* Author :
E. M. Faulds
* Narrator :
Eliza Chan
* Host :
Devin Martin
* Audio Producer :
Devin Martin
*
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PodCastle 902: Godzilla as a Young Man Named Mike is a PodCastle original.
Content warning for ableist attitudes
Rated PG-13
Godzilla as a Young Man Named Mike
E.M. Faulds
I remember your mum telling me, after it all went down, that during the lockdowns you washed your hands so often your skin cracked and turned scaly and angry red, but you had to keep going just in case neglecting it killed her.
It echoed, not much later, when the worst of the pandemic was past, only it wasn’t just your hands. All your skin changed into islands of mottled gray or khaki, building up tire-rubber thick in patches, and turning numb where your body just up and decided to not work the same anymore. It was all part of what you were becoming, whether you liked it or not.
There were days, fewer and farther between, where she could still see a glimpse her son Michael, the gorgeous boy you used to be: a spill of curls that fell down one side of your brow, a diffident slant to shoulders on a gangly frame, eyes the clear amber of long-steeped tea, that knowing grin. She’d see a ghost of that smile and be transported back through the ages of you, all the way to when you first announced yourself with a wriggle-kick to her womb. Then your grin would slide away as the pain did its thing and the beautiful boy submerged so your new self could rise, wrathful.
Early on, you spent long hours in the bathtub but your remnant humanity wasn’t built for it. You’d end up with curdled finger pads and stripped of any remaining skin oils to protect you from drying out. You spent months in bed, a place you used to enjoy, and it became a prison. You memorized every crack in the ceiling, watched car headlights migrate across the chalk-white steppes of it. Eventually, you recovered enough to stand for more than a few seconds at a time.
Well, “recovered” isn’t quite the right word. It was more that you decided to ignore the screams of your body because the alternative was never getting out of bed ever again.
You mentioned the day you tottered and stooped along to the kitchen in your Mum’s tenement apartment and how you’d never forget her look of who is this invading my home? before she realized it was you, but taller, and more, well . . . lizardy, and she rushed over to fit herself into the places she knew were strong enough to be hugged. You towered over her.
Even the hug told you that you were different now, and the likelihood of ever going back to who you used to be dwindled to nothing. So, instead, you tried to look forward.
When the pandemic had faded from everyone’s collective conscience just enough, our job said we had to come into the central Glasgow office again. Working from home had been okay for you; you’d made it back from your long-term sick leave, even got in a few prescribed exercises over lunch breaks. It wasn’t always the best and you hated being on top of your mum all the time but at least you could keep your cool packs in the freezer without some asshat moving them to put in their frozen yogurt.
None of the managers on the All-Hands call could give a real answer when you asked why going back to the office was mandatory if you got your job done from home? What the difference was if you were assigned tasks lying in bed or sitting in a conference room?
