took it and perused it. It was a cross-sectional shot of my pelvis. I could see my organs in what I assumed were their normal positions, though I couldn’t tell what was what. I traced up from my groin to where I knew the object to be. An oblong shape rested in the center – maybe two inches by three inches – pressing out against everything around it. Its edges were gently curved, and inside it lay a strange, twisted form that I couldn’t understand. “What am I looking at?” My voice cracked. “We believe it’s… uh…” he cleared his throat, “an egg.” “Excuse me?” “It’s an egg. We don’t know what kind of egg, but it is definitely… an egg.” “And how did it get in there?! I sure didn’t do it.” He nodded. “Yes, we can tell. It appears as if it originated in your cervix and then expanded, putting pressure on the surrounding organs and bones. You feel so much pain up higher because so much pressure has been placed on your pelvis that it has a hairline fracture, which you can see as that thin line across your pubic bone.” This was too much information. My head felt like it was imploding. “Can you… get it out?” I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning amidst a tidal wave of pain and disgust and medical terminology. At this point, I didn’t care what it was or how it got there. I just wanted it out of my body. “Technically, yes,” the doctor replied. “But there is a risk.” “Yeah, well there’s a risk of leaving it inside too!” He nodded slowly. “Agreed. You’ll have to sign a consent form that allows us to perform the surgery. I have to warn you that this will be a very invasive surgery, and there is a risk that it may sterilize you.” I gritted my teeth at another wave of abdominal pain. “Okay,” I grunted. “If this is what pregnancy is like, I think I’m good.” “Very well.” He opened the door and beckoned. A nurse clad in black scrubs stepped inside, a clipboard in hand. She slipped it onto my lap, and I scratched out a jagged signature. My hands were shaking so much. It was another hour of steadily increasing pain before I saw anybody else. Imagine not pooping for a month and then all those festering turds coalesce into a rat king that will do anything to break free of its fleshy prison. And the pain only increased, as if the “egg” was still expanding. I could feel that hairline fracture now. The pressure was literally splitting the bone in two, a millimeter at a time. “We’re ready to go,” a nurse said, though I barely registered her voice. My vision was blurry, and cold air washed against my damp cheeks. I didn’t remember crying. The metal “clack-clack-clack” of the bed’s uneven wheels on the linoleum felt like somebody with a staple gun and an itchy trigger finger thought I was a two-by-four. It took an eternity to get to the operating room. I reached my trembling hand to my eyes and wiped away the mist as a masked and gowned doctor pulled open the door to the room. Their hands slid under me and gently moved me over to the new bed. Bright, white lights shone above me, shifting as they were adjusted to illuminate my lower half. Clinks and clatters of instruments on metal trays. The smell of alcohol and iodine filled my nostrils, and I coughed. The spasm sent a jolt shooting up my spine. I cried out. “Have you ever been under general anesthesia, dear?” A pair of goggles beneath a fluffy teal bouffant peered down at me. “No…” I croaked out. “Well, don’t you worry about it. Here’s the mask; I want you to take a deep breath and count backwards from ten, okay?” Soft rubber pressed against my cheeks and the bridge of my nose as I sucked in the warm, sickly sweet air. I didn’t count, because at that point, I didn’t care. I only wanted to go to sleep and wake up when it was over. Gravity dragged my tense muscles down until they felt like soggy towels. I melted into the bed and prepared to drift to sleep. My eyes floated to half-mast, but they did not close.I tried to force them closed, but they remained open. I wasn’t falling asleep. Shouldn’t it have worked by now? My brain sent a signal to my hand to flag down the nurse, but it didn’t respond. I couldn’t move. The nurse pulled away the rubber mask and set it to the side. She glanced across my face, her surgical mask inflating and deflating with every breath. “She’s out. Go ahead, sir.” A hundred screams built within my chest, but I did not have the strength to release them. I was paralyzed. I was a pair of eyes atop a pile of body-shaped mud. The taste of rubber as gloves opened my mouth. A smooth, plastic tube pushed itself down my throat, and artificial breath gasped into my lungs. “Ready.” “Scalpel.” Light glinted off a stainless steel blade. Gloved hands pulled up my white gown to reveal my bare lower half. The tip of the blade touched the skin just under my belly button and drew a straight, red line across. I could feel nothing. I was numb. Panic sieged my mind. I needed more oxygen. I wanted to hyperventilate… to breathe faster and scream… I needed to calm down. If I could calm down and endure, it would be over soon. I could have faith in the doctors. I trusted them. Pincers stretched apart the gap in my abdomen. Oh Lord… The surgeon’s hand entered me. “It’s intact,” he said. “We need to be careful.” Nausea churned within me. I appreciated their caution, despite my predicament. The surgeon grunted and withdrew his hand, slick with red paint. “Bring them in.” A knock on the door. Faint whispers. Two shadowy figures moved into the light. Black, cleanly cut stubble coated his chin. His green eyes crinkled in a subtle smile. Adam? What the… A woman stood next to him. Though she was dressed in a long, white coat, her blonde curls were just as radiant as they were at the Irish pub last Friday. “Status?” Sabrina asked. “It appears ready, Madam,” the surgeon replied. “Perhaps a day longer would bring it to full maturity, but I am not sure we could keep the subject under anesthesia for that long.” Sabrina turned to Adam and said something I didn’t understand. It sounded like a baby’s repetitive babbling mixed with the almost inaudible clicking of an insect. His lips peeled apart, and a long, forked tongue flicked at her. This was beyond comprehension. My mind was lost in the oblivion of confusion and fear, and all I could do was continue to watch. “Lord Mekshebel accepts. Retrieve it.” The surgeon nodded and shifted back to my body. His hands slid into my body’s crevice, and the tendons in his wrists tightened as he grasped the object… the egg. As he slowly lifted it out, I saw it for the first time. My bleeding skin stretched out and slid down the sides of a sphere the size of a human head, covered in red-stained globs of mucus. Its surface appeared porous, but hard to the touch. A long, dense tube dangled from it, pulsing like a blood vessel. It grew taut as the egg moved further from me, and I could tell that it was connected, like an umbilical cord. “My Lord,” the surgeon muttered, extending the egg to Adam. What on earth is happening?! My panic levels were rising again, and the tube down my throat was not helping. My vision twinkled with colored speckles as if I was going to pass out, but I remained conscious. Adam accepted the egg, not seeming to care as my bodily fluids dripped down his fingers. “Scissors.” The surgeon slid the blades around the tube and snipped. A quick spray of white and brown goo splattered across my body and the coats of the attending doctors. A deep silence filled the room as everyone trained their eyes on Adam. The faint buzzing of the lights seemed louder than ever. He peered down at the egg with a gentle gaze and nestled it in his arm. He slid his other hand to the top of the egg and pressed his index finger into the shell. It crackled briefly, then broke. Thin lines spiderwebbed across it, and the majority of the shell fell to the floor. A gush of viscous liquid splashed across his arms, but he remained still. In the center of the shattered shell lay what appeared to be a human baby, curled in a fetal position. But it was all wrong. In place of a nose, a sharp, cartilaginous beak protruded. Flaps of loose skin extended from its tiny arms, cocooning its torso, and its genitals were covered by a slick, scaly tail. If I could have screamed, I would have. “Well done,” Sabrina murmured. Adam did not respond, but began to open his mouth. His head jerked back, and two long, wet objects jutted out like a crow’s beak. A gargling sound bubbled from his throat, and he lifted the baby up, setting it in the center of his huge, protruding jaws. He tipped his head back, and his green eyes bulged from his head as the baby slid down his gullet and disappeared. His hands shot out, and he grabbed Sabrina, pulling her close to him. She widened her mouth, and he inserted the saliva-slicked tips of his birdlike jaws into it. His chest lurched, and his throat convulsed. A partially digested arm slid into her mouth, and she stumbled backward, chewing roughly. As she masticated her portion of the infant thing, the surgeon stepped forward and received the same treatment. This continued until every person in the room had received a “feeding.” At this point, my mind felt numb and distant, like I was floating through a dream. I couldn’t rationalize what I was seeing. Adam’s head jolted, and the fleshy beak slid back into his mouth, disappearing. He wiped his lips and without a word, exited the room. “Clean her up and wipe her memory,” Sabrina said, gesturing to me. “Make sure she’s ready, and we’ll keep her on standby for March’s feeding. Thank you.” I awoke in my bedroom today, and that’s where I am right now. I can hear my boyfriend making breakfast, just like he did the day he left. The same smell of fried eggs and Spam. I have no idea what happened to me or what I saw, but I know that when I come home from work today, my boyfriend will be gone, and I will very likely have an irresistible urge to go to a bar. Whatever these people usually do to wipe my memory didn’t work this time. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how. If anybody reads this, I need help. Please. If they find out I remember, I don’t know what they’ll do to me. Should I pretend I don’t know anything? Should I barricade myself into my bedroom? Please help me. Credit: Tyler Appleby Official Site Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.