BITING THE HANDS THAT FEED YOU, from the perspective of Hunger itself
They say you must never bite the hand that feeds you, but when you’ve been given crumbs to lick off of it you simply cannot help but sink your teeth in as hard as your canines can bear. It’s a bad reflex on your part, and you’re very ashamed of it.
However, when he slowly pushes his fingers down your throat to prove you that he’s been feeding you so well all along, that the crumbs are more than enough to keep you satisfied, you must do the right thing and show him the gratitude he deserves: you clench your jaw until you hear the satisfying crack of his phalanges in your mouth.
You then look into his eyes and swallow the finger whole. Skin, ligament, bone, all are a testament to your insatiable appetite. You’re driven by a hunger for something that transcends the physical limitations of flesh and blood, for something much more sinister.
Except you aren’t driven by hunger. No, you are Hunger itself (for I will always be with you), and his finger does not sate you. Nothing ever will. It’s the way he’s clutching his own hand in pain and shock that brings you a modicum of satisfaction. And so, you lick your lips not for the meal, but for partaking in the righteous act of retribution.
He should’ve seen it coming.
**
You move on from the incident, your actions justified by the fairness of the exchange. He took something away from you (something that was never there to begin with), so you took your collateral. One measly finger for all of the months you’ve spent starving and uncertain, neglected.
A part of you (the part of me that’s you, to be precise) wishes you should’ve taken more. You could’ve severed his whole hand, chewed it up with your chipped, blunt teeth and spat it in front of him. You feel a little bit entitled to biting more than you could’ve chewed, in spite of your awareness that nothing has ever fulfilled you.
It’s a grim reminder of our nature, of the curse chained in the pit of your stomach. You have been assigned to rule over an unfathomable emptiness, not unlike a void, lest I swallow you whole.
The balance you try to keep within yourself is rather tumultuous. The lines between hunger and desire blur, the carnal and the abstract both become insipid and the motions of your tongue and teeth are mechanical. It’s all part of the routine.
And oh, how much you hate routine. But you can’t help it.
***
You must never bite the hand that feeds you, but often times your instincts overpower all forms of ration and your blood stained canines mark deep regrets into his raw skin. That wasn’t supposed to happen (and yet it did). He never looks at you the same way. You cover your mouth in shame and regret (What a pity).
When you’ve been given nothing but crumbs your entire life, it’s easy to gorge yourself on something that looks much more sizable than your last meal. This time, his hand is gentle and the offerings are plentiful. That’s too good to be true. You become delirious at the thought of receiving more than the bare minimum you’ve been convinced was enough for so long, and that delusion of grandeur leads to wanting more. And more. And more.
Until there’s nothing left to take. How can there be nothing else there? You’re still empty, unfulfilled. Where did it all go? Is that all? Many questions arise and now so do you, the Hunger of all hungers, the insatiable maw bent on serving the chained beasts within the sharp corridors of your viscera.
No answer will ever be good enough for you. Nothing will ever be good enough for you. And in turn, you will never be good enough for anybody. Hunger is a reminder to keep on living, not a company welcomed with open arms and understanding smiles. Your existence is a cautionary tale, an existence of desperation and instinct, of resignment and unbecoming.
****
You never see him again. Parts of him are still stuck in your teeth that you can’t seem to get out, a sick reminder of your displays of intensity that make you never open your mouth anymore. You no longer eat, or sleep for that matter. You let the Hunger consume you.
By virtue of inaction, you learn not to bite the hand that feeds you as long as you never approach it. You cannot bite that which isn’t there, and as such you will never harm another again. You sit with your hunger, alone.
And that prevents me from showing you what you’re truly capable of. You often forget that you're alive and you have to eat in order to survive. But to eat means you must betray yourself, you must betray your non-humanity in the face of something you can comprehend but never touch.
It’s always within your reach, but not quite. And for all your efforts to deny your nature, I’ll be the sharp thorns in your abdomen reminding you that you must try again. And again. And again,
They say you must never bite the hand that feeds you, but I– I’ll prove them otherwise (for you are Hunger, and I am you).
Larry Reverie, 22, Bucharest
While my expertise lies mainly in the visual arts, I like to dabble in prose from time to time.
I'm very drawn towards the repetition of motifs and second person narration so that's what I'll be serving you.