Spring 1994 – Feeding the Hungry Wound

 

Hop slouched in the corner, in a large and clearly well used recliner. The only light in the room came from a television tuned to a news station. The sound was off. Hop’s eyes were only half open. Given the reek of marijuana in the room I assumed that he was very stoned. He nodded to indicate that he had noticed my presence. I said, “Tell me about it.”

He closed his eyes completely for a moment and then forced them wide. He said, “It’s fucked is what it is. I can’t leave this house. I can’t be ’round people. I can’t see no doctor. Not with the police looking for me.”

I nodded. “Skinny William says it ate his hand.”

Hop nodded slowly. He said, “The fucked up thing ’bout it? I got no control over it but I could taste Skinny’s fingers while it chewed. Skinny got filthy hands.”