Thirteen Gulps

It’s noon and he’s almost eaten through his left foot. Toes tickle his unfeeling stomach and the blood is a lubricating candy. He chases the large toe with the last little piggy and wonders if he’ll manage to get to his calves before he dies of shock or exsanguination. His hair, contrasting his entirety, remains unruffled, relaxed. His eyes, even. Glossy mirrors, but calm nonetheless and the window’s too high to reach and the sun, too bright a lantern into a personal slum strains through a maroon-crusted film of blood.

Swallowing the bone is the hardest part. If it weren’t for the gallons of lubricant pulsing through his body he’d feel every shard that grasps his throat even as it squeezes, bone that doesn’t want to become part of the body again once removed. The sound is like traffic a background noise. He doesn’t want to remember how it felt to listen to the first few minutes. It is by now a familiar companion.

This is his second meal of the week.



After kidnapping and murdering a thirteen year old child, then taking thirteen bites out of his body, a man wonders if he should have fed himself to the child instead and sees how he tastes. Too morbid… too lola-?


~ by Jeremy on August 23, 2008.

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