I'm a Thorn in my Flesh

I'm an anomaly on this wretched Earth and a piece of shit who doesn't deserve to live. My conclusion to that statement is a private matter that I am working with my therapist on. I am saddened that good people around me often pay the price. In this life you must always keep your guard up and be cautious or some stranger like myself will be there when you least expect it.

My therapist seems to think, my pessimistic behavior is attributed to an eating disorder called binge eating disorder, this is after I described to her during a session how much pleasure I get from eating followed by my immediate regrets. She is guiding me through this phase in my life completely unaware she's in the presence of a madman who is a risk to be around with. The reason she's still alive is because I don't touch people of her distinction. Don't ask me why, but it might be all of those recessive genes that leave a bad taste in my mouth. I usually target the rest of the population, of all shapes, sizes, creeds.

Anyways, I digress, back to my therapist. She's a nice lady that goes by the name of Dr. Samantha. She's the reason I'm alive today, trying to seek something better for myself, away from that anxiety stricken personality of mine. The self-hate.

I work at the post-office and otherwise live a normal life. 

The one day, I hoped for an unremarkable day ended up becoming the beginning of another strange week. I was weighing a large box full of perfumes to ship to New York, when a man who looked like a straggler walked in to mail a letter. After I helped him, he asked for spare change amongst the other customers because the last of his was used for the postal stamp.

"Excuse me." the man said. "I know I'm walking on a limb here, but do any of you here by chance have some quarters for a cup of coffee I'm trying to get to Timmys and try their new pumpkin spice. I'll bring you back the change if you have only bigger bills and let you know it it's worth it. You can count on me." he smiled genuinely. His hair was long and grayish, maybe a former road man in his previous established life. I go through my pockets and find nothing in there. 

"Wait a second, I might have something in my backpack. I kept the line waiting while I looked for some. I always make an effort for the transient population, it's the least I could do. He took a seat in the lobby and smiled as the line of people waited to mail their packages. I likened him to a rabbit wandering around by an open field blindly ignoring the red flags of those potential sharp elongated talons that could potentially swoop at any moment. 

I returned eagerly. "Hey! Lucky me, I was able to find a few dollars." I handed him two ten dollar bills.

"Really? No...It's too much."

"No keep it, please. It's the least I could do."

The transient man smiled and shook my hand. "Thank you. I owe you one, bud."

The town was once known for it's homeless population, now they steer away from living here, mainly from all of the bad publicity in the news the last few months. Several homeless have gone missing here more than any other town in the United States. There's always people who don't watch the news on TV though, you can bank on that. 

I continued on with my day, scanning barcodes, taping packages, and processing a couple dozen envelops until my shift is over. 

My coworker Andy was there to greet me as he came back from delivering mail from his truck.

"What's up, Gabriel?"

"Couldn't be better. Just wish it were sunnier out, that's all."

"Ha. What are you going to do outside. You're never out."

"I get out." I blushed. Tossing my backpack across my shoulder, I had unknowingly dropped a self help book Andy had noticed. 

"Breaking Down the Comfort Zone." a self-help book my therapist recommended.

"Aha, dude you don't need that shit."

"Oh... Why not?"

" Just say yes to all of those times I've invited you out for drinks. It's that simple, the more you go out, the easier it gets. But, you never want to do anything after work, so..."

I shrugged. I just don't like crowded places. 

He shook his head and laughed again. "C'mon you freaking hermit"

Truth is I can't go out too late, that's when the urges come out and they give me this horrible case of nausea, then my stomach hurts so bad as it just begs for me to serve my appetite.  

On a Friday night, I see the nice man again. He's out there playing until 10 pm on his acoustic guitar' and it's one of my favorite songs. I wish I didn't need to follow him, but there's been a few and less homeless these days that come by and I couldn't risk it getting worse, if he got away from me.

He was playing the best version of "Champaign Supernova." I had ever heard in his tattered rain coat. I feel terrible as I watch him collect the wrinkled dollars and coins he earned from his guitar gig bag. I feel ashamed as I prowl over as he walks over to Timmys and buys those little donut balls and shares them with the rest of his friends sleeping under tents. Even when he's low on cash and sleeping in filth, he's a good considerate person.

It's getting late, and I could tell he's finding a comfortable spot to call it a night with his sleeping bag pushed by on an old shopping cart. I hop over the fences of residential areas while my bare feet and hands are dirtied black from the dirt on the freezing gravel. Each breath he takes, I could visually see as it vapors from his lips in the air.

He finds a secluded spot on the side of a building that doesn't have street lights. I keep a close enough distance and could still smell the caffeine on his breath. 

As he finishes the last sips of coffee, I can almost taste the pumpkin spice coarsing through his digestive system. 

He writes in his diary before getting to sleep. That's when I creep in closer.

I look around for witnesses and find the appropriate time for my sins.

I place my hand over his mouth and eyes because I can't bare to look at them, knowing how much of a monster I was during his last moments and watching his fear would only make me more depressed. I open up wide and clamp my teeth into his neck and bite down quick. Next I, drag him to a corner in the dark and have my fill. I feed my hunger and I hate to say, it's an orgasmic feeling to me. The blood of his fresh tendered meat sloshes around my mouth and I could taste every one of his vices. His body is marinated with an unhealthy lifestyle, whisky, cigarettes, fast-food, and the tastes are riveting to discover. Every bite, I taste the texture and the coagulations of his blood thickens in my tongue before my saliva dissolves it again, my eyes roll back as I suck him dry. He's doesn't suffer, the poor man. 

After I'm done, I can compose myself again.

I can be my usual disgusting self again.

For the remainder of the week, he was in my mind. At least for one more week until I need to do it again. I think about him all the time. I draw pictures of him in notepads when I'm at work and wonder about his previous life, before he became homeless in a city isolated from everything else. It wasn't the hard illegal drugs that got to him, because his blood wasn't tainted with it. He wasn't smoking long because his lungs tasted pungent and juicy. He was just dealt the bad hand in life. I read the last page of his diary, and he wrote to his daughter who lived so far away from here. Maybe it had been a bad divorce. I'll never know and it doesn't help to pry. I feel torn that his last letter won't get to her, so I'll make a mental note to send it for him for my next shift.

Andy finds me crying in the break room during lunch the next day nibbling on animal steaks that are always difficult to swallow. He sees the small scars on my wrists that I usually hide with my long sleeve shirts.

"Hey man. Everything's OK?" I give him a fake smile and tell him I have a new kitten at home to explain the cuts. He doesn't buy it. "Don't stress about it." He says. "Whatever is going on in your life, there's no sense of beating yourself over it. You're human and you're loved."

"Thank you." I smiled happy to know there's good people in the world to counter the bad ones.