Prolepsis

Jeffrey lost a bit of his hair every day over the last twelve years, and with each strand found at the bottom of the shower, it seemed that an ounce of passion had drained away. He was afraid now, not in any grand terror, but in that slow, embracing dismay that comes when a cough persists, or the with slowing dribble of urine, or with the appearance of yet another mole on the shoulder.

He found when he woke one morning that a strange suspicion shared his bed.  At first he was jealous of his solitude. He did not care to share his bed, even with his own suspicion.  But as time passed the suspicion became more ample, even fecund and he found it provided a kind of warmth. He came to know that without his suspicion, he would be a different man, a colder man, a man whose surface would betray even less depth.

One morning, he rolled in his bed as he woke. His hands passed over it, and he found his suspicion was swollen, gravid to the edge of bursting. He found himself bemused and proud, that at his age he could father new thoughts, thoughts that were his alone.

That day he stayed home from work and tended his suspicion. Late in the night, long after he would typically sleep, his suspicion gave birth. Tiny fears spread across the bed to suckle at his breast. He cradled his suspicion in his arms as his new children fed. As they  grew, he felt their teeth first gently nipping then truly gnawing at his flesh. He reveled in every bite. Eaten by his fears, the man was nowhere to be found when morning came.