Allergic to Saline (Patreon)

She sat on the exam table in the quiet doctor’s office, feet dangling slightly above the tile floor, trying to look calm as the nurse prepared the injection. It was supposed to be simple—her first saline dose, just a routine treatment. She’d signed the forms, answered the questions, and nodded when they asked about allergies. “None,” she’d said, forcing a smile. She didn’t want to get delayed, didn’t want to deal with extra screening, didn’t want to explain the truth. When the needle slid in, she barely felt it—just a cool pressure spreading slowly through her system.

Less than a minute later, her confidence collapsed into confusion. Her skin prickled as if a thousand tiny needles were pressing from the inside, her breathing suddenly too loud in her own ears. Then came the swelling—fast, unnatural, like her body had flipped a switch. Her chest began to expand with alarming pressure, the tissue inflating and tightening as if fluid was being forced into places it should never be. She gasped, clutching at the edge of the table, watching in disbelief as her body changed shape right in front of her—heavier by the second, stretching her skin taut until it looked smooth and strained. Pain mixed with panic as the weight pulled her forward, and she struggled to sit upright.

The nurse shouted for the doctor, and the room erupted into motion—gloves snapping, drawers opening, voices switching to sharp emergency tones. She tried to speak, to explain, but her throat felt thick and her words fell apart into shaky breaths. Her chest kept swelling anyway, swelling beyond what should’ve been possible, her skin growing tighter and hotter as the pressure built. Tears formed in her eyes as the doctor rushed in, realizing the obvious truth: she had lied. And now her body was reacting violently, like it was trying to reject the saline in the most catastrophic way imaginable—stretching her to the limit as the staff scrambled to stop the reaction before it spiraled completely out of control.