by: Kylie Chi

He’s staring at me in that way that men do. The way that men stare when they want to intimidate a girl. You know the way. I can feel his eyes on me from across the subway, daring me to look. Daring me to assert my autonomy and do something about it. If I look, he’ll do one of two things: he’ll either make some sort of suggestive gesture (ew) or he’ll meet my eyes with that dead stare of a man prepared to kill for his stupid pride (double ew). He won’t look away, even after I do. Maybe he thinks it’s harmless, but us women know it’s not. We know that he’s hoping we’ll push so that he can push back too far. He’s probably rock hard under that suit that I regretfully acknowledge is a pretty nice suit. I don’t have the time or mental capacity to wonder what he’s thinking, but I wonder anyway. Another effect of those burrowing, angry eyes that just Won’t. Look. Away.

I think people get squeamish about the blood, but I crave it filling my mouth warm and silky, its tendrils flowing around my jaw, my neck, soaking my clothes. That full mouthed, full bodied transcendent satisfaction that flings you simultaneously to each and every corner of the universe, but you don’t feel stretched or thinned; you feel powerful. And whole. In consuming this flesh, you’ve consumed every part of existence and the force of it pumps life into you with every fading beat of your victim’s heart. Or, at least, that’s what I think it will feel like to rip someone’s throat out with my teeth. I’ll finally become Me. The Me that was alive long before my mother birthed me. The Me that’s nothing but pure Big Bang energy.

He’s still staring. We’ve passed four stops now and he’s still staring. I thought this was an everyday occurrence of ocular harassment, but as the number of people on the subway dwindle, my anxiety grows. It’s late on a weekday night so there won’t be many people out. I’m starting to dread the walk from the subway to my apartment. It’s not exactly short and those eyes. It feels like they’re already waiting behind every trashcan and bush.

Frenzied and primordial, the longing to bite, tear, and rip visits me often about the day and I am forced to satiate it with nothing more than a daydream of pouncing on a fellow commuter. My body craves the mechanical clamping of my jaw against something truly resistant. It’s like jamming a knife through the hard shell of a pumpkin and into its guts. It’s like popping a pimple that could use a couple more hours to ripen. I always assume this urge to be universal. I speak it to the world and am met with judgment and, what is that, horror? I don’t believe them. Surly they’re just performing for the sake of taboo. Don’t they know that anti-cannibalism rhetoric is born from racist colonialism? “Savage” and “cannibal” the ultimate one-two punch of excuses for exterminating a native people. I feel like we as a society have moved on from such trifling social entrapments.

We’re now the only ones still on the subway car. I get up and move toward the end farthest away from him, pretending to play with my phone. No service. Of course, we’re underground, I’m not going to get a signal for another ten minutes. He’s gotten up now, also pretending to check his phone, meandering toward the door that just happens to be between me and him. We blow into the station before my own and my heart sinks. It’s empty. The door opens and he stands blocking my exist. I don’t know what to do so I freeze. He smirks and locks eyes with me. The door closes. Shit. And then it happens, so fast, and he has me pushed up against the door, his hands tightening around my throat.

But this is what I want. I’m so close now. Close enough to work my fingers around his plump and gleaming eyes. I no longer have to pretend. I finally feel their texture (it’s like wet velvet. A cue ball wrapped in the table’s felt and drowned in the ocean. A hollow and homeless pearl searching for a purpose and finding it) under my fingers. The “pop” of them escaping their sockets as I dig my digits deeper into their edges sends a shiver down my spine. And then the explosive satisfaction of clamping my teeth down upon this pair of eyes as they burst like fatty grapes against my cheeks. He screams and falls, and I take only but a second to revel in the enormity of my own body. I’m still the same small girl I’ve always been but suddenly I feel like my back is brushing against ceiling of the subway car. I snap my jaw once and then I’m on him. I tug his hair to expose his thick neck and my teeth piece over that beating carotid. The burst of blood is hot and the skin much tougher than I imagined, but that doesn’t stop me. Nothing can stop me now. The frenzy has finally begun and it will not end until I have consumed every last bite.


Kylie Chi is a film and TV writer, Dungeons and Dragon enthusiast, and a pretty good cook (especially when it's for attention). Her dream is to quadruple gay buff women representation in Hollywood before she dies. Based in Los Angeles, Kylie lives with her two cats and her incredibly sexy wife. You can find Kylie on twitter and instagram at @thekyliechi