101 Psychos

#36 - Consumables

Psycho #36 - Consumables -

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A Tale of Autophagia -

Refers to the process of eating one's own body and a term used to describe a psychological condition marked by the desire to do so. No clear single cause has been identified to explain more severe instances of autophagia, but in some cases, the condition is linked to pica, the urge to consume inedible objects, or to obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD).

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Crunch. Crunch. Snap. Crunch.

I nibbled on the stub of my thumb, already long gone. The blood oozed around my mouth and dripped down my chin as I tore the tissue free. I knew I was doing irreversible damage to myself but I couldn't resist. Something told me to eat my fingers one by one. Even though it was clearly a bad idea I obeyed my twisted desire to feed on myself.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Four of my hands digits were missing, gnawed down to the last knuckle. Only my thumb remained as I sucked the raw meat from the bone. It was the pearly white skeletal structure that I enjoyed feeding on the most. The pressure needed to snap a chuck off felt like a massage to my teeth and the sensation of finally breaking the bone in my mouth was incomparable to anything else, except for maybe heaven.

Heaven; the realm of angels and the kingdom of God. Funny that I should use such a term to describe my addiction. I have no holy guardian and I cannot blame my actions on demons either. I wish I had some excuse for my obsessive feeding, even a supernatural one, but alas it is simply my own mind telling me to eat. It is because I am weak that I listen.

Crunch. Crunch. Snap!

Finally a shard of jagged bone fell against my tongue, freed from my bloodied hand. The joint began throbbing immediately but my tolerance to the pain was high. It was more than just bearable; it's exactly what I desired. I sat against the wall and leaned my head back while chewing my prize into small enough pieces to swallow.

I cradled my hand by the wrist as I sat staring at the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles. Even though the lighting was already dim I closed my eyes. I focused on the pressure of my teeth against hard bone, the strength of my jaw as I clamped down with greater force, and the release of pressure when the bone gave way and shattered, filling my mouth with splinters of all sizes. The sensation of being poked, stabbed, jabbed, and stuck by seemingly hundreds of tiny bone fragments was oddly enjoyable. My tongue, cheeks, and gums were sore from the onslaught but still I continued on until finally the finger was swallowed. My throat burned from the sharp ends dragging down the sides leaving deep scratches behind but eventually it all went down.

Then the relief hit, the pain was over and there was only smug satisfaction left. When the crunching and chomping noises stopped I was forced to focus on the small rooms other sounds. The soft hum and occasional squeak of the wobbly fan above did little to dull the persistent drip of my blood against the hardwood floor. Every time a drop smacked against the ground it demanded my attention, but I didn't want to see the damage done.

Drip plop. Drip plop. Drip plop. Drip plop.

Shame began to settle in. The metallic sweetness I tasted in my mouth once brought a sense of euphoria, but now the blood tasted like sour poison. The droplets invaded my ears and echoed with the volume of atomic bombs being set off one by one. I became disgusted with myself and silently cursed any gods listening for the sick game they played within my mind.

With my eyes closed I could almost feel my fingers still, and could trick myself into believing I hadn't devoured them. I even wiggled all five digits and swore I felt them brush against each other. When I couldn't take the temptation to look any longer I tilted my head down and opened my eyes. My mangled hand came into view. The fingers were all missing now, save for a single joint left where a thumb once was. The blood painted my hand in crimson ooze. The sticky, half-dry liquid seeped all the way down to my elbow.

I cradled my damaged hand by the wrist and allowed myself to cry. The tears flowed down my face leaving streaks in the gore surrounding my mouth and smeared up my cheeks. My breathing became rapid as I began to panic. Still I forced myself to stare at my mutilated hand. I tried to think of a way to fix it while knowing deep down the damage was irreversible. I hoped I was in a nightmare but knew this was my twisted reality.

I cried in silence for hours, and when the tears were all gone I inspected my self-made wounds closer. The tips of each missing finger were anywhere from months to weeks old. The layers of flesh surrounding broken bone were healing at various rates and the scabs appeared puffy and infected. Whitish yellow puss pockets littered the bite marks and some areas of thick scab had turned black or green from the bacteria it been exposed to.

I don't know how the desire got so out of hand, but I remembered the initial thought. It started with nail biting; I'd been told it's a nasty habit but I didn't listen. Pica is what they called my nervous tendency. Eventually I chewed my nails almost completely off causing my finger tips to split and bleed. Once my nails were gone I still felt the urge to chew and began nibbling on my fingertips. It was painful at first but satisfied my filthy habit and so the sting was ignored.

I told myself I could control it, that I wouldn't actually eat my own hand.

Look at me now, I thought sarcastically.

The idea of anyone finding out kept me confined to my tiny studio apartment. I quit my job after the evidence of my addiction became too noticeable and questions started being asked. I was once a social person. Shy around strangers but not unfriendly. It surprised me at first when no one noticed my sudden absence or came to check on me. In the end it only added to my urge to chew. I wondered if anyone ever thought about me or if they were curious to know what became of me.

Nervousness overwhelmed me. The idea of anyone discovering just how far my bad habit had gone caused my heart rate to quicken and my stomach to churn. Suddenly I felt the urge to nibble again and examined my gore covered hand. With still one knuckle left of my thumb I wiggled what was left of the extremity. I bit down on my lower lip while contemplating my choices. I could either give into temptation or I could quit while I still had something left of my fingers.

Just one more time then I'll go get help, I told myself as I brought my hand up to my mouth.

I'd told myself, just one more time, many times before. Deep down I knew I wouldn't stop. In order to seek professional help I'd need to tell someone of my addiction and that too wouldn't happen. I'd eat myself alive and probably be found by the landlord when he comes to collect past due rent.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Snap.

The curse of unnatural hunger is mine to suffer, and I shall suffer it alone.

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