“You keep poking your stomach, dummy.”

“I have a stomachache,” I say. “Is that allowed?”

“Easy, killer. No need to get angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

The front door abruptly opens, revealing my mother carrying two large bags of groceries. “Hey guys,” she says. My brother takes both bags from her – he’s eighteen now, and taller than both of us by a foot. “Thanks, hon,” says my mother.

My brother pokes his head into one of the bags as he brings them into the kitchen. “I see… salsa?”

“Figured I’ll make fajitas for dinner,” says my mother. “Been a while, huh Lizzy?”

Fajitas have always been my favorite.

“Mmm,” I say. “Yum.”

“Alas, Lizzy won’t be eating dinner,” says my brother, flippantly. “She has a stomachache.”

“That true?” asks my mother, looking to me.

“I mean, a little one, I suppose.”

“You haven’t gone barefoot have you,” says my brother with a hint of teasing.

My mind flashes back to that summer evening, now six months past, when I had acted so unlike myself. When I hesitate to answer, my mother looks up, meets my eyes.

“Lizzy? You haven’t gone barefoot, have you?”

I hesitate. “It was so long ago,” I say meekly. “There’s just no way.”

“How long ago, Lizzy?” she asks. Her voice has an edge to it I’ve only heard a couple times in my sixteen years of life.

I don’t answer. I’m too afraid.

“Lizzy?” repeats my mother, failing to hide her burgeoning panic. “How long?”

It was nearly thirty years ago that the aliens landed on Earth – not with a bang, but with an anticlimactic thud. For years, we didn’t even realize they had landed at all; the meteor struck in Siberia, and the impact wasn’t seen by a single person. When the aliens finally made an appearance, two years later, it was in the form of a kite-sized moth-like creature. For years they remained rare, popping up once every few months in this country or that, their origin a complete mystery – until one was finally caught and studied. Then it all came together. The reason we never noticed them immediately following the meteor strike was because they grew from microscopic spores. They were parasites, surfing the galaxy for who knows how many eons, frozen in a state of cryosleep. It was the impact with Earth that woke them up.

Their genetic makeup was unlike anything scientists had ever seen. They were arsenic-based, not carbon-based. Their internal workings were at times efficient, at times redundant, at times quixotic. Their mature form – the moths – lived for only two to three years, before molting into more spores. Scientists determined their intelligence level to reside somewhere between dogs and dolphins. They smelled terrible, like burning tires mixed with rotting fish.

Oh, and one last thing: Of all the animals on Earth, the only hosts the alien parasites grow inside are human females. So, yeah…

“It’s fine,” says my mother, eyeing my stomach while clearly working to mask her panic. “There’s no way it’s past twenty weeks.” She walks over to me, her emotions now fully controlled, and runs her hand over my stomach. Her eyes give away nothing. “We’ll go to the hospital this afternoon,” she says, before repeating, “It’s fine.”

At the doctor’s office, a man I’ve never seen before rubs cold jelly over my bare stomach. He then moves a wand over the jelly. When the cylindrical form of an alien moth comes into view, I nearly vomit. The doctor must have anticipated this result, as well as my reaction, as he administers a diazepam injection into my arm within seconds. Soon the disgusting parasite on the monitor loses its horror. Indeed, it looks nearly comical.

“Parasite Rights,” started out as a meme. How could it not have? Who could honestly favor this… creature over the life of a human? Sure, times were different back then, but not so different.

But over the years and decades, as the planet got sick and the schools even sicker, the “joke” took on a terrible new life of its own. The “Parasite Party,” once a literal punchline, began winning elections. For reasons beyond comprehension, the worship of a microscopic spore became a cause célèbre, even at the expense of its human hosts.

A web search will bring up the old speeches. From the 2048 March for Parasite Rights: “This creature has as much a right to exist as we do! Who knows, this could be the last of their kind! And if we can save them, simply by having women always wear shoes, is that really such a sacrifice? Shoes, to save a species?”

After the speeches came the elections, and after the elections came the laws.

Excerpt from the Parasite Rights Act of 2054:

The alien entity, hereafter termed “The Parasite,” is hereby deemed a living creature of God’s creation. As such, it is imbued with God-given rights. Clearly, those rights must be balanced with the rights of its host. However, a human host, possessing reason, may ably avoid being infected with The Parasite through simple dermal avoidance. The Parasite, lacking reason, is thereby at a disadvantage. Given the ease by which a human female may avoid infection, a rational limit to The Parasite’s destruction is warranted. Within the first twenty weeks of infection, the host may legally remove the parasite. Following twenty weeks, the host, having shown willful disregard for their own wellbeing, will forfeit their life to the benefit of the alien entity.

“I can’t do the procedure,” says the doctor, waking me from my drug-induced daydreaming. “It’s too late.” He looks toward my mother. “She’s at twenty-four weeks.”

“But… it’s so small,” says my mother. “Her stomach is barely distended!”

“There is considerable variation to these things,” says the doctor brusquely. “But if I take it out now, I risk losing my license. That’s not to say there aren’t other options, and you must believe I sympathize with your situation. Clearly, your daughter’s life is more valuable than an alien parasite. I will give you an address. Go there tomorrow morning – no appointment necessary. The issue can be sorted out in an hour.”

As we drive home, and the drugs begin to wear off, my sanguine disposition gives way to an existential dread. I have seen the news reports; I know what happens without intervention. The moth grows, and my body becomes its food source. And at the end of that long and painful atrophy, I will die. For the first time in my life, I curse myself for being born female. Not because of who I am – I like who I am – but because of what it has permitted to happen to me. To this day no one knows why exactly the parasite infects only women. It’s not like they come out of the birth canal.

“Because they are sweeter than boys,” goes the old repugnant saying.

“Original sin,” say the churches.

“Random chance,” say the scientists. “Women fill the alien’s biological niche. If there were no women, the creature would likely evolve to infect men.”

To which I laugh. Because with no women, there would be no men left to infect.

What did it feel like, to run through the grass? Could it possibly have been worth an early death by parasitic infection? Of course not. Yet… maybe? It felt like a coolness – like a slow, tickling calm that started on my soles and moved up through my body, all the way into my mind. Maybe it’s insane, but I don’t regret it. Life is a collection of moments, small pleasures. Without such moments, would it still be my life? Or would it feel somehow… incomplete? I don’t know.

My mother pulls off the side of the road. She looks at the nondescript three story building before us, eyes it skeptically.

“What?” I ask from the passenger seat.

“This is wrong,” she says.

“But a doctor sent us here.”

“This isn’t a medical building,” says my mother. “This is all wrong.”

My mother is an RN, so on this topic I trust her instincts implicitly.

“You think it’s a trick?” I ask. “What’s the word… entrapment?”

“I’m not willing to risk it.” She turns to me, eyes filled with sympathy. “I can do it,” she says. “I can do the procedure.”

“You’re an RN,” I say. “What do you know about surgery?”

“Give me a day,” she says. “I’ll know.”

Two days later, my mother leads me into our finished basement, where a blanket is spread out on the floor. It is surrounded by a crowd of stuffed animals I have accumulated since childhood. My mother has placed a metal tray beside the blanket. The tray contains clean hand towels, forceps, gauze, alcohol, as well as a small silver scalpel. My brother and father are under strict instructions not to interrupt us.

“I can’t believe this is my life,” I say, surveying the grotesque scene. Just then, a sudden cramp causes me to double over, writhing in pain. When the pain finally subsides, I stand up, stare at my mother.

“It moved,” I say. “I felt it move.”

My mother kisses my forehead. She then gives me multiple shots of clear liquids – one of which she shoots directly into my stomach. My hand squeezes hers as I bite my lip in pain. After several minutes, I lose feeling in the lower half of my body.

“Ready?” asks my mother.

“No,” I say.

My mother brushes her fingertips across my sweaty forehead. She takes a deep breath, then picks up the scalpel.