[Issue 2026.76]

“Believe Me”, Christine Amsden

Art © 2026 Toeken

---

“There’s an alien in my brain.” The words sound clear in my head, but they come out slurred, more like, S’an aleen mbain.

They don’t believe me. They never do.

“That’s right,” says the nurse. “Isn’t it a lovely day for a walk? When we get back, they’re having chocolate chip cookies. Won’t that be nice?”

That does sound nice. I don’t remember much these days, but I do remember chocolate chip cookies. That, and a desperate need to fight. Until the end.

The alien’s tentacles tighten around my spinal chord, intercepting signals from my brain to my body. I lose bladder control, and the nurse tsks.

“No cookie for you.”

That makes me sad. I was looking forward to the cookie.

---

My bed is soft, the mattress sagging, my back sore. The soreness might be the alien, who sometimes whispers to me in my dreams.

Give it up; they’ll never believe you.

I have a visitor in the morning. They meet me in the empty cafeteria where I didn’t get a chocolate chip cookie. I’m not sure I got any food at all, but the visitor seems more upset that I can’t remember his name.

“It’s Paul. Your husband.”

“I’m married? How odd.”

“Yes, exactly. We’re married.” Paul offers me a weak smile. I wonder what he thinks I said.

“There’s an alien in my brain.” I say it to anyone who’ll listen. The words used to be clearer. I think.

“Why’s she in a straitjacket?” Paul asks.

“She tried to kill herself yesterday,” says the nurse. “We’re taking all precautions.”

“How?” He sounds upset. “You made her remove her shoelaces when we checked her in!”

“She found a loose screw. She didn’t do much damage.”

“’Cuz they wouldn’t let me have a cookie,” I say. It’s meant as a joke, and I sense it’s the sort of thing I might have said before.

“What about a cookie?” Paul asks.

“We’re having oatmeal raisin cookies today,” the nurse says.

“Yuck.” The word is clear, like the alien isn’t fighting me, like the alien agrees with me.

“She never liked oatmeal raisin,” Paul says. “Always said no one wants to bite into a cookie, hoping for a chocolate chip, only to find raisins instead.” He sounds sad. Poor man. He’s kinda cute. Has nice eyes, even if they’re sad.

“She seems to be getting worse,” he says. “Is it possible it’s not the bipolar, that it’s something else?”

“It’s an alien,” I say, but not clearly.

“Something else?” the nurse asks.

“I don’t think slurred words are a symptom of bipolar disorder or depression.”

“It’s the meds,” the nurse says. “We’re still trying to find the right combination.”

“Okay,” Paul says, but he sounds uncertain.

Get me out of here, I think at him, but he leaves me behind. Then the nurse makes me swallow lots of big pills that put me to sleep.

---

I dream of chocolate chip cookies. The alien wants one, too. A chocolate chip cookie and a more willing host. That’s the dream.

Such a simple dream. I used to have simple dreams. A nice house and a couple of spawn, er, children.

We can have that together, says the alien. But you have to stop fighting me.

It’s a trick, something the alien keeps whispering into my mind to make me more malleable. I don’t believe it. I never believe it.

Tonight, the alien tries something new: They’ll let us out if you stop struggling.

“Liar!” I shout as I fight my way free of my restraints and tumble from the bed to the floor. I don’t get far, but I don’t need to get far. There’s a bed frame, hard and cold and just what I need. I slam my head into it. Once. Twice. Three times.

---

When I come to, there’s a bright light and a low, rhythmic beeping sound. I close my eyes and moan.

“Take it easy,” says a female voice. “It’ll take a few minutes for the anesthesia to wear off.”

I know better than to ask questions. That’s the sort of thing that loses me cookies.

My head clears. My bed is wheeled somewhere else. A visitor is there, a man I remember. Paul.

“There’s an alien in my brain,” I say. My throat is dry, but the words come out clearly, as if nothing’s fighting them.

“Not anymore,” he says. “They ordered a CT scan after you hit your head, and they found it. Took you straight into surgery.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve missed you,” Paul says.

“How long have I been gone?”

“Two years.”

“Two years? And no one thought to do a CT scan before?”

He looks away, but I still see his shame, and I remember why.

“I wasn’t the only one,” I say. “There were others infected—dozens of others.”

“Thousands, in the end,” he says.”

“Why, then?”

“We just thought you were having another breakdown.”

I wasn’t then, but I think I’m having one now.

“Leave me alone.”

“But—”

“Alone.”

He rises to his feet and heads toward the door, pausing to say, “I tried everything. Asked for fifth opinions. They all said the same thing.”

“That trying to kill yourself once means you’re nuts forever?”

“I’m sorry,” he says one last time before slipping through the door.

Now I’m alone, just like I thought I wanted. Only I haven’t really been alone in years, and I don’t think I like it. I also don’t want my husband back. What I want may mean I really am insane.

I’m ready, I think. A willing host and a couple of spawn. Remember?

Silence.

Are you there? Even a little bit?

No response.

I’ll get us a cookie.

Nothing. I’m definitely alone, just like I wanted. Still groggy from the anesthesia, I roll over and manage to drift off to sleep.

It’s there, in my dreams, where a familiar voice asks, Chocolate chip?

© 2026 Christine Amsden

[Issue 2026.76]

Comment on the stories in this issue on the TFF Press blog.