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Dad decides to drive me home for lunch. He wants to de-brief me, and Mom has arranged a special treat. He says I did pretty good. My only mistake was telling Casey she was fat, "You've got to stop saying what you see Kirk. Remember what we teach you; these kids have feelings, your words can hurt. FAT is a banned word buddy," he says, with his usual authority.
Mum is thrilled with my performance, "We can do this Kirk, you can do it!" she says. Dad gets down to business, undresses me and shackles my feet. I need to be naked and restrained at special feeding times; it is a violent, bloody business.
Dad leads me to my feeding room. Mom stays upstairs until it is over, she does not like to see the truth of my existence. My eating habits are not pretty, but you need to experience them to understand how dangerous I am, and the risks my parents are taking to fulfill their dreams. If you are of a sensitive nature, I urge you to look away now.
My treat is a live feed, Wild Boar: The animal circles my feeding pen; pacing, panting - plotting escape. I smell the blood; pumping and pulsating through its body, driving me delirious with desire. It snorts a mix of fear and fight; ad my grunts of blood thirsty anticipation and you hear the sinister sound of impending slaughter. Dad's breath billows upwards like clouds in the freezing basement air. I shuffle forward, my shackles scraping against the icy slate of the basement floor. Dad pulls back the metal bolt, the gate screeches slowly open. There is a moments calm before I launch myself at lunch – but, one of my shackles catches in the gate. Stuck. I grasp for the boar; it charges: head back, mouth open, ready to fight for life. It seizes the opportunity, squeals past me, past Dad, up the stairs, ramming the door to our living space.
Lunch escaped me. Not good.
A Wild Boar fighting for life is just as dangerous as I am. I hear it charging round the living room above, battering and shattering anything that stands in freedoms way. There is little Mom and Dad can do, except keep out of its way and wait for it to tire. I can't wait, I am hungry.
Mortal bodies react to the lack of food very differently to mine. You will become progressively weak as your body struggles to cope with starvation and malnutrition. My body, when deprived of food, does the pole opposite; It grows stronger. My compulsion to feed builds strength – super human strength.
Mom and Dad have more than the boar to contend with; it is way past my feeding time - nothing can stop me now.
My shackles snap like cheese strings when I pull them apart. I race upstairs with a speed to match my strength. Mom and Dad are locked in their reinforced safety booth, the second time they have used it since my death. Mom has her back to me, Dad watches; he likes to learn from my behaviour.
The boar waits at the opposite side of the room, ready to pounce. When I crouch, her nostril's flair – it charges. I leap across the room like a missile. We collide in an explosion of guts and gore. It doesn't suffer, its death is instant.
I feed in a frenzy, leaving bloody carnage in my wake. I do not think I will be returning to High School today.
I sit amongst the wreckage of our living room, a riot of smashed furniture, broken boar bones and blood. My breaths are short and quick as my corpse expels the recently ingested boar. It seeps from my nose, ears, and mouth; a thick viscous, foul green sludge. It collects and pools on the tiled floor, creating a foul smelling pond that fills our house with its vicious, deathly stench.
My parents have become accustomed to my putrid post feeding smells, they no longer cover their faces with surgical masks. Mom sobs quietly as she surveys the scene. Dad, ever practical, begins the clean up. They are safe now. A boar is a substantial feed, my hunger will remain at safe levels for the next 48 hours. Mom wipes away her tears and smiles, she tussles my hair, "Kirk, I'm going to handle this like any normal mother whose child has an eating disorder would. I need to support you, help you find a healthy balance with food," she says, happy the horror is over.
Dad hoses me down in my eating pen. The jet is fierce and freezing, but I do not feel it; there is nothing to feel in my hell.
As I drip dry, locked tight in the cold darkness of my basement prison, I hear a sound I do not recognize: ding, dong, ding dong. Then Mom's voice, tinged with a hint of panic, "The doorbell honey, who can this be?" Dad's voice, as always, reassures her, "Relax, it's probably just an innocent caller, maybe somebody selling something. Or Mormons preaching," he chuckles.
This is strange, no one calls here. After the accident, my parents moved from New Jersey to suburban Oregon to prevent people calling – far away from old friends and family; where it is easier to keep me, their secret, safe.
Mom opens the door, "Hello, can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm sorry to disturb you, but does Kirk Russel live here?"
"Erm, sorry, who are you?" says Mom, flustered.
"My name's Casey. I met Kirk today at high school, he didn't show up after lunch; I just wanted to check he was OK, that's all."
Mom changes her tone, "That's really sweet of you Casey, would you like to come in?"
Her delicious fragrance fills my basement. I hear them chat in the show room, the one designed for moments like this. It is where framed family pictures sit on side cabinets and hang on walls; just like the pictures that adorn your home. Except this is a charade, Mom's way of keeping up the pretence of my life.
Mom is in her element, talking animatedly about me to Casey. I hear the constant noise of Mom's voice – then she says words I do not expect: "Casey, there's something about Kirk that's different, very different. Can I confide in You...?"
