Hunger

6/8/2007

My dad raises his arm with the belt to strike me once again. He bends me over his knee. His worker’s overalls are covered in my blood. My bloody, bruised arms lift weakly, still trying to defend. I don’t know why my body bothers resisting. It doesn’t hurt anymore. “You useless bitch!” The belt cracks on my neck this time. It’s a miracle that there are still places he hasn’t hit. I cough a spurt of blood and fall onto the floor. Three strikes in succession. He obviously didn’t like that. “Get up! What do you think you are doing!” Five more strikes. The floor is dirty, and probably cold, but I can’t feel it. When I was younger, I used to cry out. Now, I just lay on the floor in silence. And then I close my eyes. And they fly back open. I hear a whirring sound. It’s the drill. I shudder despite my exhaustion. It makes contact. I scream. Everything is red. I feel nothing but the sensation of the metal boring into my right thigh. All thoughts fly out of my head. The whirring stops. I’m still in pain, but I’m relieved. It was too early. The drill whirls again. Red colors my vision once again. And then everything is black. I’m gone.

6/10/2007

I wake up in a pool of blood. Slowly, I try to push myself up. It hurts. My old man really outdid himself this time. I stand up too suddenly, which calls up a great pool of liquid from within my stomach. It’s red, and has some foul smelling chunks in it. “Great,” I mutter. I didn’t even know I had anything to throw up. My dad, of course, hadn’t fed me for a few days. Feebly, I wipe my mouth. I need to clean. If this isn’t clean by the time my father gets back, I’m in for it. I shuffle towards the mop. My right leg is killing me, but it’s already closed up. That’s why the drill is one of my dad’s favorites. If he uses a small bit, he can push it in deep and it’ll hurt, but the surface wound is small. He’s really a genius.

6/14/2007

My dad hasn’t come back for a few days. In a way, it is a relief, but I’m running on empty. If he doesn’t come back with food soon, I might have to go outside. I grimace. He didn’t react to that well, last time. I look around at the place that I call home. It has little furnishing, just a couch and one rug. There is no carpet, and no wooden floors. It’s gray cement, with a bit of a pink tint, probably from blood. Which is just as well. It’s easier to clean than carpet, I think. There is one bathroom. The bathroom is a source of life for me. I get water from the sink there, which I can use to drink or clean. The toilet is unreliable, but it’s better than going outside to do my business. It’s certainly better than going on the floor. There is no kitchen. I hate my life.

6/30/2007

I still hate my life. My dad still hasn’t come back. Oddly, I’m not really all that hungry. Maybe my state of inactivity has to do with it. Because I’m not supposed to go outside, I don’t have much to do. I pretty much just sleep and think all day. I don’t even have many wounds that are still healing. While I’m thinking about it, I decide to take a nap.

??/??/2007

I haven’t ate anything in a long time. I don’t feel hungry at all though. In fact, I feel more full than I’ve been in years. My dad still hasn’t come back. I briefly wish that he will never come back, but the thought is fleeting. Even though he brought pain and torture, he also brought food, which I really should be needing. I have been sleeping a lot recently, for days at a time, as far as I can tell. I’m not actually sure what the date is, since I think I’ve slept through some days. It’s definitely summer though. It’s very hot, and something smells really terrible. The smell has been around for a while, but recently it has been becoming worse. It smells like something rotting was left out in the hot sun. It must be from outside, because no matter how I try to clean, the smell remains. I don’t like the smell very much.

??/??/2007

It’s starting to get cold now. It’s winter, but I’m still not hungry. I don’t know how my body is surviving. I don’t know where my dad is either. I shiver and fall asleep.

??/??/????

I had an unusual dream, about the old times. It was a dream from before my dad’s overalls were always soaked in my blood, but were instead green from grass stains and white from paint.

“Come on, sweetie,” my dad calls to me. I laugh and run towards him. He promised to get me the best ice cream in the world today, because I did a good job learning how to make fried chicken. He said I could eat my fried chicken and ice cream together. It was probably the best tasting meal in the world.

07/04/2008

It’s summer again. I don’t think my dad is ever going to come back. I still haven’t ate anything since that day. I should be dead. I smile, for the first time since my dad locked me in the basement. I will be dead if he catches me. For the first time in about five years, I walk up the steps.

As I walk up the steps, a familiar smell greets my nose. It was that smell. I thought it had gone away a long time ago, but I guess I just got used to it. The further up the steps I get, the stronger the smell became. What did that smell belong to? As long as it wasn’t my dad, it couldn’t be too bad, I supposed.

I open the door leading upstairs. The smell immediately intensifies and I scrunch up my face. As soon as I unscrunch my face and look around, I scream. I haven’t done that in a long time too. I know the source of the smell now. All around me are rotting corpses. Human corpses, resting on the dusty floors. I shudder and throw up. My throw up is red and chunky. After I finish hacking up my insides, I look around some more.

The corpses are in various states of decay. Some are still fresh and rotting, some are but skeletons in clothing. Something bothers me about them. They’re all missing their fingers. I’m scared, but I continue walking around.

Something calls me to the kitchen. I haven’t seen it in years, but my body naturally begins walking in its direction. As I arrive in the kitchen, I realize something is terribly wrong. There is a frying pan on the old stove. A huge bottle of yellow oil sits on the adjacent counter. A jar of flour rests next to it. Finally, my eyes land on a knife. The knife is clean. There is no blood on the knife, no rust, and...no dust. Someone has been using it. The realization hits me. I desperately glance inside the frying pan. There is no dust there either. My knees give out and I throw up again. This time I pick up the chunks. The chunks of flesh. Human flesh. A shiver rocks my whole body. I quickly push myself off the floor and begin examining the bodies. I pick through the piles, looking for what I know I will find. Tears spill out of my eyes. I find a skeleton clad in blue overalls, with some white specks of paint across the front and green stains on the knees.

“Dad…” I sob.

I close my journal. “That was all I remember,” I say. “The early days of my imprisonment were only filled with memories of pain. I can’t see anything but black when I try to remember those.”

Dr. Smith nods his head thoughtfully. “Very good, Catherine. I’m glad we did this. You did wonderfully. Do you remember why?”

I shook my head furiously, then nodded softly. “Mom left us. He said it was all my fault. He said I wasn’t his daughter anymore. He said that I was disgusting, just like my mother.” My eyes teared up. “He said that I was the daughter of a whore, and that I was a good for nothing bitch.” A tear slid out despite my best efforts. “He said he didn’t love me.” I looked up at Dr. Smith.

He smiles sadly. “You know it’s not your fault, right? You didn’t make your mother leave. You didn’t make him hurt you. And you were hungry. You aren’t a bad girl.”

My breathing becomes erratic. I nod, but he’s wrong. I am a very bad girl. And I ate them. I covered their fingers in their blood and flour, then fried them. I fried their fingers like chicken, and then I ate them. I ate Dad too, just like fried chicken. I am a good for nothing bitch. I use my right index finger to point to myself, to my mouth. I open my mouth and place it inside. And then, I bite.