Gnaw
Tony Kidd
The
first time I saw my skin bleed, I couldn't have been more than one year old,
yet I remember it as if it happened only an hour ago. A papercut from my
crayon-glazed paper appeared at the tip of my finger. Such a tiny incident, and
yet it was the most painful thing I had experienced thus far. I cried and cried
as it continued to hurt, so I put my little finger in my mouth and caressed it
with my tongue. The taste was new to me—salty, tingly, and interesting. I might
have thought it was iron-like had I known such a thing as iron existed. I went
about my day as normal. I watched mind-numbing cartoons on television. I
defecated in my diaper, and my mother changed me. I played with my action
figures as they fought over control of the corner of the sofa. I even took a
bath and had adventures with my toy shark. I did all these things while nursing
on the tip of my finger. In fact, I did so for such a long time that my jaw and
gums began to ache, and I was forced to take a break from my suckling. My
finger was pale white like the paper that sliced me. The skin shriveled halfway
to my knuckle and felt numb. I knew, even at such a young age, that the smart
thing to do would be to stop, but I could not. Those pale wrinkles intrigued
me, and I felt the compulsion to suckle, to glide my tongue across each
wrinkle, thoroughly examining each one as if exploring miniature valleys and
canyons with my tongue. Eventually, the cut healed, and I felt a longing inside
of me. I missed the taste of that sweet, tingling, red nectar, so organic and
clean. I began suckling on my arm, leaving large and dark bruises, but the
nectar eluded me. I discovered what kept me out and kept it in—my skin. I
needed to remove it. I needed to taste, to swallow that pure life force my skin
barricaded inside of me. My suffering continued for a few more months until, as
if by some divine miracle from God, a tiny white calcification pushed its way
through my gums. I caressed and enjoyed it curiously with my tongue for some
time. Teething is what my mother called it. Before long, more of these white
miracles sprouted, and I soon had many. I now had allies in my war for the
sweet, crimson honey, thick and yet so thin. My skin stood no chance as it
tried to hold itself together. I occupied my body that day, and I took my time.
I found that I enjoyed the skin as well, and the way a sliver of it felt
between my teeth—truly sensational. I
rolled it around, passing it underneath different pairs of my teeth like sports
players passing a game ball. Then, when I felt the need to slice off another
serving, I simply bit into the used sliver of skin and swallowed it down.
Sometimes, I even tried pairing it with the nectar, creating a juicy, saucy,
tiny steak, just for me. I was my own exclusive restaurant. I was the chef. I was
the server. I was the host. I was the diner. I continued this filthy habit, as
my mother called it, for several years into my adulthood. I lost several fingernails
and then my fingers. One by one, they fell to infections. I was told that I had
to stop, that my skin had become a petri dish of filth and bacteria, but I
persisted, oh, how I persisted. I chewed and suckled on the stub of my hands
down to the sinew and muscle and, eventually, even to the bone. Each was a new
flavor to me, a new variety to enjoy. I fed for years to come, and, even to
this day, I still chew at the stubs of my arms. I see now the error that I
made, and I am ashamed to admit that my skin was the victor all along. I see
clearly the obsession and filth of my habit. I see how it controls me. I belong
to it, and eventually, there will be no more to feed upon. Nevertheless, I
simply cannot stop.
Tony Kidd is a Tennessee
native who has been writing since the age of seven and has written in several
different genres. Whether enjoying a hike or painting a canvas, his imagination
is constantly finding inspiration for his next work.
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