[FICTION] Kyet and His Finger
Preface: This piece is a short story and poem hybrid. It is meant to explore and effectively utilize the senses as a way to immerse the reader in the protagonist's perspective.
When he was younger, Kyet heard that it took about the same amount of force to bite through a pinky as it did to bite through a carrot. There were two reasons why there were more people with ten fingers instead of eight. The first was that people were careful of their well being, as pain was a strong deterrent against many things however small or insignificant as a pinky. The second, closely related to the first, was that it is an almost impossible feat due to the human brain hard wiring against it's own destruction.
Kyet had immediately dismissed these claims as bullshit off hand.
He was compelled to bite his finger now, to feel the tactile hard soft resistance on his teeth, the satisfaction of having to pulverize whatever was in his mouth, to feel the power of his jaws break apart bone, muscle, and skin. The tidbit from his youth came to mind in that moment. He wanted to test it, to see whether his pinky could withstand the force of a carrot. He set his teeth on the brink, observing the sharp ache in his hand, being totally prepared to go beyond what was said to be the mental limit of his otherwise unstoppable jaw.
I could bite off a finger if I really wanted to, he thought.
There was a small bit of blood. He could feel the curiously cool liquid blossoming in tiny domed drops that trickled to the side of his lips and cheek. Its taste was mixed with aroma of dirt from the gardens and the oil used to lubricate the hydraulics in the trash compactor. Perhaps it was his imagination, but faintly he could also taste Olive's sweat. How would he know what that tasted like anyway? His tongue lied; she'd never let him touch her, had never let him touch her. Kyet applied more pressure to his finger, wanting more, the soil, the machine, the sweat.
When Kyet let go, he found himself disappointed that he was still in possession of all his digits, disappointed that his hand was stronger than a carrot.
When he was younger, Kyet heard that it took about the same amount of force to bite through a pinky as it did to bite through a carrot. There were two reasons why there were more people with ten fingers instead of eight. The first was that people were careful of their well being, as pain was a strong deterrent against many things however small or insignificant as a pinky. The second, closely related to the first, was that it is an almost impossible feat due to the human brain hard wiring against it's own destruction.
Kyet had immediately dismissed these claims as bullshit off hand.
He was compelled to bite his finger now, to feel the tactile hard soft resistance on his teeth, the satisfaction of having to pulverize whatever was in his mouth, to feel the power of his jaws break apart bone, muscle, and skin. The tidbit from his youth came to mind in that moment. He wanted to test it, to see whether his pinky could withstand the force of a carrot. He set his teeth on the brink, observing the sharp ache in his hand, being totally prepared to go beyond what was said to be the mental limit of his otherwise unstoppable jaw.
I could bite off a finger if I really wanted to, he thought.
There was a small bit of blood. He could feel the curiously cool liquid blossoming in tiny domed drops that trickled to the side of his lips and cheek. Its taste was mixed with aroma of dirt from the gardens and the oil used to lubricate the hydraulics in the trash compactor. Perhaps it was his imagination, but faintly he could also taste Olive's sweat. How would he know what that tasted like anyway? His tongue lied; she'd never let him touch her, had never let him touch her. Kyet applied more pressure to his finger, wanting more, the soil, the machine, the sweat.
When Kyet let go, he found himself disappointed that he was still in possession of all his digits, disappointed that his hand was stronger than a carrot.
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