I couldn’t believe him, he was before, on his knees with a crazed glint in his eyes, as he chewed vigorously, his teeth smacking on the flesh that had been torn from me. I forgot the pain for a moment as I took the horror that was my relative, the one that had once raised me and fed me with a bottle in his loving arms, the one who was now breaking my knuckle bones in his strong molars.
My stump of a hand started convulsing, I ripped of my shirt and used it as a bandage around my hand, I glanced down and saw my dear uncle Jinglefarter, who was gingerly gnawing on my carpus, and licking at the sinew. My makeshift bandage was drenched in odd-smelling blood, I just couldn’t live with him anymore, I need to run, and never stop, I would start a new life that started in New York, I couldn’t live as a farm boy, not with my uncle with a craze for blood.
I launched myself out of the door that stood in the way of freedom, I held my stump with my hand that hadn’t been viciously torn apart by a man who had nothing but a need for senseless killing that had taken over him. I thought of my options, I could go into the woods, but I had no survival knowledge and I had a fear of anything wild and untamed, with an unquenchable thirst for blood and death and despair. I thought my best bet was living with my grandfather, the one who was on the side of my family that wasn’t associated with cannibals. He lived on a farmhouse on the prairie in about a hundred miles from where I stood, there I would hopefully be safe from my father’s side, the side that couldn’t tame the beast.
I bought a bus ticket to the farm in which he lived on, everybody stared with in horror at my bloodied arm and my disgusting body with dirt, grime and dried blood sticking to it annoyingly, like mosquitoes in the hot arid summer of Florida as a little boy, before my father turned rabid like a dog.
I sat on the bus for hours it seemed, though the ride took literally about 30 minutes, I started to panic, thinking I had lost too much blood that I couldn’t stay in the reality of things, but suddenly the bus lurched to a stop and I banged by forehead with a sudden pain on the seat that sat in front of me.
I walked the aisle quickly, not giving them time to gaze in disgust at my handless bubbling wrist. I realized that Stump was not an appropriate name for my bloodied stump, so I would call my faithful companion Bob. I fear I’ve gone quite insane, I thought.