Guy knew that it was a nervous tick.
He couldn’t help it though; his anxieties increased one hundred fold when he had to do things that were out of his ‘comfort zone’ as it was. No medications seemed to do the trick. His mother always yelled at him and belittled him for it. In Guy’s mind it was far worse than bedwetting, far worse than Turrets Syndrome and much worse than cutting yourself.
“Stop doing that!” Leslie shouted from the living room couch. Her favorite show was on and she was focused on it. Guy’s finger nail biting was getting the best of her and she had to show some frustration. “What happens if your fingers start to bleed?” She continued.
“Yeah right.” Guy threw it back to her. His nails were pretty short. They would grow for a while but then the urge got him strong enough that the feeding frenzy would continue. Leslie headed for the door.
“I’m going to be gone for awhile, Guy.” She barked. “You’re gonna have to find something for yourself to eat. There is some chicken pot pies, you know, the ones you like that you get from a freezer. Oh…there is…um…hotdogs—
“Yeah.” Guy cut her off. “I got it!”
She bounced out of the house and slammed the door. Guy and Leslie had their share of ups and downs but after the loss of their first born to crib death a few years ago, the separation started to take place in their marriage. Guy stared at the fingernail clippings on the kitchen table. He gathered them up and threw them in the waste basket. She is right though, I need to stop. He thought about it really hard as he continued on his slow course to cuticle disaster. Getting up from the kitchen table, Guy opened the refrigerator freezer and took out one of those chicken pot pies. He glared at the label in disgust, it read: MR. JOHNSON’S CHICKEN POT PIE…WITH REAL VEGETABLES. Why in the world a food package would have to say the words ‘Real Vegetables’ was beyond him but it was true, he did like them.
A few days later Guy managed to break his back while working on his roof. He fell fifteen feet to the ground, hitting it on some of the scrap roofing that he had thrown down. Later he discovered that the scrap was hiding a large rock underneath. He howled in pain as his spine broke forth from the skin. He lay there, not moving, a pool of maroon caressed the ground underneath him. Soon Guy and Leslie were on their way to the hospital after a desperate call to 911. Guy’s anxiety intensified as the ambulance roared through the streets, jostling him around in the back of it. He was stabilized but the pain was unbearable. They plunged the gurney into the swinging doors of the ER and attended to him, Leslie by his side.
They let him go a week later. Leslie gave in to his every whim while he rehabilitated. The nail biting got worse. One day his fingers did start to bleed.
“I told you to stop it, they’re bleeding aren’t they?” Leslie scolded Guy like a little child.
“Can you get me some bandages, babe?” Guy didn’t pay any attention to the scolding; he laid there in the bed, wiping the blood off onto his pajama bottoms. A few days later he had the bandages off and his fingers were in his mouth again. Soon the fingernails were gone down to the cuticles. Guy was in some pain but of course it was easy to deal with since he was already taking Vicodin for the pain from his back. Leslie noticed blood on the bed sheets that he had thrown into the clothes basket right by his bed.
“What’s this?” Leslie looked stunned as she pulled out a bloody sheet from the dirty clothes hamper. Guy showed her his hand. She gasped and ran to the bathroom to get some more bandages and antiseptic. The skin around Guy’s fingers was gone. The muscle was exposed and there were hints of white poking through the red matter. Guy had eaten his way through the skin. Upon further inspection, Leslie noticed flesh colored pieces of skin on the floor next to his bed. He actually chewed off the skin and spit it out on the floor! Leslie was starting to get sick. By this time Guy had been taking three Vicodin a day. He was pretty much numb to the excruciating pain he would be suffering if it hadn’t been for the pills. Leslie cleaned up the excess blood, bandaged his hand up and walked out of their bedroom in shock. For the next few days, Guy laid in bed, staring out into space and didn’t even try to get out of bed like the doctor told him to. It was hard to get up though, without the pills he felt like a ton of bricks came crashing down on him. There was nothing to do but to chew on his hand again. The bandages were soaked through and he didn’t bother to put anymore on. His wife gave him all the necessary things to use but he didn’t use them. Before he commenced to chewing, he took four Vicodin. He laid there bleeding, his hand lying on his chest, bony fingers exposed. Guy had finally chewed his way to the bone. His fingers were red laden, some bits and pieces of muscle tissue were still attached. Soon that was gone too. He started to eat the palm of his hand.
Leslie started up the stairs to their bedroom. She walked slowly towards the door and opened it just a crack. Guy was sitting up in bed, his mouth red from eating his hand. A bottle of Vicodin was on the floor beside him…empty. Leslie fell to the ground in fright.
“Honey?” Guy seemed surprised. No answer. Pretty soon Guy had chewed down to his wrist. He was bleeding profusely now…he smiled a grin only someone who was stoned out of their mind would make. He died right there, bleeding.
Leslie awoke and staggered to the bed. Guy was there. He was dead. His wrist hung over the bed, dripping blood. She looked down and screamed. Her clothes were covered in his blood. She had been lying there while his wrist drained on her. She continued to scream as she looked upon Guy in terror. He was staring back at her with his…dead…eyes and he was smiling, a dead…bloody…smile.
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