Dispatch From My Ex-Girlfriend's Lower Intestine

In the years before we met I dedicated much of my time to practicing the art of deprivation, with the result that I had nearly severed myself from mainstream society. I’d starved for so long that I’d forgotten how to respond to bodily urges. When it was time to wake, I abandoned myself to sleep, and when it was time to sleep, I paced the shabby single room of my apartment, stepping carefully on the balls of my feet so as not to disturb my downstairs neighbor. Hunger beginning to rake my belly, each long night dawned with endless opportunity to break from my regimen. 

I recall one night a few months before you came into my life. Unusually agitated by my spasming stomach, I surveyed the contents of my fridge: an energy drink, 100 calories, sugar-free but chock full of chemicals; a jar of rancid cornichons; a packet of sliced orange cheese. I returned to my careful pacing, thinking of nothing but the cheese. 

There was a gas station that closed at four a.m. and opened again at six. I allowed myself to fantasize about its palatial aisles, its fluorescent-lit bags of ingredients pulverized beyond recognition. Only one thing mattered in the gas station: to which small gods I would surrender, the salty or the sugared. As the clock struck a certain hour I found that dreaming was almost as powerful as the real thing. I could feel the crunch between my teeth, the shock of flavored dust on my tongue. At ten minutes to four I shocked myself out of my reverie and went out into the dewy night. The roads were empty except for the occasional dead animal. I hurried, knowing I was pushing my luck. If I made it on time, I’d purchase both a salty and a sugary snack, just this once.

Did I hurry? Did my limbs move faster, or did they slow, the reverse effect of instinct that had become my norm, because deep down I did not want to let myself eat? I can’t be sure either way. All I know is that the disappointment when I arrived at ten past four to a dark lot was bitter and all-consuming, more filling than any food.

All of this was for you, but I didn’t know it yet. 

* * *

We met on a sidewalk corner. The back of my neck prickled and I turned, arms full of luxuries only available in the city where I was a visitor for a few days. There you were: strong-jawed, sleekly muscular, standing still among the throngs of people that washed about us. Masses of untamed dark hair cast your eyes in shadow, but I had the sense you’d been watching me. When you smiled, a mordant crooked smirk, sharp canines poked out and my legs went weak. We hardly needed to speak. We both knew what would happen next.

“Can I help you with these?” you said, gesturing to my packages. 

We carried them to a nearby café and I showed you my new belongings. Shiny meaningless things, perfumes and name-brand clothing I could hardly afford. I’d just been laid off and was spending down my meagre savings as a way to cope. Better to have something to show for my money than let it be slowly nibbled away by the cost of heat and hot water.

I didn’t tell you this. Instead, I piled my purchases proudly on the table between us, but as I kept going I could feel the weight of your stare. 

“What is all this for?” you said.

“Gifts,” I answered, though it had all been for me. 

“How lovely,” you said, your smile curdling. You saw through my lie to the glutton I was.

“And I’d like you to have one,” I said wildly. “Anything, please take anything.” 

You didn’t protest. You knew I meant what I said. Your fingers sifted through the items on the table, feeling and discarding paperweights and ceramic bowls, jewelry and linens, settling finally on a buttery leather notebook with pulpy handmade paper. My heart sank. It was the one thing I wanted, but this was your price.

Your eyes met mine and I felt an icy-hot grip close around my sternum. Blood rushed to my cheeks, my tongue lurched with a half-formed lump of protest, but I bit down on it and blinked my permission. You stood, waiting. I abandoned my treasures and, light as a bird on the wing, I left on your arm.

* * *

I feared the rituals of courtship, getting to know one another over starched tablecloths and leather-bound menus, but this wasn’t your way. We absconded to your hotel and didn’t emerge for days. I waited for you to suggest room service, but your mouth was full of me. I remember how you sucked my little toe, slurping far beyond what could be considered pleasurable. I made to move my leg. Before I managed more than the jerk of a muscle, your fingers wrapped about my calf, anchoring me in place. You looked up without removing yourself from my toe; the ferocity in your eyes stilled me. I lay back on the pillow and grit my teeth. When I pulled my toe from your mouth the skin had been licked raw. A feral grin lit up your face at seeing my hot pink flesh. There was no restraint in your expression, this was the real you. I forgot my pain. I grinned back. 

When you did eat it was with obvious disgust, unseasoned barely-cooked meat shoveled into your mouth and swallowed in unmasticated chunks. One afternoon in the city you took a bite without looking, only to discover your steak was smeared with a red pepper sauce. It looked like blood enough to me, but you tossed it back to your plate with a clatter, spitting out your half-chewed bite. You gagged loudly into your napkin, other diners turning to watch your theatrics. 

  I nibbled an olive, thrilled. I’d never found someone who liked food less than me.

* * *

When, as my stay in the city was drawing to a close, you invited me to come out to your little house in the woods, I accepted with glee. I had no job to return to, and my lease was up at the end of the month. “While you figure out your next move,” you said, and I nodded along. I understood, even in those early days, I’d be your houseguest for as long as you’d have me. My own designs did not matter.

Your cottage was at the end of a long dirt road. It was June and the foliage grew thick and wild, nearly concealing the entrance to your drive from the paved road that led back to town. Branches scraped against the windows of your truck and I imagined them as nails raking down the skin of my back. It wasn’t hard to picture. You’d done so that very morning and chewed your fingernails after.

The heat was sweltering. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day and stumbled getting out of your truck, my vision pulsing to black.

“Let’s swim,” you said. “There’s a pond through the trees.”

My heart leapt, picturing an icy blue lake. But the pond at the bottom of the hill was murky and stagnant, shot through with lily pads. A rim of yellow scum circled its edge. I hesitated, turning back towards the house, but you stood among the trees with your arms crossed, an unmistakable command in your stance.

I peeled off my clothes and waded waist-deep into the brown water. The ground squelched beneath my feet and slimy things caressed my legs. I sank to my neck. The water was frigid; my lungs beat against the cold. Don’t make me, I thought, but you said: “You have to go under. Otherwise you won’t get cool.” I plugged my nose and ducked. The cold enveloped me with a roar, my lungs ballooning with trapped air. I sank, heavy and still, my cells screaming for oxygen. With violent clarity I saw you had brought me here to be reduced, stripped down to my base parts which would then be purified or scrapped. I opened my mouth to that rank darkness as your hands collided against me, dragging me to the surface.

“That’s enough,” you said harshly, but there was an undertone of tenderness. “Don’t scare me like that.”

My breath heaved in the thick wet air as below the water you pried me open, your fingers harsh as your voice, exposing my last orifice to the murk. You panted along with the movement of your own hand. There was a part of you that liked being challenged, being afraid of how far you’d gone. I understood, then. I could give you what you needed by denying myself. 

* * *

I came dripping into your house. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, disappearing into the bathroom without offering me a towel. I wrestled my clothes over wet skin. As I tugged on my shirt, I felt a bulge on my arm. Craning my neck, I saw a leech had attached itself to my elbow.  I plucked it with repulsion, holding the squirming thing between two fingers.

“Put it back,” you said from the doorway. “It’s hungry.” 

The leech crawled up my arm and nestled itself in my armpit. I woke in the middle of a nap to a sticky pool of blood. The creature had detached, finally satiated, and I’d squashed it when I rolled over. 

You sucked in your breath when you saw the stain, shouldered me aside and ripped the ruined sheet from the mattress with a violence I knew was meant for me.

“I’m going to town,” you snarled, bundling up the bloodied sheet. “Don’t touch anything.” 

But it wasn’t so much anger at the ruined sheets as despair I’d left my mark on something.

* * *

Your cupboards were bare. Pasta in a box that had gone limp from humidity, a can whose label was so faded I couldn’t tell what it contained. There were no matches to light the cook stove, no can opener.

I went out into the shady yard. The air buzzed with mosquitos. Dandelion spores danced on the wind. I felt feverish from the heat, stupid with hunger. It was at least a mile to the main road, another three or four into town. I sank to my haunches. I dug deep into my reserves.

This hunger wasn’t so bad, I told myself. I had subjected myself to worse. In just a few short hours, you’d come back and I would either eat or be distracted from eating. 

You returned without a new sheet or the old one. I didn’t ask where you’d been, but your mouth tasted faintly of iron.

* * *

We lay on top of your quilt on the stained mattress. I was awake and still. You thrashed in your sleep. Strangled moans leaked from your throat, raising to a keening unbroken whine. I stroked the sweat from your forehead. You woke at my touch, clawing for me. I took you in my arms, shining wet creature, heartsick thing, hair plastered against your skull and saliva spooling from the corner of your fanged mouth.

“They stalk me in my dreams,” you whispered. 

“Who does, my darling?” 

“The ones I ate. The ones who taught me how.”

My stomach roiled with jealousy, my face crumpled. Of course there had been others before me. Of course I wasn’t as special as I thought.

“They can’t touch you,” I murmured. “You’re safe now.”

You rasped against me, a delirious half-laugh. “I want them to touch me. I’m crawling across fields of broken glass begging them to love me. And they’re laughing this cruel cold laugh, pointing their fingers and saying, ‘Monster.’”

“Oh,” was all I could say. 

“As if I ever loved you,” you said, in your voice or theirs I didn’t know.

You kissed my eyes, licked my tears away. Your tongue lingered, probing deeper, slitting open my eyelid. I let you, jealous flame still burning. You never used your teeth, but when you moved away my vision was blurred, my cornea scratched over. 

One-eyed, I paced downstairs as you slept fitfully in the loft bed. Despite what you said, I didn’t believe you’d ever been anything other than what you were. 

Monster.

* * *

“I need to eat,” I said. The pasta had been boiled, the can drained of broth. “If I’m going to live here, you need to feed me.”

I stood inside the screen door of your house, not wanting to expose myself to the mosquitos. You sat cross-legged in the yard. A length of sedge grass hung from your lip. The bugs flitted about you, never landing. 

“You’re hungry?” you said mockingly.

You were in a foul mood, sleep-deprived and hungover from being vulnerable. You stood swiftly, came to the door and tugged me outside by the wrist. The mosquitos descended upon my flesh.

“You think you’re hungry?” you said again. “Look around. There’s so much to eat.”

You laughed. You squatted down, came up with a clump of grass. “Here. Eat this.”

“No,” I said, twisting away. 

A dark cloud came over your face. You forced me to my knees and put the grass in my mouth, held my jaw closed until I swallowed. 

“And this,” you said, scooping up a fistful of dirt. 

“I’m starving,” you yelled as I choked. “What will you feed me?”

I spat out mouthfuls of earth, retching. I staggered to my feet and ran blindly down the dirt road, branches whipping at my skin. 

You picked me up when I was halfway to town. You tapped your thumb against the wheel and looked sidelong at me. 

“I forget what it’s like,” you said, which wasn’t an apology and didn’t pretend to be one. “To feel hunger that way.”

We went to a diner and I ordered a hamburger and a milkshake. You tried to hide your disgust at watching me eat, and I tried to eat as quickly as possible to spare you the ordeal. In the parking lot, I threw up my meal from eating too fast, and you swiped your finger in the puddle and sucked on it with relish. It was a sick kind of love, but it was ours.

* * *

Months passed. We fed each other by turns. A hundred grains of rice at noon, a handful of chestnuts at dusk. You counted them out with solemn precision, your brow furrowed with concentration. You went out into the woods when I ate, and when I was done you buried your face in the folds of me, drinking and sucking until you’d had your fill. 

The summer waned to autumn and the leaves turned a shocking red. The mosquitos vanished with the chill and I sat outside wrapped in a blanket, watching you chop firewood. The swell of your arms, the neat sharp arc of the axe: these shapes stirred a longing in my empty belly. My desire for you never waned, even as my revulsion toward you grew. I kissed away your sweat and you rubbed warmth back into me, kneading me like dough, like something you would sink your teeth into.

* * *

I thought we had reached an equilibrium, but near the end of November you began to vanish for long stretches, leaving me alone for days or weeks at a time. You’d put poison into my mind with mention of your past lovers. I thought you were going into the city to find other women. I screamed at you when you came home, blind to the evidence of where you’d been: your skin suntanned and scratched, your hair knotted with briars. You rolled your eyes and brought me, kicking and flailing, to bed. When I’d calmed, you showed me the bones in your truck, rabbit ribs and fox femurs you’d licked clean.

The animals went to ground. Your hunting excursions became less fruitful. I left fingernail clippings in jars by the sink, cuttings of hair that vanished in the night, but it still wasn’t enough to satiate you. One day I found you chewing on the stained mattress, and I knew what had happened to the sheet. 

Your broad frame whittled to bone and sinew. Your movements turned clumsy and you lay still for long hours, conserving your energy. I felt your gaze tracking me from across the room. I didn’t like to turn my back on you, even in your weakened state. 

Our stomachs howled together. You began to vomit ropy cords of watery yellow bile, your innards convulsing in protest. I knelt and wiped the mess. Once, I dared stroke your head like a dog. 

You bared your teeth and lunged, knocking me to the ground. “I’m not your pet,” you hissed, all your weight on your forearms. “If you don’t want me to die, then do something about it.” 

Your begging eyes belied the contempt of your words. 

* * *

This was our way. My actions provoked responses, but yours never did. All the transgressions and defilements you lay against my flesh and spirit, I invariably allowed. It might surprise you to learn this, but I was only an empty husk. Nothing you did could really hurt. In fact, each time you struck out against me I became more solid. To you, I was substance and sustenance. Each time I granted you clemency only whetted your appetite further, and watching the meals you made of me filled me in my own way.

So I cannot say it was not consensual.

* * *

I knelt before you. This one last thing, I could give. 

Eyes watering with relief, you unhinged your jaw and I stood at the edge of your gaping black vastness. Too late, I saw how wide your gulf yawned, that not even the whole of me would be enough. There was too much emptiness inside you to be filled with something as scrawny as me. I reeled backward, some long-defunct instinct of self-preservation rearing its head, but you caught my legs and dragged me to my knees. The whole weight of your dark expanse pinned me to the floor.

Sounds came out of your mouth, but you couldn’t speak with your jaw undone, and I had to fill in the dialogue myself. I’m so sorry, I imagined you saying as you worked your dark mouth around my skull. I never tried to hide what I am. But as your lips suctioned wetly over my ears and my torso sunk further into your void, I made out the sounds to be voices: “Flee,” they cried. “There is no amount of you that will slake her.” The choruses of those others, my rivals, specters I would join in your final act of consumption.