Part I     ✸     Bite The Hand.

you.

𝕺ne, two, three, four, five.

Your father sets the plate in front of you. The knife in his hand drags against the porcelain, an agonizing scrape that makes your teeth hurt. The meat is red in the center, glistening. Bleeding.

"Eat," he says, smiling like a priest at the altar, like a butcher at the block.

Aaron doesn't move. He stares at his plate, then at yours, then at the dark smear on the edge of his fork. He was always the careful one. Always the first to notice.

You pick up your fork and knife. Saw through the meat like you don't know what it is. Like you haven't known for weeks. Months. Maybe forever.

"Eat," your father repeats. His voice sharpens, peels apart, the single syllable curling at the edges.

Aaron doesn't.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten—

There is no sound except the tick of the grandfather clock, the slow drag of your father's breath. Aaron's chair scrapes back.

"No."

The word hangs in the air, ugly. Loud. It shatters something. Your father stands.

You keep chewing, keep swallowing, keep pretending not to watch as Aaron is led out of the room.

Then I let it go again—

Your father returns alone. He wipes his hands with a damp cloth, rolling his sleeves back down, buttoning the cuffs neatly.

Why did you let it go?

"Eat," he tells you.

You do.

Because it bit my finger so—

Aaron doesn't come back until morning.

There is a bandage wrapped tight around his hand. You see it when he reaches for his glass of water, when he curls his fingers against the table's edge. A dark stain blooms through the gauze.

You stare.

He won't look at you.

You don't understand—not at first, not until he fumbles the glass, not until his fingers spread wide, not until you see the space where his little finger should be.

Which finger did it bite?

This little finger on the right.

Your stomach lurches. You clamp your teeth down on your tongue, hard, hard enough to keep the bile down. You can still taste dinner.

Across the table, your father is watching.

A slow, knowing smile.

He hums. A tune you recognize. A nursery rhyme.

"Once I caught a fish alive."

Eat, his eyes say.

You do.

You chew until it's nothing. Until it's gone. Until there is nothing left to bite.

...One, two, three, four, five.

( from lyn! )
date published; 02/01/2024
word count: 448 words.

—i. holy shit, this was actually so disturbing to write

—ii. if you got the double meaning with the nursery rhyme, congrats (and also... are you okay?)

—iii. aaron my precious child i love you