This was a story that I fired out in a free writing session sometime last year and wanted to get back to. After reading it again and editing it a bit I really liked it and thought I'd share it. I'm curious to hear what associations people make from it as I wrote this more as an exercise in voice and completely off the cuff. Have a peek.
Tasty
I had a bite, even though Dave told me not to. I couldn't help it, I guess. Its not that I was particularly hungry or anything; I just did it. Was it rebellion? Probably.
It was red, and tasted that way, too. Kind of grainy, tangy, but sticky sweet.
I wonder where he got it.
He'll be back at some point, once he finishes work. Not everyone wanted to be a garbage man when they were kids, maybe not anyone.
Dave did.
I have no idea why.
He said he got the thing from a farm near the edge of town at the end of the trash route. No one really goes there because its got what newspapers call a “checkered history.”
Basically, people died there. Not well either.
But then, how do you die well? Getting a bullet on a battlefield? Stepping into a fight and getting knifed for your trouble? Drowning? Eaten? Stroke? Car accident? Are there competitions to see who can die the best?
I wonder what they'd give as a prize.
Writing all of this down seemed like a good idea, it's easier for me to talk when it's on paper. Usually it's easier to keep things in like. I feel worried, though, this feels like its slipping sideways, off track. Off balance.
Well.
It looked like an apple but was pretty small, and not quite the right shape. It was a bit wrinkled, like a raisin. And warm. Warm to the touch.
That should have been a clue.
A clue to what?
Anyway, something slightly shriveled and red isn't exactly something you'd expect to see at the grocery store now is it? No one would buy it.
Maybe Dave would.
Anyway, he said someone from the farm had given it to him, out by the trash bins. He'd never seen anyone moving around, or any lights on in the evening, when he got there, but that's what he figured anyway. He said he'd ridden up on the back of the truck and dumped in the two bags of trash and there it was, just sitting on the fence that bordered the property wrapped in newspaper.
It even had a bow.
I'd asked him what it was that made him think it was his, but he'd waved me off, as he does. That fucking “stop-asking-stupid-questions, Alice” flutter of his hand. Seemed like an important thing to know.
Well, it wasn't like it mattered to me. I bit it anyway, didn't I, and I knew it wasn't for me.
Dave said so.
Then he left.
I wonder when he's coming back.
Anyway, I guess I should write more about what's happening now, instead of what happened before. That's probably more interesting anyway.
For who?
You I guess.
Dave.
Or whoever you are.
At first it was weird that I couldn't get the taste out of my mouth, but I got used to it. I couldn't shake the feeling that it had somehow...bled, after I took a bite. I mean things leak juice or whatever when you eat them, but this seemed different, like when you cut your finger or something, when the blood wells up.
Something like that.
Anyway, like I said before the taste was a little weird but not bad enough to make me stop chewing.
It burned a little when I swallowed it.
Maybe that wasn't a good sign.
To be honest I'd thought Dave had bought it at the store and wanted to tease me, tell me I couldn't eat it because he knew I would, then he could get mad at me. He likes to do that.
I wonder where he is.
My mouth feels numb, now, like it isn't mine. I keep trying to talk or yell or something but I can only croak, or growl. I guess.
Maybe he poisoned me.
No, he wouldn't do that.
Would he?
A few minutes ago I would have said no.
But now?
Now it's in my belly. It hurts. God, it hurts so much. I think it's going faster now. Feels like someone is burning my insides out with a hot iron. Press and slide, press and slide.
I should call for help. I need help, God it hurts.
I can't get up.
I can't. Get up.
I can't move.
I tried.
There's something coming out of the back of me that's stopping me.
Looks like veins, or roots, maybe, wrapping into the kitchen chair, down to the floor. Chair won't budge, neither will I.
I can hear them growing.
No panic. Why is that?
I should try and get up, I need help.
I'm still here, in the kitchen, under that one bulb that Dave just won't buy a cover for and I can't move. He's going to catch me black-handed.
Ha-ha.
I want to find that funny but I can't.
I wish Dave would come back.
My feet are stuck to the floor now, I checked. Something weird is happening underneath me, but I can't turn to see. Nothing moves. My skin, fuck, my skin.
Somehow my hand is still moving.
I won't stop writing.
Shit, it hurts more now.
I heard a weird mewling noise and I was worried it was the thing Dave got, whining that I bit it and Dave didn't. I know that doesn't make sense but none of this does. None of it.
None.
That noise was me by the way.
My other hand is...spreading on the table.
Holy shit my fingers are long.
Are those leaves?
It's getting harder to write.
I can see headlights in the driveway.
Hardening.
Stretching.
Pain.
Can't seee now.
fuck.
Dave don't eat ittt
do n' tt
D a v