R
ReilMcCormick
Hi. I'm a teen with PTSD, and I wrote this story. I really like it, and it expresses so many of the things I feel but can't put directly into words, so I wanted to share it with a group of people who might appreciate it.
The Feeding
The old man picked my heart up off the floor and stared at it, holding it up to his eyes, before he asked, “Don’t you know what we’re supposed to do with this, sweetheart?”
I shrugged.
He kneeled down to my height and gently took my hand. He just looked at me for a while. His short hair was entirely gray; some strands were dark gray, not yet drained of their color, while others were a shiny silver. His thick eyebrows were brown, bridged by a number of unkempt strands in between his eyes, which were also brown.
Eventually, he brought his mouth to my ear. “We’re going to eat it, okay?” he whispered.
I was silent. He chuckled to himself. I wasn’t sure what was so amusing. Something about his laugh frightened me; it was somehow condescending, as if he were laughing at the thought that he knew so much more than I did.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Take a bite. Can you do that for me?” He held it up to my mouth. It was still beating.
I looked at it and shook my head. He rolled his eyes, and I feared he must’ve been angry with me, but his expression quickly neutralized.
“Fine, then. I will,” the old man said, before he bit into the right ventricle. The heart stopped beating, and he smiled, revealing his blood-stained teeth.
“Now,” he said tenderly, running his bloody fingers against my cheek, “it’s your turn.” He grabbed my arm and held me still, and I could feel his bluntly cut fingernails digging into me. His fingers were thick from muscle, which made them appear almost stubby, and he had knobby knuckles and leathery skin.
He stuffed it into my mouth, and I nearly gagged at the feeling of muscle and flesh against my tongue, which was almost instantly followed by the pungent taste of metal that soon overwhelmed my senses.
“Chew,” he urged. “Come on. It’s okay.” His eyes were filled with something, but I couldn’t tell what it was.
“Chew!” He was yelling now. I didn’t like how he looked when he was angry.
Gagging, I slowly forced my teeth together. He held my hand as I chewed. His hand was rough and hairy, yet it held mine with a strange gentleness that seemed to oppose his entire being.
“Now, swallow.” He was stern. I looked at him with fear in my eyes, and his tone shifted.
“I know, I know. C’mon, sweetheart. For me?”
I squeezed his wrinkly hand as I gulped, my saliva retaining the taste of iron even after everything had passed into my esophagus.
He grinned widely and chuckled, with another pleased expression that puzzled me–I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. In the crevices of his crimson smile, I noticed small pieces of torn flesh, the same kind I could feel with the tip of my tongue in the craters of my molars.
“See? That wasn’t so bad, huh?” he whispered, his voice faint and tender, as he slowly ran his bloodied hand from the top of my head down the length of my hair. “Come here, honey.” He was still kneeling so his eyes met mine.
I stood there for a moment. He had little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his stubble was gray in some areas. The skin on his neck seemed thin and saggy, like tissue paper, and his complexion was quite pink, the way a white man’s skin often appears with age. I hesitated before taking a step towards him. He pulled me into his chest, putting his arms around me.
He held me there for a while. His arms were kind of hairy and veiny, and he sort of smelled like sweat. I could feel the graphic of his t-shirt against my cheek. He was breathing slowly, and I could smell cigarette smoke on his breath.
It was almost completely silent. I could hear my own breathing, and I could hear his breathing in his chest. I didn’t have a heartbeat anymore. As my head rested there against him, I listened for his heartbeat, but he didn’t have one, either.
-
In case you didn't pick up on it, the story is an allegory for CSA.
The Feeding
The old man picked my heart up off the floor and stared at it, holding it up to his eyes, before he asked, “Don’t you know what we’re supposed to do with this, sweetheart?”
I shrugged.
He kneeled down to my height and gently took my hand. He just looked at me for a while. His short hair was entirely gray; some strands were dark gray, not yet drained of their color, while others were a shiny silver. His thick eyebrows were brown, bridged by a number of unkempt strands in between his eyes, which were also brown.
Eventually, he brought his mouth to my ear. “We’re going to eat it, okay?” he whispered.
I was silent. He chuckled to himself. I wasn’t sure what was so amusing. Something about his laugh frightened me; it was somehow condescending, as if he were laughing at the thought that he knew so much more than I did.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Take a bite. Can you do that for me?” He held it up to my mouth. It was still beating.
I looked at it and shook my head. He rolled his eyes, and I feared he must’ve been angry with me, but his expression quickly neutralized.
“Fine, then. I will,” the old man said, before he bit into the right ventricle. The heart stopped beating, and he smiled, revealing his blood-stained teeth.
“Now,” he said tenderly, running his bloody fingers against my cheek, “it’s your turn.” He grabbed my arm and held me still, and I could feel his bluntly cut fingernails digging into me. His fingers were thick from muscle, which made them appear almost stubby, and he had knobby knuckles and leathery skin.
He stuffed it into my mouth, and I nearly gagged at the feeling of muscle and flesh against my tongue, which was almost instantly followed by the pungent taste of metal that soon overwhelmed my senses.
“Chew,” he urged. “Come on. It’s okay.” His eyes were filled with something, but I couldn’t tell what it was.
“Chew!” He was yelling now. I didn’t like how he looked when he was angry.
Gagging, I slowly forced my teeth together. He held my hand as I chewed. His hand was rough and hairy, yet it held mine with a strange gentleness that seemed to oppose his entire being.
“Now, swallow.” He was stern. I looked at him with fear in my eyes, and his tone shifted.
“I know, I know. C’mon, sweetheart. For me?”
I squeezed his wrinkly hand as I gulped, my saliva retaining the taste of iron even after everything had passed into my esophagus.
He grinned widely and chuckled, with another pleased expression that puzzled me–I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. In the crevices of his crimson smile, I noticed small pieces of torn flesh, the same kind I could feel with the tip of my tongue in the craters of my molars.
“See? That wasn’t so bad, huh?” he whispered, his voice faint and tender, as he slowly ran his bloodied hand from the top of my head down the length of my hair. “Come here, honey.” He was still kneeling so his eyes met mine.
I stood there for a moment. He had little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his stubble was gray in some areas. The skin on his neck seemed thin and saggy, like tissue paper, and his complexion was quite pink, the way a white man’s skin often appears with age. I hesitated before taking a step towards him. He pulled me into his chest, putting his arms around me.
He held me there for a while. His arms were kind of hairy and veiny, and he sort of smelled like sweat. I could feel the graphic of his t-shirt against my cheek. He was breathing slowly, and I could smell cigarette smoke on his breath.
It was almost completely silent. I could hear my own breathing, and I could hear his breathing in his chest. I didn’t have a heartbeat anymore. As my head rested there against him, I listened for his heartbeat, but he didn’t have one, either.
-
In case you didn't pick up on it, the story is an allegory for CSA.
