The scream was guttural, primal, formed from an ache from somewhere deep, forgotten, ignored, broken. He writhed on the floor of his living room—ironically named, mocking him. A second scream, followed by a single tight-mouthed oath.

How had it come to this? What had he done wrong? He had neither been bitten by zombie nor werewolf; he had angered no old hags or high priestesses; No magic spells or mad scientist-concocted serums or biotech experiments had crossed his lips or passed through membranes. Nothing. No strange foods or jungle excursions or trips into ancient forests.

He worked in an office.

He was a CPA.

He ate the same PB&J and carrot sticks and pudding cup every day. He saw the doctor regularly, kept his cholesterol in check, took his vitamins. He was faithful to his wife, and she to him. They paid their taxes and raised their children to be productive and law-abiding and kind. But with every passing moment, all of that was pushed to the back of his mind; all he could feel was agony. With every painful breath, he lamented his very existence. With every lightning bolt of pain that shot from deep within his bowels, he felt he was becoming less himself, less… human. Not animal, not alien. Something else: personified pain. He had become Torment.

Another wall-shaking groan as he tried to right himself, to stand, but only doubled over and collapsed yet again.

He would die here. On this spot. Unceremoniously, his body would be found wearing Christmas pajama bottoms in August, a Dunder Mifflin t-shirt stretched at the neck, one slipper on his foot. Where had he gone wrong? What had he done to deserve this fate? What was destroying him from the inside, making him feel at once like he might shrink into nothingness and explode into a galaxy of gore and violence?

He whimpered, wanting only for the pain to stop. If he was going to die, let him die now.

One last roar. One last grasp at life. One last—

“Brian, knock it off. I told you this would happen, but you wouldn’t listen. You’re almost fifty years old! You can’t eat Mexican food after nine o’clock. You know that. All those jalapenos! I warned you…”

Brian rolled over and looked up at his wife. She handed him something small, round.

“Pepcid. Take it, and stop being such a baby.”