u/donavin221

I don’t even know how I landed this position. I'm not qualified at all. All I know is I was looking online for a way to make quick money on the side to help pay for groceries or whatever.

I ended up coming across this ad on, like, the 6th Google page. Hidden between obvious scams and what I was 100 percent sure were viruses.

That’s actually what made this particular ad stand out. It didn’t look like typical 6th-page gobbledegook. It was actually pretty well put together.

The incentive was simple enough. 500 dollars for every crime I could act as a witness for, with opportunities for advancement.

I called up the number that was listed, just to feel things out, and was met with an actual human on the other end. Not only was she human. She sounded like she was actually tired of all the calls she was getting.

“Can I help you?” she hissed.

“Yeah, I was just looking online when I came across this ad…”

“Are you 18 or older?” she interrupted.

“Uh, yeah, of course I am. I just wanted to make sure…”

“What’s your email address?”

“My email address? Why would you need that?”

She sounded personally offended that I was even asking. Like somehow it was me being unreasonable.

“Well, hon, so we can send you the onboarding information. You know what an onboarding is, right?”

“Yeah, but I…”

“Listen, Mike, it’s an easy job. All the information is in the onboarding packet. Take it or leave it, I don’t really care.”

I don’t know why I gave her my information. Maybe it’s the mommy issues. All I know is she felt dominating.

Anyway, the email came through about 5-10 minutes later. Didn’t go to my spam mailbox, which was a good sign, I guess.

I threw on my monocle and went over everything with a fine-tooth comb. Just to make sure I wasn’t getting myself into any legal trouble or anything. Truthfully, though, the whole thing was pretty straightforward.

Call-based job. They call, I can either accept or reject the assignment. And all I had to do was be at the location of a crime as it took place.

Well, maybe that’s simplifying it too much. I actually needed to be the first person to witness it. They kept a pretty strict schedule.

I’m not sure how they got my number, though. Not long after I went over the onboarding information, my phone started ringing off the hook. I was getting calls at least once an hour.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth call that I accepted an assignment, though. Mostly because it was literally just 15 minutes away from my house. I could literally bike there.

I was supposed to show up at 1:03 PM on the dot. They gave me coordinates instead of an address. All I had to do was just wait.

I got there right on time. A little intersection right on the edge of town. When I arrived, all I could do was just stand there on the sidewalk, waiting for something to happen.

Finally, right at 1:07, a guy in a white Miata blew through the stoplight and T-boned this other guy in a pickup truck. The crash looked pretty brutal, but both of them seemed pretty alright, I guess. I mean, they got out and started arguing, so I’m assuming no one was too injured.

See, I thought I was gonna have to be a witness for the police. But not even 30 seconds after the incident occurred, I got a notification on my phone.

500 dollars had been deposited into my bank account. Then my phone rang with no caller ID.

Some guy with the deepest, darkest voice I’d ever heard simply said, “Assignment complete. Return home and await next assignment,” before abruptly hanging up on me.

Who was I to give even a morsel of a hoot or a holler, though? All I cared about was that 500 dollars hitting my bank account.

Needless to say, I started accepting more and more assignments after that. Nothing too crazy would ever happen. I saw a lot of car accidents. Lot of bar fights. More than a few shoplifting incidents.

Then I got a call I’d never gotten before. This one was classified as ‘intermediate.’ And it paid 750 instead of 500.

I just thought, hell, I’ll take it. Couldn’t be too bad.

The time was kind of late, though. 11:12 PM. Not to mention the coordinates led me to a dark alley behind a popular bar in town.

I sat there and waited. Ducking behind a dumpster and listening for, I don’t know, crime to occur or something.

At 11:15, it started.

I heard an angry male voice and a pleading female voice. Both sounding equally intoxicated. I peeked out from behind my dumpster and saw that the man had a knife.

He was poking it at the lady, attempting to steal her purse, but she wouldn’t let go. That is, until he stabbed her. Kinda let go no problem after that.

He snatched the purse and left the knife in her torso as she fell to the ground. Thirty seconds later, the 750 hit my account.

Every instinct told me to call the police, but right when I went to dial, I got a call.

“Assignment complete. Return home and await next assignment.”

The line went dead. I stared at my phone. My eyes flicked over towards the dying woman. Unbelievably, she managed to meet my gaze.

I think she tried to mouth a ‘help me,’ but her voice was so garbled it was hard to make out. Besides, I couldn’t help her. As soon as my line went dead, I got another notification on my phone.

A text from an unknown number that simply read, “Do not interfere. Assignment complete. Return home and await next assignment.”

So that’s exactly what I did.

And I’d love to tell you that after that I retired and moved on with my life. But who am I kidding? I was making enough to leave my regular job behind. All I had to do was watch shit happen.

I kept taking those intermediate assignments. I watched drug deals go wrong. Watched people bleed out on the hot asphalt. Watched robberies turn into homicides like it was nothing.

I guess I should’ve listened to my conviction. Maybe that would’ve saved me a lot of sleepless nights. But at least I was tossing and turning with a roof over my head.

And besides, it’s kinda just the way life goes. You live. You make decisions. Sometimes those decisions get you killed. Either way, we all die someday.

Even still, I probably should’ve stopped at intermediate. Because I got my first advanced assignment last week. Got paid 1000 dollars, but I don’t think that’s enough for what I had to see. At least, in hindsight.

When I first got offered the assignment, I was fired up and ready to go. Got the time. Got the coordinates. And off I went, mentally preparing myself as I made my way to the location.

As I got closer, though, a pit started opening up in my stomach. I recognized this place. I wasn’t out in the world. I was home. Well, my old home. Back when I used to live with my parents.

Unlike other times, I could hear the crime building up as I approached. Dad must’ve been drunk again. All I could hear was his angry voice and Mom’s screams as she fought back tears.

A notification popped up on my phone.

“Do not interfere.”

So I didn’t. I just peeked in through the window while Mom and Dad paced back and forth through the house, fighting like cats and dogs.

Normally, that’d just be Tuesday. But Dad had a gun this night. He was waving it around. Punctuating his screams with it. All while Mom stood her ground like the fierce woman she was.

I’d love to tell you that part of me wanted to interfere, but in all honesty, this was just business to me. Just another day at the office.

Even still, I won’t lie to you, seeing Dad smack Mom across her face definitely struck a chord with me. But I remained professional. I just watched and waited.

Part of me hoped that was it. That the crime was the domestic assault. That the money would hit my account any second. But all that came were more screams from inside the house.

Fortunately, Mom and Dad lived out in the sticks. Didn’t have many neighbors to call the police. That would’ve thrown a wrench in this whole operation. Instead, there was nobody there to stop the escalation.

Things just kept getting louder and louder until it finally happened. Right there in the living room. The room where I used to open presents every Christmas. Where me and Dad used to watch football together before his drinking got out of control.

Now that room was covered in my mother’s blood and brain matter. Across the walls, staining the carpet, a smoking hole in the wall behind her.

Immediately, I saw Dad’s entire demeanor change. He went from filled with rage to overwhelmed with remorse and regret in basically the blink of an eye.

I felt my phone vibrate with a notification, but I didn’t bother to check it. I couldn’t help but keep staring at Dad as he fell over Mom’s lifeless body, sobbing uncontrollably.

My phone rang and rang, but I didn’t answer.

All I did was watch.

Watch as Dad’s grief overwhelmed him. Watch as regret took the form of self-hatred. Watch as the gun he used to kill Mom was pointed at his own head. And watch as he, too, fell limply to the ground.

His eyes met mine for the last time. There were no memories of my childhood. No love that once existed somewhere within him. Just two empty pupils fluttering like a baby doll’s.

I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t. I’d been so desensitized that all I could think about was how I’d have to react when the police told me.

I finally answered my phone, though. Got the same message I always got. The assignment was completed. It was time for me to go home and wait for the next one.

I had to put on a big song and dance for authorities. Not to mention their funerals. Which was surprisingly difficult because just… I don’t know.

It didn’t feel too big to me. I mean, yeah, it stung, they were my parents and all. But just… we didn’t talk too much anymore, you know?

Ah, you don’t care about that. No need to drone on.

Point is, I didn’t take a lot of assignments for a few days after that. It was the least I could do.

But time has passed now. Everybody has to move on at some point. I still get those calls every day. I get a lot of advanced offers.

I think it’s time I finally pick myself up by my bootstraps and get back to work.

It started with just one.

I was taking a shower when I got this weird pain in my right arm. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before. I guess I’d been too busy to notice the irritation.

When my eyes landed on it, though, I immediately felt bile rising up in my throat.

It wasn’t a maggot. No, what I actually saw when I glanced down was what looked like a boil. About the size of a quarter, bright red and brimming with what I assumed was green and white pus.

It was hot to the touch. So much so that I had to draw my hand back as soon as I fingered it. It was like touching a glowing eye on a stove.

It sort of… responded to my touch.

Like I’d disturbed it or something.

Needless to say, showering quickly became my lowest priority as I hopped out and wrapped my torso with a towel.

I went to my bedroom and found some tweezers that I usually used for splinters and what have you. I started trying to pop the thing, but it just wouldn’t budge.

The pain was maddening, but the sight of it was worse. I needed this thing off of me. Tweezers refused to work, so I switched to pliers. I kept pulling and pulling until… pop.

The boil burst, and a puddle of syrupy, red, white, and green sludge coated about 6 inches of my forearm.

The pain subsided slightly, but it was replaced with a new sensation. It felt like there was something swimming through my blood and patching the hole in my arm.

I figured that it must’ve been some excess pus, so I just kept squeezing with my thumb and index finger until I caught sight of what actually lay beneath the skin.

I was forcing it through the wound with my squeezing. It was wriggling. It was squirming. And it was massive.

When its body finally poked out through the hole, I grabbed the tweezers again. It held on for dear life, taking chunks of flesh out of my arm as I pulled, but I removed it and examined it between the forceps.

A fucking maggot.

I couldn’t hold back the vomit anymore. I barely had time to grab a trash can before it came spewing out.

I sat the little fucker on my desk and burned it with a lighter. I swear I could hear it screaming in pain as the flame caused it to pop like a tick.

I hoped that’d be the end of it, but that hope was short-lived. It was like my entire arm started to pulsate and bulge after I took out what I thought was the source of the problem.

Boils started popping up all over my arm. From my wrist all the way to my shoulder. They threatened to move to my neck and head if I didn’t act fast.

It was like active volcanoes. I couldn’t even look at myself. All I could do was grab a knife and get to work. Well, a knife and a spatula. I needed something to bite down on just so I didn’t bite my tongue in the process.

The blade glided through the dozen or so boils on my forearm, sliding through them like hot butter as tears fell from my eyes and I stifled screams.

Dozens of maggots fell from each boil I removed. I had to stomp them into my carpet because they just kept crawling towards my feet.

My arm and shoulder were nothing more than raw, bloody meat covered in that syrupy liquid. It was like my body was more maggot than human.

There was an ocean of the things eating away at my dead flesh. I’d scrape them away with the blade, and hundreds more would pop up seemingly out of nowhere.

That’s when my vision started to get blurry. I could feel myself getting weaker and weaker. The world was swimming, and I was getting lightheaded.

I guess I passed out from the blood loss?

I’m not sure. Maybe it was the shock. All I know is, when I woke up… my body was completely healed.

I could still see the bugs writhing beneath my skin, and my carpet was still stained with pus and crushed maggots. But the pain was gone. My flesh was back. The only abnormality was one single boil right in the center of my forearm.

I stared at it for a few minutes.

Ultimately, I decided to leave it there.

There was no way I was going to go through that again.

It started with just one.

I was taking a shower when I got this weird pain in my right arm. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before. I guess I’d been too busy to notice the irritation.

When my eyes landed on it, though, I immediately felt bile rising up in my throat.

It wasn’t a maggot. No, what I actually saw when I glanced down was what looked like a boil. About the size of a quarter, bright red and brimming with what I assumed was green and white pus.

It was hot to the touch. So much so that I had to draw my hand back as soon as I fingered it. It was like touching a glowing eye on a stove.

It sort of… responded to my touch.

Like I’d disturbed it or something.

Needless to say, showering quickly became my lowest priority as I hopped out and wrapped my torso with a towel.

I went to my bedroom and found some tweezers that I usually used for splinters and what have you. I started trying to pop the thing, but it just wouldn’t budge.

The pain was maddening, but the sight of it was worse. I needed this thing off of me. Tweezers refused to work, so I switched to pliers. I kept pulling and pulling until… pop.

The boil burst, and a puddle of syrupy, red, white, and green sludge coated about 6 inches of my forearm.

The pain subsided slightly, but it was replaced with a new sensation. It felt like there was something swimming through my blood and patching the hole in my arm.

I figured that it must’ve been some excess pus, so I just kept squeezing with my thumb and index finger until I caught sight of what actually lay beneath the skin.

I was forcing it through the wound with my squeezing. It was wriggling. It was squirming. And it was massive.

When its body finally poked out through the hole, I grabbed the tweezers again. It held on for dear life, taking chunks of flesh out of my arm as I pulled, but I removed it and examined it between the forceps.

A fucking maggot.

I couldn’t hold back the vomit anymore. I barely had time to grab a trash can before it came spewing out.

I sat the little fucker on my desk and burned it with a lighter. I swear I could hear it screaming in pain as the flame caused it to pop like a tick.

I hoped that’d be the end of it, but that hope was short-lived. It was like my entire arm started to pulsate and bulge after I took out what I thought was the source of the problem.

Boils started popping up all over my arm. From my wrist all the way to my shoulder. They threatened to move to my neck and head if I didn’t act fast.

It was like active volcanoes. I couldn’t even look at myself. All I could do was grab a knife and get to work. Well, a knife and a spatula. I needed something to bite down on just so I didn’t bite my tongue in the process.

The blade glided through the dozen or so boils on my forearm, sliding through them like hot butter as tears fell from my eyes and I stifled screams.

Dozens of maggots fell from each boil I removed. I had to stomp them into my carpet because they just kept crawling towards my feet.

My arm and shoulder were nothing more than raw, bloody meat covered in that syrupy liquid. It was like my body was more maggot than human.

There was an ocean of the things eating away at my dead flesh. I’d scrape them away with the blade, and hundreds more would pop up seemingly out of nowhere.

That’s when my vision started to get blurry. I could feel myself getting weaker and weaker. The world was swimming, and I was getting lightheaded.

I guess I passed out from the blood loss?

I’m not sure. Maybe it was the shock. All I know is, when I woke up… my body was completely healed.

I could still see the bugs writhing beneath my skin, and my carpet was still stained with pus and crushed maggots. But the pain was gone. My flesh was back. The only abnormality was one single boil right in the center of my forearm.

I stared at it for a few minutes.

Ultimately, I decided to leave it there.

There was no way I was going to go through that again.

Look, we all have a past. Peppered with those memories we want so desperately to erase. It’s just a part of being human. Nobody’s perfect.

Me personally… I thought that I’d put my past behind me.

I was a bad person. I did things that I’m far from proud of. Looking back now in my older age, I don’t even know how things spiraled as bad as they did.

All it took was one hit, and it was downhill from there. One little mistake. One memory I wish I could erase. And here we are, all these years later, and I still feel those urges.

I tried therapy. I tried rehabilitation. It worked, for a time.

I don’t know if it was me who wanted to get better or if it was the pressure from my friends and family. They kept telling me they couldn’t protect me forever. That, eventually, my lifestyle would catch up to me, and I’d either be dead or in jail.

I suppressed my urges. I fought my demons. I want so desperately to believe that I kicked my nasty little habit.

I was clean for 11 years. Over a decade without incident. But no matter how many days went by, my demons kept whispering to me. Getting louder and louder as my withdrawals became unbearable.

But I stood firm. I ignored the darkness. To the best of my ability, at least. Don’t get me wrong, there were hard days. Days where I’d lock myself away in my room, too afraid of what would happen if I went out.

It’s a surreal feeling. Not being in control. But that’s what addiction does. You surrender control the minute you take that first hit.

But, like I said, I thought I’d taken that control back. I improved. I became a functioning member of society.

I just think… I don’t know. I think my body wanted it more than my mind did.

I relapsed last month.

Not by choice. God, I know it wasn’t by choice. You don’t achieve 11 years of success by sheer accident. I know it wasn’t me.

It was almost supernatural.

One minute I’m in my room reading my Bible, the next I wake up in a house that I don’t recognize. The familiar scent of copper and iron filled the air.

I thought I was in a nightmare, but the pain in my arm told me that this was just as real as it was all those years ago.

When I saw the claw marks across my forearm and shoulder, I felt my stomach drop. They must’ve fought back. And by the looks of it, they fought hard.

I hardly had time to dwell on my injury, though. The taste in my mouth was making me want to vomit. Not because of the taste, but because of what it represented.

I knew that taste. I loved that taste. I’d spent years trying to forget it, but blood has a way of lingering.

I puked on the floor and felt bones and tendons scratch at my throat. My vision went blurry with tears, but that didn’t prevent me from seeing what I’d done.

A man, somewhere around 30-40, lay sprawled out across the ground. His arms were gone. His stomach was torn open. His jaw had been dislocated and hung open as he stared at me through those empty sockets.

A woman, I presume his wife, lay beside him. Her condition wasn’t much better.

I prayed for God to wake me up. To snap me out of this dream. When I realized it wasn’t going to happen, I begged for forgiveness.

I begged for him to recognize my heart. I pleaded for him to acknowledge my growth. I backslid. I made a mistake. I couldn’t even remember it.

After what felt like hours of bawling my eyes out in a pool of blood and vomit, I realized the sun was beginning to peek through the curtains of this dark room.

I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to throw my life away. I had to move.

I cleaned myself up in their bathroom as best I could before leaving that damn house, already pushing the memory of it back to the darkest corners of my brain.

How did I even end up 20 miles from home? Who were those people? Why am I like this? Why can’t I be better? What the fuck is wrong with me?

I spent the rest of that day locked away in my room, punishing myself with pain. I didn’t deserve to feel comfort.

I kept trying to tell myself that it was nothing more than a hiccup in my progress. That tomorrow would be a new day. But I knew.

I knew that I had reset the system.

I took that hit once again. It was my decision. That’s why I couldn’t blame anyone but myself every time it’s happened since.

This isn’t who I am.

I know I can do better.

I will get this under control if it’s the last thing I do.

Look, we all have a past. Peppered with those memories we want so desperately to erase. It’s just a part of being human. Nobody’s perfect.

Me personally… I thought that I’d put my past behind me.

I was a bad person. I did things that I’m far from proud of. Looking back now in my older age, I don’t even know how things spiraled as bad as they did.

All it took was one hit, and it was downhill from there. One little mistake. One memory I wish I could erase. And here we are, all these years later, and I still feel those urges.

I tried therapy. I tried rehabilitation. It worked, for a time.

I don’t know if it was me who wanted to get better or if it was the pressure from my friends and family. They kept telling me they couldn’t protect me forever. That, eventually, my lifestyle would catch up to me, and I’d either be dead or in jail.

I suppressed my urges. I fought my demons. I want so desperately to believe that I kicked my nasty little habit.

I was clean for 11 years. Over a decade without incident. But no matter how many days went by, my demons kept whispering to me. Getting louder and louder as my withdrawals became unbearable.

But I stood firm. I ignored the darkness. To the best of my ability, at least. Don’t get me wrong, there were hard days. Days where I’d lock myself away in my room, too afraid of what would happen if I went out.

It’s a surreal feeling. Not being in control. But that’s what addiction does. You surrender control the minute you take that first hit.

But, like I said, I thought I’d taken that control back. I improved. I became a functioning member of society.

I just think… I don’t know. I think my body wanted it more than my mind did.

I relapsed last month.

Not by choice. God, I know it wasn’t by choice. You don’t achieve 11 years of success by sheer accident. I know it wasn’t me.

It was almost supernatural.

One minute I’m in my room reading my Bible, the next I wake up in a house that I don’t recognize. The familiar scent of copper and iron filled the air.

I thought I was in a nightmare, but the pain in my arm told me that this was just as real as it was all those years ago.

When I saw the claw marks across my forearm and shoulder, I felt my stomach drop. They must’ve fought back. And by the looks of it, they fought hard.

I hardly had time to dwell on my injury, though. The taste in my mouth was making me want to vomit. Not because of the taste, but because of what it represented.

I knew that taste. I loved that taste. I’d spent years trying to forget it, but blood has a way of lingering.

I puked on the floor and felt bones and tendons scratch at my throat. My vision went blurry with tears, but that didn’t prevent me from seeing what I’d done.

A man, somewhere around 30-40, lay sprawled out across the ground. His arms were gone. His stomach was torn open. His jaw had been dislocated and hung open as he stared at me through those empty sockets.

A woman, I presume his wife, lay beside him. Her condition wasn’t much better.

I prayed for God to wake me up. To snap me out of this dream. When I realized it wasn’t going to happen, I begged for forgiveness.

I begged for him to recognize my heart. I pleaded for him to acknowledge my growth. I backslid. I made a mistake. I couldn’t even remember it.

After what felt like hours of bawling my eyes out in a pool of blood and vomit, I realized the sun was beginning to peek through the curtains of this dark room.

I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to throw my life away. I had to move.

I cleaned myself up in their bathroom as best I could before leaving that damn house, already pushing the memory of it back to the darkest corners of my brain.

How did I even end up 20 miles from home? Who were those people? Why am I like this? Why can’t I be better? What the fuck is wrong with me?

I spent the rest of that day locked away in my room, punishing myself with pain. I didn’t deserve to feel comfort.

I kept trying to tell myself that it was nothing more than a hiccup in my progress. That tomorrow would be a new day. But I knew.

I knew that I had reset the system.

I took that hit once again. It was my decision. That’s why I couldn’t blame anyone but myself every time it’s happened since.

This isn’t who I am.

I know I can do better.

I will get this under control if it’s the last thing I do.

I probably don’t have to explain how difficult it is to be a single parent. My son’s mom died during his birth. Since then, it’s just been me and him.

I tried my best to bring him up right. All things considered, I’m pretty sure I did a damn fine job.

He’s coming up on his 10th birthday, and he’s probably the most well-mannered kid I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

I know that sounds like ‘parent talk,’ but I mean it with my full heart. I’m so proud of him. So proud to be his father. I just know he’s going to be an amazing man when he grows up.

Well, he would’ve been. He’s gone now. The entire house smells like cotton candy, and the scent is getting stronger by the day.

I’m not sure when this whole ordeal started. If I had to pinpoint an exact date, I’d probably say it was around August when he started to act a little weird.

School had just started back, and I was sending my sweet boy out the door to catch his bus. First day of 4th grade. Two more years before my little man was a big ol’ middle schooler.

I waited for him by the door, eyes glistening as I handed him his lunchbox and leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the forehead.

That’s when I noticed something.

He smelled… weirdly sweet. Like when you open a bag of jelly beans or circus peanuts or something.

I just figured it must’ve been that new shampoo I got him. I mean, the bottle itself looked like candy packaging. It was the only thing that made sense to me.

I guess I kept sniffing him a tad bit too long because, before I knew it, he was asking me to let him go so he didn’t miss the bus.

When he came home, though, the smell still hadn’t dissipated. I figured that after 7 hours, it would have at least worn off a little bit, but it was even stronger than when I first noticed it.

It wasn’t until we began talking about his first day of school that I realized something. The smell wasn’t coming from his hair at all. It was coming from his breath.

I asked him if he’d gotten into any candy at school that day, and he adamantly denied it.

Even still, I made him go upstairs to brush his teeth. A few minutes later, he was on the couch watching cartoons while I cooked dinner.

I whipped us up a couple of burgers, but as we ate, the smell of cotton candy still wouldn’t leave my nostrils. Obviously, I asked him if he’d actually brushed his teeth, and he seemed confused that I was even asking.

“Of course I did,” he chirped, cocking an eyebrow at me. “Does my breath smell bad or something?”

Just to be sure, I went and checked his toothbrush. It was wet. There was still spit in the sink. But, while I was up there, the smell was no longer present.

I didn’t want to embarrass him. I simply returned to the table, and we finished our dinner.

I tried to ignore the smell for the rest of the night, convincing myself that I was just going crazy and that it’d be gone by the next day.

That day came, and this time, I could smell the candy all the way from my bedroom. I followed it to my son’s bedroom and found him sleeping peacefully on his side.

However, when I went to wake him up, I found that his mouth was full to the brim with candy. Jelly beans, Nerds, Sour Patch Kids. All covered in spit and slobber. All unchewed.

I picked each candy out, piece by piece, before waking him up. I can admit, I was a bit frustrated. Not even by the candy itself, more so because of how easily he could’ve choked sleeping like that.

“Why did you have all this in your mouth?” I asked him.

“Have what?” he responded, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

I gestured to the pile of candy on his nightstand. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t look nervous. He looked absolutely terrified.

He insisted he had no idea where that stuff had come from, but that just couldn’t be possible, right?

I kept asking him where he got it and just kept getting the same response.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“I swear I don’t know.”

What was I supposed to do? I just threw the candy away and sent him off to school.

The next morning, it happened again. Only this time, he really was choking. He kept vomiting up Lifesavers, candy corn, Tootsie Rolls, all covered in what looked like caramel rather than bile.

From that day forward, I was checking my son’s backpack every time he came home. I’d search his room. I looked in every hiding spot I could find. There was no candy in my house whatsoever.

But, somehow, every morning he’d wake up with a mouth full of candy. Every day, that sweet aroma of his became stronger and stronger.

Days turned into weeks. Things just kept getting weirder. He’d scrape his knee, and instead of blood, I’d find caramel oozing out of the wound. He developed dozens of cavities. I didn’t know what to do.

I think what pushed me over the edge was when I tasted him, though. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was some kind of primal urge when I snuck into his room while he was sleeping.

All I wanted was a taste.

I crept up to his bed, as silent as could be. I bent down, tongue hanging out of my mouth, the smell of cotton candy making me salivate as I pressed my tongue against his forehead.

Immediate sugar rush. Immediate guilt.

I shamefully ran back to my room, unable to get the taste out of my mouth. It plagued my mind for days afterward.

What started as curiosity soon became a craving.

It got to the point where every night I was sneaking into my son’s room for a taste. A dent was forming in his forehead like when you lick a lollipop repeatedly.

When he asked me about it, when he stared in the mirror, wondering why his head was becoming misshapen, all I could tell him was I didn’t know.

My addiction kept getting worse, though.

I started taking bites out of him. It started with his arms. Little nibbles at his fingers to get my fix. But once I ran out of those, I think I got a little carried away.

I gnawed away at his arms and legs, filling my mouth with that sweet, syrupy molasses he had been concealing within himself. It was a slow process, but it got a lot easier once he lost his ability to fight back.

It wasn’t until I got to his torso that I hit the jackpot. With each bite, the colorful candy inside revealed itself more and more. The scent of cotton candy burned my nose. Caramel covered my face, but I just couldn’t stop eating. Not until all of those goodies fully revealed themselves.

I found myself staring into a treasure trove of sweets.

And the only thing I could think in that moment was… Wow.

I’m gonna save a fortune on Halloween candy this year.

I probably don’t have to explain how difficult it is to be a single parent. My son’s mom died during his birth. Since then, it’s just been me and him.

I tried my best to bring him up right. All things considered, I’m pretty sure I did a damn fine job.

He’s coming up on his 10th birthday, and he’s probably the most well-mannered kid I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

I know that sounds like ‘parent talk,’ but I mean it with my full heart. I’m so proud of him. So proud to be his father. I just know he’s going to be an amazing man when he grows up.

Well, he would’ve been. He’s gone now. The entire house smells like cotton candy, and the scent is getting stronger by the day.

I’m not sure when this whole ordeal started. If I had to pinpoint an exact date, I’d probably say it was around August when he started to act a little weird.

School had just started back, and I was sending my sweet boy out the door to catch his bus. First day of 4th grade. Two more years before my little man was a big ol’ middle schooler.

I waited for him by the door, eyes glistening as I handed him his lunchbox and leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the forehead.

That’s when I noticed something.

He smelled… weirdly sweet. Like when you open a bag of jelly beans or circus peanuts or something.

I just figured it must’ve been that new shampoo I got him. I mean, the bottle itself looked like candy packaging. It was the only thing that made sense to me.

I guess I kept sniffing him a tad bit too long because, before I knew it, he was asking me to let him go so he didn’t miss the bus.

When he came home, though, the smell still hadn’t dissipated. I figured that after 7 hours, it would have at least worn off a little bit, but it was even stronger than when I first noticed it.

It wasn’t until we began talking about his first day of school that I realized something. The smell wasn’t coming from his hair at all. It was coming from his breath.

I asked him if he’d gotten into any candy at school that day, and he adamantly denied it.

Even still, I made him go upstairs to brush his teeth. A few minutes later, he was on the couch watching cartoons while I cooked dinner.

I whipped us up a couple of burgers, but as we ate, the smell of cotton candy still wouldn’t leave my nostrils. Obviously, I asked him if he’d actually brushed his teeth, and he seemed confused that I was even asking.

“Of course I did,” he chirped, cocking an eyebrow at me. “Does my breath smell bad or something?”

Just to be sure, I went and checked his toothbrush. It was wet. There was still spit in the sink. But, while I was up there, the smell was no longer present.

I didn’t want to embarrass him. I simply returned to the table, and we finished our dinner.

I tried to ignore the smell for the rest of the night, convincing myself that I was just going crazy and that it’d be gone by the next day.

That day came, and this time, I could smell the candy all the way from my bedroom. I followed it to my son’s bedroom and found him sleeping peacefully on his side.

However, when I went to wake him up, I found that his mouth was full to the brim with candy. Jelly beans, Nerds, Sour Patch Kids. All covered in spit and slobber. All unchewed.

I picked each candy out, piece by piece, before waking him up. I can admit, I was a bit frustrated. Not even by the candy itself, more so because of how easily he could’ve choked sleeping like that.

“Why did you have all this in your mouth?” I asked him.

“Have what?” he responded, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

I gestured to the pile of candy on his nightstand. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t look nervous. He looked absolutely terrified.

He insisted he had no idea where that stuff had come from, but that just couldn’t be possible, right?

I kept asking him where he got it and just kept getting the same response.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“I swear I don’t know.”

What was I supposed to do? I just threw the candy away and sent him off to school.

The next morning, it happened again. Only this time, he really was choking. He kept vomiting up Lifesavers, candy corn, Tootsie Rolls, all covered in what looked like caramel rather than bile.

From that day forward, I was checking my son’s backpack every time he came home. I’d search his room. I looked in every hiding spot I could find. There was no candy in my house whatsoever.

But, somehow, every morning he’d wake up with a mouth full of candy. Every day, that sweet aroma of his became stronger and stronger.

Days turned into weeks. Things just kept getting weirder. He’d scrape his knee, and instead of blood, I’d find caramel oozing out of the wound. He developed dozens of cavities. I didn’t know what to do.

I think what pushed me over the edge was when I tasted him, though. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was some kind of primal urge when I snuck into his room while he was sleeping.

All I wanted was a taste.

I crept up to his bed, as silent as could be. I bent down, tongue hanging out of my mouth, the smell of cotton candy making me salivate as I pressed my tongue against his forehead.

Immediate sugar rush. Immediate guilt.

I shamefully ran back to my room, unable to get the taste out of my mouth. It plagued my mind for days afterward.

What started as curiosity soon became a craving.

It got to the point where every night I was sneaking into my son’s room for a taste. A dent was forming in his forehead like when you lick a lollipop repeatedly.

When he asked me about it, when he stared in the mirror, wondering why his head was becoming misshapen, all I could tell him was I didn’t know.

My addiction kept getting worse, though.

I started taking bites out of him. It started with his arms. Little nibbles at his fingers to get my fix. But once I ran out of those, I think I got a little carried away.

I gnawed away at his arms and legs, filling my mouth with that sweet, syrupy molasses he had been concealing within himself. It was a slow process, but it got a lot easier once he lost his ability to fight back.

It wasn’t until I got to his torso that I hit the jackpot. With each bite, the colorful candy inside revealed itself more and more. The scent of cotton candy burned my nose. Caramel covered my face, but I just couldn’t stop eating. Not until all of those goodies fully revealed themselves.

I found myself staring into a treasure trove of sweets.

And the only thing I could think in that moment was… Wow.

I’m gonna save a fortune on Halloween candy this year.

I probably don’t have to explain how difficult it is to be a single parent. My son’s mom died during his birth. Since then, it’s just been me and him.

I tried my best to bring him up right. All things considered, I’m pretty sure I did a damn fine job.

He’s coming up on his 10th birthday, and he’s probably the most well-mannered kid I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

I know that sounds like ‘parent talk,’ but I mean it with my full heart. I’m so proud of him. So proud to be his father. I just know he’s going to be an amazing man when he grows up.

Well, he would’ve been. He’s gone now. The entire house smells like cotton candy, and the scent is getting stronger by the day.

I’m not sure when this whole ordeal started. If I had to pinpoint an exact date, I’d probably say it was around August when he started to act a little weird.

School had just started back, and I was sending my sweet boy out the door to catch his bus. First day of 4th grade. Two more years before my little man was a big ol’ middle schooler.

I waited for him by the door, eyes glistening as I handed him his lunchbox and leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the forehead.

That’s when I noticed something.

He smelled… weirdly sweet. Like when you open a bag of jelly beans or circus peanuts or something.

I just figured it must’ve been that new shampoo I got him. I mean, the bottle itself looked like candy packaging. It was the only thing that made sense to me.

I guess I kept sniffing him a tad bit too long because, before I knew it, he was asking me to let him go so he didn’t miss the bus.

When he came home, though, the smell still hadn’t dissipated. I figured that after 7 hours, it would have at least worn off a little bit, but it was even stronger than when I first noticed it.

It wasn’t until we began talking about his first day of school that I realized something. The smell wasn’t coming from his hair at all. It was coming from his breath.

I asked him if he’d gotten into any candy at school that day, and he adamantly denied it.

Even still, I made him go upstairs to brush his teeth. A few minutes later, he was on the couch watching cartoons while I cooked dinner.

I whipped us up a couple of burgers, but as we ate, the smell of cotton candy still wouldn’t leave my nostrils. Obviously, I asked him if he’d actually brushed his teeth, and he seemed confused that I was even asking.

“Of course I did,” he chirped, cocking an eyebrow at me. “Does my breath smell bad or something?”

Just to be sure, I went and checked his toothbrush. It was wet. There was still spit in the sink. But, while I was up there, the smell was no longer present.

I didn’t want to embarrass him. I simply returned to the table, and we finished our dinner.

I tried to ignore the smell for the rest of the night, convincing myself that I was just going crazy and that it’d be gone by the next day.

That day came, and this time, I could smell the candy all the way from my bedroom. I followed it to my son’s bedroom and found him sleeping peacefully on his side.

However, when I went to wake him up, I found that his mouth was full to the brim with candy. Jelly beans, Nerds, Sour Patch Kids. All covered in spit and slobber. All unchewed.

I picked each candy out, piece by piece, before waking him up. I can admit, I was a bit frustrated. Not even by the candy itself, more so because of how easily he could’ve choked sleeping like that.

“Why did you have all this in your mouth?” I asked him.

“Have what?” he responded, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

I gestured to the pile of candy on his nightstand. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t look nervous. He looked absolutely terrified.

He insisted he had no idea where that stuff had come from, but that just couldn’t be possible, right?

I kept asking him where he got it and just kept getting the same response.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“I swear I don’t know.”

What was I supposed to do? I just threw the candy away and sent him off to school.

The next morning, it happened again. Only this time, he really was choking. He kept vomiting up Lifesavers, candy corn, Tootsie Rolls, all covered in what looked like caramel rather than bile.

From that day forward, I was checking my son’s backpack every time he came home. I’d search his room. I looked in every hiding spot I could find. There was no candy in my house whatsoever.

But, somehow, every morning he’d wake up with a mouth full of candy. Every day, that sweet aroma of his became stronger and stronger.

Days turned into weeks. Things just kept getting weirder. He’d scrape his knee, and instead of blood, I’d find caramel oozing out of the wound. He developed dozens of cavities. I didn’t know what to do.

I think what pushed me over the edge was when I tasted him, though. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was some kind of primal urge when I snuck into his room while he was sleeping.

All I wanted was a taste.

I crept up to his bed, as silent as could be. I bent down, tongue hanging out of my mouth, the smell of cotton candy making me salivate as I pressed my tongue against his forehead.

Immediate sugar rush. Immediate guilt.

I shamefully ran back to my room, unable to get the taste out of my mouth. It plagued my mind for days afterward.

What started as curiosity soon became a craving.

It got to the point where every night I was sneaking into my son’s room for a taste. A dent was forming in his forehead like when you lick a lollipop repeatedly.

When he asked me about it, when he stared in the mirror, wondering why his head was becoming misshapen, all I could tell him was I didn’t know.

My addiction kept getting worse, though.

I started taking bites out of him. It started with his arms. Little nibbles at his fingers to get my fix. But once I ran out of those, I think I got a little carried away.

I gnawed away at his arms and legs, filling my mouth with that sweet, syrupy molasses he had been concealing within himself. It was a slow process, but it got a lot easier once he lost his ability to fight back.

It wasn’t until I got to his torso that I hit the jackpot. With each bite, the colorful candy inside revealed itself more and more. The scent of cotton candy burned my nose. Caramel covered my face, but I just couldn’t stop eating. Not until all of those goodies fully revealed themselves.

I found myself staring into a treasure trove of sweets.

And the only thing I could think in that moment was… Wow.

I’m gonna save a fortune on Halloween candy this year.

Putting aside the fact that the economy is in the garbage and the idea of owning a home is becoming more and more of a fantasy, living at my mom’s house at 22 has started feeling more like an embarrassment than a money-saving strategy.

I tried looking at apartments around town, but I don’t even think the people working in the leasing offices make 3x the rent, let alone some guy working at a shipping warehouse.

I was honestly on the brink of giving up and accepting the fact that, yes, I was going to spend the rest of my life under my parent’s roof.

However, there was one last trick up my sleeve.

Craigslist.

Looking back now, probably wasn’t the smartest of ideas. But alas, the lease is signed, and now I’m sharing an apartment with an…interesting character, to say the least.

His name is David.

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have responded to his ad had I noticed any red flags whatsoever. It was actually pretty mundane.

Same age as me. His old roommate had left once their lease was up because of “mitigating circumstances,” and he was in need of someone to help with rent.

I figured, ah, fuck it. Why not? I texted the number and got a response within the hour.

30 minutes later, I was at his door.

The bags under his eyes were basically touching the floor, and based on just how pasty this guy was, it was pretty safe to assume that he didn’t get out much. And who could blame him? The guy was covered from head to toe in scars.

Aside from that, he was actually pretty chill. Apparently, a majority of his income came from those sleazy online cam shows that normal folk tend to avoid. But who was I to judge? All he was asking for was 650 a month.

I should’ve looked more into what kinda work he actually did before signing that contract, though, because son of a bitch in a courthouse, I don’t know how much more I can deal with the screaming.

I wish he’d at least have the decency to…‘work’ while I’m not home, but, shockingly, a lot of his clientele are a bunch of night owls.

It started with the toenails. It’d be one thing finding a nail or two on the living room carpet or in the bathtub. But dozens of them left sprawled out across the coffee table and kitchen counter? Come on now.

What’s weirder is when I confronted him about it, all he said was, “Whoops. Meant to clean those up last night. Won’t happen again,” as he scooped them all into a Ziploc bag and stumbled back into his bedroom.

That was the first time I really felt like I’d made a mistake moving in with this guy. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the last.

Not even two weeks after the toenail incident, I was woken up in the dead of night by the sound of screams coming from David’s bedroom.

Naturally, I tried getting inside to make sure he was alright, but the door was locked. Once he heard me rattling the handle and calling his name, the screams stopped on a dime.

“Everything’s okay in here,” he chimed. “Did I wake you? So sorry about that, mate. I’ll try to keep it down.”

Nothing I could’ve really done from there other than try and go back to bed. He stayed true to his word, but, somehow, I think the muffled grunts were worse than the screams.

The next morning, I was in our bathroom getting ready for work. Well, that’s what I was trying to do. The fucking pile of teeth in the sink kinda threw me off track.

I didn’t count them, but from the looks of it, there were more than 32. All sparkling white. David’s excuse?

He was ‘cleaning them for next week’s show.’

I just didn’t get it, though. This man was literally talking to me with a mouth full of teeth.

I was late for work so didn’t have time to question anything. I just asked him, as nicely as possible, to please…be more considerate.

It was like he took that request as a challenge for dominance because, from there, things just started to go completely off the rails.

I’d spend countless nights tossing and turning to what sounded like David literally being murdered in the room across from mine. Then I’d spend the next morning picking fingers out of the couch cushions.

I’d find ears dangling from the key rack.

Once, I even found his eyes in the refrigerator in a container labeled “do not throw away.”

I found myself wondering what the fuck it was exactly that David did on those cam shows.

I decided to do a little research last night. Morbid curiosity, you could call it. I ended up finding his account. I had to go to some pretty dark parts of the internet to find it, but, by God, I did it.

It was a bit of a surreal experience. Hearing his screams come from the computer and his bedroom at the same time.

But seeing him actually cut off his body parts while the chat begged him for more and recommended what part to saw through next, that was like something straight out of a nightmare.

He gouged out his eyes, he pulled his teeth with pliers, sawed through his arms and legs with a dull knife. All to the sound of the donation chime from the website.

This morning, there he was. Standing in the kitchen making a cup of coffee. Arms and legs intact. Staring at me with those same tired eyes.

I didn’t know what to say to him. All I could manage was:

“David…I, uh…I watched your show last night.”

He froze.

“Oh…did you subscribe?”

I smiled at him.

“Yeah. I made you cut your fingers off. Just wanted to see if you’d actually do it.”

Putting aside the fact that the economy is in the garbage and the idea of owning a home is becoming more and more of a fantasy, living at my mom’s house at 22 has started feeling more like an embarrassment than a money-saving strategy.

I tried looking at apartments around town, but I don’t even think the people working in the leasing offices make 3x the rent, let alone some guy working at a shipping warehouse.

I was honestly on the brink of giving up and accepting the fact that, yes, I was going to spend the rest of my life under my parent’s roof.

However, there was one last trick up my sleeve.

Craigslist.

Looking back now, probably wasn’t the smartest of ideas. But alas, the lease is signed, and now I’m sharing an apartment with an…interesting character, to say the least.

His name is David.

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have responded to his ad had I noticed any red flags whatsoever. It was actually pretty mundane.

Same age as me. His old roommate had left once their lease was up because of “mitigating circumstances,” and he was in need of someone to help with rent.

I figured, ah, fuck it. Why not? I texted the number and got a response within the hour.

30 minutes later, I was at his door.

The bags under his eyes were basically touching the floor, and based on just how pasty this guy was, it was pretty safe to assume that he didn’t get out much. And who could blame him? The guy was covered from head to toe in scars.

Aside from that, he was actually pretty chill. Apparently, a majority of his income came from those sleazy online cam shows that normal folk tend to avoid. But who was I to judge? All he was asking for was 650 a month.

I should’ve looked more into what kinda work he actually did before signing that contract, though, because son of a bitch in a courthouse, I don’t know how much more I can deal with the screaming.

I wish he’d at least have the decency to…‘work’ while I’m not home, but, shockingly, a lot of his clientele are a bunch of night owls.

It started with the toenails. It’d be one thing finding a nail or two on the living room carpet or in the bathtub. But dozens of them left sprawled out across the coffee table and kitchen counter? Come on now.

What’s weirder is when I confronted him about it, all he said was, “Whoops. Meant to clean those up last night. Won’t happen again,” as he scooped them all into a Ziploc bag and stumbled back into his bedroom.

That was the first time I really felt like I’d made a mistake moving in with this guy. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the last.

Not even two weeks after the toenail incident, I was woken up in the dead of night by the sound of screams coming from David’s bedroom.

Naturally, I tried getting inside to make sure he was alright, but the door was locked. Once he heard me rattling the handle and calling his name, the screams stopped on a dime.

“Everything’s okay in here,” he chimed. “Did I wake you? So sorry about that, mate. I’ll try to keep it down.”

Nothing I could’ve really done from there other than try and go back to bed. He stayed true to his word, but, somehow, I think the muffled grunts were worse than the screams.

The next morning, I was in our bathroom getting ready for work. Well, that’s what I was trying to do. The fucking pile of teeth in the sink kinda threw me off track.

I didn’t count them, but from the looks of it, there were more than 32. All sparkling white. David’s excuse?

He was ‘cleaning them for next week’s show.’

I just didn’t get it, though. This man was literally talking to me with a mouth full of teeth.

I was late for work so didn’t have time to question anything. I just asked him, as nicely as possible, to please…be more considerate.

It was like he took that request as a challenge for dominance because, from there, things just started to go completely off the rails.

I’d spend countless nights tossing and turning to what sounded like David literally being murdered in the room across from mine. Then I’d spend the next morning picking fingers out of the couch cushions.

I’d find ears dangling from the key rack.

Once, I even found his eyes in the refrigerator in a container labeled “do not throw away.”

I found myself wondering what the fuck it was exactly that David did on those cam shows.

I decided to do a little research last night. Morbid curiosity, you could call it. I ended up finding his account. I had to go to some pretty dark parts of the internet to find it, but, by God, I did it.

It was a bit of a surreal experience. Hearing his screams come from the computer and his bedroom at the same time.

But seeing him actually cut off his body parts while the chat begged him for more and recommended what part to saw through next, that was like something straight out of a nightmare.

He gouged out his eyes, he pulled his teeth with pliers, sawed through his arms and legs with a dull knife. All to the sound of the donation chime from the website.

This morning, there he was. Standing in the kitchen making a cup of coffee. Arms and legs intact. Staring at me with those same tired eyes.

I didn’t know what to say to him. All I could manage was:

“David…I, uh…I watched your show last night.”

He froze.

“Oh…did you subscribe?”

I smiled at him.

“Yeah. I made you cut your fingers off. Just wanted to see if you’d actually do it.”

Putting aside the fact that the economy is in the garbage and the idea of owning a home is becoming more and more of a fantasy, living at my mom’s house at 22 has started feeling more like an embarrassment than a money-saving strategy.

I tried looking at apartments around town, but I don’t even think the people working in the leasing offices make 3x the rent, let alone some guy working at a shipping warehouse.

I was honestly on the brink of giving up and accepting the fact that, yes, I was going to spend the rest of my life under my parent’s roof.

However, there was one last trick up my sleeve.

Craigslist.

Looking back now, probably wasn’t the smartest of ideas. But alas, the lease is signed, and now I’m sharing an apartment with an…interesting character, to say the least.

His name is David.

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have responded to his ad had I noticed any red flags whatsoever. It was actually pretty mundane.

Same age as me. His old roommate had left once their lease was up because of “mitigating circumstances,” and he was in need of someone to help with rent.

I figured, ah, fuck it. Why not? I texted the number and got a response within the hour.

30 minutes later, I was at his door.

The bags under his eyes were basically touching the floor, and based on just how pasty this guy was, it was pretty safe to assume that he didn’t get out much. And who could blame him? The guy was covered from head to toe in scars.

Aside from that, he was actually pretty chill. Apparently, a majority of his income came from those sleazy online cam shows that normal folk tend to avoid. But who was I to judge? All he was asking for was 650 a month.

I should’ve looked more into what kinda work he actually did before signing that contract, though, because son of a bitch in a courthouse, I don’t know how much more I can deal with the screaming.

I wish he’d at least have the decency to…‘work’ while I’m not home, but, shockingly, a lot of his clientele are a bunch of night owls.

It started with the toenails. It’d be one thing finding a nail or two on the living room carpet or in the bathtub. But dozens of them left sprawled out across the coffee table and kitchen counter? Come on now.

What’s weirder is when I confronted him about it, all he said was, “Whoops. Meant to clean those up last night. Won’t happen again,” as he scooped them all into a Ziploc bag and stumbled back into his bedroom.

That was the first time I really felt like I’d made a mistake moving in with this guy. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the last.

Not even two weeks after the toenail incident, I was woken up in the dead of night by the sound of screams coming from David’s bedroom.

Naturally, I tried getting inside to make sure he was alright, but the door was locked. Once he heard me rattling the handle and calling his name, the screams stopped on a dime.

“Everything’s okay in here,” he chimed. “Did I wake you? So sorry about that, mate. I’ll try to keep it down.”

Nothing I could’ve really done from there other than try and go back to bed. He stayed true to his word, but, somehow, I think the muffled grunts were worse than the screams.

The next morning, I was in our bathroom getting ready for work. Well, that’s what I was trying to do. The fucking pile of teeth in the sink kinda threw me off track.

I didn’t count them, but from the looks of it, there were more than 32. All sparkling white. David’s excuse?

He was ‘cleaning them for next week’s show.’

I just didn’t get it, though. This man was literally talking to me with a mouth full of teeth.

I was late for work so didn’t have time to question anything. I just asked him, as nicely as possible, to please…be more considerate.

It was like he took that request as a challenge for dominance because, from there, things just started to go completely off the rails.

I’d spend countless nights tossing and turning to what sounded like David literally being murdered in the room across from mine. Then I’d spend the next morning picking fingers out of the couch cushions.

I’d find ears dangling from the key rack.

Once, I even found his eyes in the refrigerator in a container labeled “do not throw away.”

I found myself wondering what the fuck it was exactly that David did on those cam shows.

I decided to do a little research last night. Morbid curiosity, you could call it. I ended up finding his account. I had to go to some pretty dark parts of the internet to find it, but, by God, I did it.

It was a bit of a surreal experience. Hearing his screams come from the computer and his bedroom at the same time.

But seeing him actually cut off his body parts while the chat begged him for more and recommended what part to saw through next, that was like something straight out of a nightmare.

He gouged out his eyes, he pulled his teeth with pliers, sawed through his arms and legs with a dull knife. All to the sound of the donation chime from the website.

This morning, there he was. Standing in the kitchen making a cup of coffee. Arms and legs intact. Staring at me with those same tired eyes.

I didn’t know what to say to him. All I could manage was:

“David…I, uh…I watched your show last night.”

He froze.

“Oh…did you subscribe?”

I smiled at him.

“Yeah. I made you cut your fingers off. Just wanted to see if you’d actually do it.”

Look, I’m not a judgy kind of guy. I’m not gonna sit here and tell you that what my girlfriend does makes me uncomfortable, or that it’s something we’re working through, or any of that nonsense.

Truthfully, I’ve never really cared. I love her all the same. I’d hope she’d do the same for me.

And it’s not like it’s something we haven’t talked about. The whole process is just something she does with her friends. I’m not gonna restrict her freedom or become some kind of control freak over it.

Plus, this isn’t an every night kind of thing. It’s scheduled. It’s routine. Well, the act itself is. The selection part can take a few weeks. At least, that’s what she tells me.

She describes it as an induction kind of deal. She and her friends just wander around malls or shopping centers throughout the week. When they find someone they describe as ‘ripe enough,’ they make their move.

Old, young, man, woman, doesn’t really matter. The job remains the same.

They have to make them feel included, but, honestly, from how my girlfriend describes it, I’d say it goes beyond inclusiveness and into ‘you need us’ territory. I guess that’s why they choose people who they see as loners.

They butter them up with compliments about their vibe, their style, skin, whatever. And from there, there’s this almost neurological thing that happens in that person’s brain.

Gotta say, though, one thing that actually has bothered me in the past is the flirting. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that my girlfriend is a professional at sweeping guys off their feet.

I just wish she didn’t feel the need to always tell me about it.

But hey, they always end up dead, so… guess I’m winning in that aspect.

Anyway, the point I’m getting at here is trust is built through rapport. And you’d be surprised how far those compliments can get you.

They spend a week or so making these lonely people feel more seen than they ever have in their life. Doing research on their interests, taking them out to brunch or whatever. They essentially treat them like the only other person in the world.

For a lot of these people, it feels like they just got swooped up into their very first friend group.

After the first phase, though, they’re completely cut off. No texts, no calls, no invites. No communication whatsoever.

Then, when they inevitably try to reach out, they’re met with nothing but coldness and insults. But they’re not just mean. They’re literally psychologically damaging.

My girlfriend has shown me some of the screenshots she’s saved. Those girls are ruthless.

With the emotional whiplash these people experience, they feel this painfully human need to become popular again. At that point, they’re willing to do whatever they’re asked.

And that’s when they get invited to the “bonfire.”

They’re told to meet up with the girls in the woods so that they can talk things out over a few drinks and a JBL Speaker.

They get there, hope in their eyes, only for it to be snuffed out immediately after the fire gets lit.

That’s something that always intrigued the hell out of me when my girlfriend told me about it. They just beat the shit out of whatever poor guy or girl they’d been manipulating by the warm glow of a fire.

They’re beaten within an inch of their lives, only for the blows to stop right as they’re on the brink of collapsing. Then they have cold water splashed in their face to wake them up.

And for no other reason at all except for they want them present when they’re thrown into the fire.

She’s sent me audio recordings of some of their screams. There’s something like, I don’t know…

There’s something beautifully haunting about it. You’re hearing someone’s violent final moments. You’re actively listening to hope legitimately evaporate out of someone’s body. It’s like a Goya painting was given a sound.

The cooking process usually takes between 3 and 4 hours. They never eat the person raw. They’re not animals. But, apparently, cooked human is one of the best things you’ll ever put in your mouth.

According to my girlfriend, the whole reason they even go through this whole shebang is painfully simple.

Sadness makes people taste better.

They have their monthly dose of human meat, then it’s on to the next lonely victim.

I’m only human. We all have our morbid curiosities. It’s just getting a little difficult to control mine.

I don’t think I’d ever do it as often as they do. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been wanting to at least try it. I’ve been pestering my girlfriend about it for weeks.

It’s caused some pretty big arguments between us. I guess I’ve been bothering her a little too much because she’s been pretty cruel to me recently.

Doesn’t matter, though. I want what I want.

She’s just so adamant that it’s ‘not up to her.’

After our last argument, I told her that she needed to at least try to get her friends to let me in, but all she did was just slam the door in my face and leave the house.

That was a week ago. I didn’t see her at all after that. But I’ll say this: she definitely has some snakes in her circle.

Her friends went out of their way to find me on social media and message me. All of them told me how ‘she wasn’t good enough for me’ and how ‘I didn’t need her, anyways.’

The best part, though?

They agreed to let me come to a bonfire.

And tonight may finally be the night for me.

Look, I’m not a judgy kind of guy. I’m not gonna sit here and tell you that what my girlfriend does makes me uncomfortable, or that it’s something we’re working through, or any of that nonsense.

Truthfully, I’ve never really cared. I love her all the same. I’d hope she’d do the same for me.

And it’s not like it’s something we haven’t talked about. The whole process is just something she does with her friends. I’m not gonna restrict her freedom or become some kind of control freak over it.

Plus, this isn’t an every night kind of thing. It’s scheduled. It’s routine. Well, the act itself is. The selection part can take a few weeks. At least, that’s what she tells me.

She describes it as an induction kind of deal. She and her friends just wander around malls or shopping centers throughout the week. When they find someone they describe as ‘ripe enough,’ they make their move.

Old, young, man, woman, doesn’t really matter. The job remains the same.

They have to make them feel included, but, honestly, from how my girlfriend describes it, I’d say it goes beyond inclusiveness and into ‘you need us’ territory. I guess that’s why they choose people who they see as loners.

They butter them up with compliments about their vibe, their style, skin, whatever. And from there, there’s this almost neurological thing that happens in that person’s brain.

Gotta say, though, one thing that actually has bothered me in the past is the flirting. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that my girlfriend is a professional at sweeping guys off their feet.

I just wish she didn’t feel the need to always tell me about it.

But hey, they always end up dead, so… guess I’m winning in that aspect.

Anyway, the point I’m getting at here is trust is built through rapport. And you’d be surprised how far those compliments can get you.

They spend a week or so making these lonely people feel more seen than they ever have in their life. Doing research on their interests, taking them out to brunch or whatever. They essentially treat them like the only other person in the world.

For a lot of these people, it feels like they just got swooped up into their very first friend group.

After the first phase, though, they’re completely cut off. No texts, no calls, no invites. No communication whatsoever.

Then, when they inevitably try to reach out, they’re met with nothing but coldness and insults. But they’re not just mean. They’re literally psychologically damaging.

My girlfriend has shown me some of the screenshots she’s saved. Those girls are ruthless.

With the emotional whiplash these people experience, they feel this painfully human need to become popular again. At that point, they’re willing to do whatever they’re asked.

And that’s when they get invited to the “bonfire.”

They’re told to meet up with the girls in the woods so that they can talk things out over a few drinks and a JBL Speaker.

They get there, hope in their eyes, only for it to be snuffed out immediately after the fire gets lit.

That’s something that always intrigued the hell out of me when my girlfriend told me about it. They just beat the shit out of whatever poor guy or girl they’d been manipulating by the warm glow of a fire.

They’re beaten within an inch of their lives, only for the blows to stop right as they’re on the brink of collapsing. Then they have cold water splashed in their face to wake them up.

And for no other reason at all except for they want them present when they’re thrown into the fire.

She’s sent me audio recordings of some of their screams. There’s something like, I don’t know…

There’s something beautifully haunting about it. You’re hearing someone’s violent final moments. You’re actively listening to hope legitimately evaporate out of someone’s body. It’s like a Goya painting was given a sound.

The cooking process usually takes between 3 and 4 hours. They never eat the person raw. They’re not animals. But, apparently, cooked human is one of the best things you’ll ever put in your mouth.

According to my girlfriend, the whole reason they even go through this whole shebang is painfully simple.

Sadness makes people taste better.

They have their monthly dose of human meat, then it’s on to the next lonely victim.

I’m only human. We all have our morbid curiosities. It’s just getting a little difficult to control mine.

I don’t think I’d ever do it as often as they do. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been wanting to at least try it. I’ve been pestering my girlfriend about it for weeks.

It’s caused some pretty big arguments between us. I guess I’ve been bothering her a little too much because she’s been pretty cruel to me recently.

Doesn’t matter, though. I want what I want.

She’s just so adamant that it’s ‘not up to her.’

After our last argument, I told her that she needed to at least try to get her friends to let me in, but all she did was just slam the door in my face and leave the house.

That was a week ago. I didn’t see her at all after that. But I’ll say this: she definitely has some snakes in her circle.

Her friends went out of their way to find me on social media and message me. All of them told me how ‘she wasn’t good enough for me’ and how ‘I didn’t need her, anyways.’

The best part, though?

They agreed to let me come to a bonfire.

And tonight may finally be the night for me.

Look, I’m not a judgy kind of guy. I’m not gonna sit here and tell you that what my girlfriend does makes me uncomfortable, or that it’s something we’re working through, or any of that nonsense.

Truthfully, I’ve never really cared. I love her all the same. I’d hope she’d do the same for me.

And it’s not like it’s something we haven’t talked about. The whole process is just something she does with her friends. I’m not gonna restrict her freedom or become some kind of control freak over it.

Plus, this isn’t an every night kind of thing. It’s scheduled. It’s routine. Well, the act itself is. The selection part can take a few weeks. At least, that’s what she tells me.

She describes it as an induction kind of deal. She and her friends just wander around malls or shopping centers throughout the week. When they find someone they describe as ‘ripe enough,’ they make their move.

Old, young, man, woman, doesn’t really matter. The job remains the same.

They have to make them feel included, but, honestly, from how my girlfriend describes it, I’d say it goes beyond inclusiveness and into ‘you need us’ territory. I guess that’s why they choose people who they see as loners.

They butter them up with compliments about their vibe, their style, skin, whatever. And from there, there’s this almost neurological thing that happens in that person’s brain.

Gotta say, though, one thing that actually has bothered me in the past is the flirting. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that my girlfriend is a professional at sweeping guys off their feet.

I just wish she didn’t feel the need to always tell me about it.

But hey, they always end up dead, so… guess I’m winning in that aspect.

Anyway, the point I’m getting at here is trust is built through rapport. And you’d be surprised how far those compliments can get you.

They spend a week or so making these lonely people feel more seen than they ever have in their life. Doing research on their interests, taking them out to brunch or whatever. They essentially treat them like the only other person in the world.

For a lot of these people, it feels like they just got swooped up into their very first friend group.

After the first phase, though, they’re completely cut off. No texts, no calls, no invites. No communication whatsoever.

Then, when they inevitably try to reach out, they’re met with nothing but coldness and insults. But they’re not just mean. They’re literally psychologically damaging.

My girlfriend has shown me some of the screenshots she’s saved. Those girls are ruthless.

With the emotional whiplash these people experience, they feel this painfully human need to become popular again. At that point, they’re willing to do whatever they’re asked.

And that’s when they get invited to the “bonfire.”

They’re told to meet up with the girls in the woods so that they can talk things out over a few drinks and a JBL Speaker.

They get there, hope in their eyes, only for it to be snuffed out immediately after the fire gets lit.

That’s something that always intrigued the hell out of me when my girlfriend told me about it. They just beat the shit out of whatever poor guy or girl they’d been manipulating by the warm glow of a fire.

They’re beaten within an inch of their lives, only for the blows to stop right as they’re on the brink of collapsing. Then they have cold water splashed in their face to wake them up.

And for no other reason at all except for they want them present when they’re thrown into the fire.

She’s sent me audio recordings of some of their screams. There’s something like, I don’t know…

There’s something beautifully haunting about it. You’re hearing someone’s violent final moments. You’re actively listening to hope legitimately evaporate out of someone’s body. It’s like a Goya painting was given a sound.

The cooking process usually takes between 3 and 4 hours. They never eat the person raw. They’re not animals. But, apparently, cooked human is one of the best things you’ll ever put in your mouth.

According to my girlfriend, the whole reason they even go through this whole shebang is painfully simple.

Sadness makes people taste better.

They have their monthly dose of human meat, then it’s on to the next lonely victim.

I’m only human. We all have our morbid curiosities. It’s just getting a little difficult to control mine.

I don’t think I’d ever do it as often as they do. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been wanting to at least try it. I’ve been pestering my girlfriend about it for weeks.

It’s caused some pretty big arguments between us. I guess I’ve been bothering her a little too much because she’s been pretty cruel to me recently.

Doesn’t matter, though. I want what I want.

She’s just so adamant that it’s ‘not up to her.’

After our last argument, I told her that she needed to at least try to get her friends to let me in, but all she did was just slam the door in my face and leave the house.

That was a week ago. I didn’t see her at all after that. But I’ll say this: she definitely has some snakes in her circle.

Her friends went out of their way to find me on social media and message me. All of them told me how ‘she wasn’t good enough for me’ and how ‘I didn’t need her, anyways.’

The best part, though?

They agreed to let me come to a bonfire.

And tonight may finally be the night for me.

My daughter has always been a bit of a miracle baby. Not in the sense that she, like, almost died or anything. I guess miracle isn’t really the word for it.

An anomaly baby. An anomababy? I’ll just stick to anomaly baby. That was stupid.

Anyway, doctors were puzzled out of their gourds when she was born. Mostly because they didn’t detect any abnormalities all throughout my wife’s pregnancy.

She just surprised everyone in the room when she popped out with two full rows of baby teeth. Me and my wife still joke about how she was our ‘smiling little angel,’ because that’s exactly what she was.

She refused to cry. Well, scream, rather. She kinda had to cry. Even still, she didn’t scream once. Just went right back to flashing those pearly whites like a used car saleswoman and glancing around the room with her big, wide, doe eyes.

I don’t have to tell you how many tests doctors ran. Mainly because I don’t even remember. All I know is we were in and out of the hospital for a week or two afterward.

They just wouldn’t let us take her home until they’d gotten all the information they could. I guess they gave up, and thus, our little anomaly baby got to sleep in her own crib.

Nothing really happened for the first couple of months. She just acted like a regular newborn. Well, aside from the fact that she’d wake us up with giggles instead of cries in the middle of the night.

She was hungry? Giggle. Needed to be held? Giggle. She’d even giggle when she soiled her diaper, which, I’m still convinced, was intentional.

I just don’t know.

We’re approaching her first birthday, and things are starting to get a little weird, to say the least.

It all started last month. My wife woke up to the giggling and went to check on her. It had to have been nearly 3 in the morning. Plus, it was my wife’s turn to check, so I just curled up and drifted back into sleep.

At least, I tried to. My wife’s screams woke me up before I could jump back into my dream. The way she was screaming, I almost thought that we had intruders or something.

I rocketed out of bed, demanding to know what was happening as my wife flipped the light on.

Not gonna lie, if I’d seen what she’d seen, I’d have probably freaked out, too. Who am I kidding? I did freak out.

My daughter was still smiling and giggling, crawling around in her crib, but it was just absolutely soaked in blood. Like, from end to end.

That alone made instincts kick in as I snatched my baby up out of that mess, but when I saw the waterfall of blood falling out of her mouth, I nearly had a heart attack.

It was hard to think with all the chaos going on around me. For some reason, I full-heartedly believed that she had eaten glass somehow.

But then, I noticed it.

All of her teeth were gone.

I looked in the crib, and there they were, scattered across the blood-soaked sheets and blankets. I must’ve missed them because of all the shock and adrenaline.

I don’t even think I put my shoes on. My wife and I just made a mad dash to the car before I drove us to the ER at a cool 95 miles per hour.

We stayed there for the rest of the night and well into the next day. All we could do, really, was hold each other. We kept trying to get updates from the receptionist, but she just kept asking us to be patient.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, we were able to go back and see our kid. She was asleep when we got to her. The doctors were just as puzzled as they were when she was born, with one of them even stating that, ‘losing all of your baby teeth at once at only 11 months old is definitely weird, but besides that, she’s perfectly healthy.’

And that was that.

We drove home, still shaken up, while our little girl kept catching Z’s in the backseat.

We got home and decided that we all needed to catch up on some sleep. We did keep our daughter in our bed this time, though. I don’t know, for closeness, I guess?

I was so tired from being up all night that I didn’t really have time to think about the logistics. I was essentially out before my head hit the pillow, wife and daughter at my side.

I wish I could say that it was the giggling that woke me up. But, of course, that would be too easy. It was actually the pain that got me. Well, that and the weird growling she was doing while gnawing on my arm.

My daughter hadn’t just regrown her teeth. She had her adult teeth now. And all 32 were lodged in my arm.

When I saw her, it was like the pain went away. It was immediately replaced with concern. 32 adult-sized teeth in an 11-month-old’s mouth. She looked like her jaw was gonna break, but despite the pain that she had to have been in… she was still smiling at me.

I kind of had to pry her mouth off of my arm, and now it was my turn to go to the hospital. She had a surprising amount of bite force for such a small body.

What’re you gonna do, though, right? I just took my stitches and moved on. However, not before, yet again, doctors had one last look at my daughter.

This time, they themselves removed the teeth.

It was more heartbreaking than anything. I mean, I knew it needed to be done just from looking at her. I just wish they could’ve gotten her to sleep before they did it.

I could hear her cries all the way from the waiting room.

When they brought her back, she was all gums. And that’s how she stayed for the next two weeks. Can’t say she was happy about it, though. If anything, she seemed to have developed a full resentment for my wife and I.

She stopped smiling at us. She didn’t become some kind of wailing demon-child or anything. She just… looked at us differently. There was intent in her eyes.

Which actually makes sense considering the hell she put us through. Sneaking out of her crib, flooding the bathroom with toilet water, somehow managing to smash picture frames when we weren’t looking.

And what’s fucked up is I wish I could go back to when she was just being annoying.

Because ever since she sprouted those fangs, I don’t even feel safe in my own house anymore.

We got her one of those muzzle-masks after she killed our pet kitty, but who knows how long that thing will last.

Especially considering how sharp her nails are getting. I already caught her trying to claw her way out of it last night.

Which is a real shame because her birthday is tomorrow.

And acting like that is not how you get to eat cake.

My daughter has always been a bit of a miracle baby. Not in the sense that she, like, almost died or anything. I guess miracle isn’t really the word for it.

An anomaly baby. An anomababy? I’ll just stick to anomaly baby. That was stupid.

Anyway, doctors were puzzled out of their gourds when she was born. Mostly because they didn’t detect any abnormalities all throughout my wife’s pregnancy.

She just surprised everyone in the room when she popped out with two full rows of baby teeth. Me and my wife still joke about how she was our ‘smiling little angel,’ because that’s exactly what she was.

She refused to cry. Well, scream, rather. She kinda had to cry. Even still, she didn’t scream once. Just went right back to flashing those pearly whites like a used car saleswoman and glancing around the room with her big, wide, doe eyes.

I don’t have to tell you how many tests doctors ran. Mainly because I don’t even remember. All I know is we were in and out of the hospital for a week or two afterward.

They just wouldn’t let us take her home until they’d gotten all the information they could. I guess they gave up, and thus, our little anomaly baby got to sleep in her own crib.

Nothing really happened for the first couple of months. She just acted like a regular newborn. Well, aside from the fact that she’d wake us up with giggles instead of cries in the middle of the night.

She was hungry? Giggle. Needed to be held? Giggle. She’d even giggle when she soiled her diaper, which, I’m still convinced, was intentional.

I just don’t know.

We’re approaching her first birthday, and things are starting to get a little weird, to say the least.

It all started last month. My wife woke up to the giggling and went to check on her. It had to have been nearly 3 in the morning. Plus, it was my wife’s turn to check, so I just curled up and drifted back into sleep.

At least, I tried to. My wife’s screams woke me up before I could jump back into my dream. The way she was screaming, I almost thought that we had intruders or something.

I rocketed out of bed, demanding to know what was happening as my wife flipped the light on.

Not gonna lie, if I’d seen what she’d seen, I’d have probably freaked out, too. Who am I kidding? I did freak out.

My daughter was still smiling and giggling, crawling around in her crib, but it was just absolutely soaked in blood. Like, from end to end.

That alone made instincts kick in as I snatched my baby up out of that mess, but when I saw the waterfall of blood falling out of her mouth, I nearly had a heart attack.

It was hard to think with all the chaos going on around me. For some reason, I full-heartedly believed that she had eaten glass somehow.

But then, I noticed it.

All of her teeth were gone.

I looked in the crib, and there they were, scattered across the blood-soaked sheets and blankets. I must’ve missed them because of all the shock and adrenaline.

I don’t even think I put my shoes on. My wife and I just made a mad dash to the car before I drove us to the ER at a cool 95 miles per hour.

We stayed there for the rest of the night and well into the next day. All we could do, really, was hold each other. We kept trying to get updates from the receptionist, but she just kept asking us to be patient.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, we were able to go back and see our kid. She was asleep when we got to her. The doctors were just as puzzled as they were when she was born, with one of them even stating that, ‘losing all of your baby teeth at once at only 11 months old is definitely weird, but besides that, she’s perfectly healthy.’

And that was that.

We drove home, still shaken up, while our little girl kept catching Z’s in the backseat.

We got home and decided that we all needed to catch up on some sleep. We did keep our daughter in our bed this time, though. I don’t know, for closeness, I guess?

I was so tired from being up all night that I didn’t really have time to think about the logistics. I was essentially out before my head hit the pillow, wife and daughter at my side.

I wish I could say that it was the giggling that woke me up. But, of course, that would be too easy. It was actually the pain that got me. Well, that and the weird growling she was doing while gnawing on my arm.

My daughter hadn’t just regrown her teeth. She had her adult teeth now. And all 32 were lodged in my arm.

When I saw her, it was like the pain went away. It was immediately replaced with concern. 32 adult-sized teeth in an 11-month-old’s mouth. She looked like her jaw was gonna break, but despite the pain that she had to have been in… she was still smiling at me.

I kind of had to pry her mouth off of my arm, and now it was my turn to go to the hospital. She had a surprising amount of bite force for such a small body.

What’re you gonna do, though, right? I just took my stitches and moved on. However, not before, yet again, doctors had one last look at my daughter.

This time, they themselves removed the teeth.

It was more heartbreaking than anything. I mean, I knew it needed to be done just from looking at her. I just wish they could’ve gotten her to sleep before they did it.

I could hear her cries all the way from the waiting room.

When they brought her back, she was all gums. And that’s how she stayed for the next two weeks. Can’t say she was happy about it, though. If anything, she seemed to have developed a full resentment for my wife and I.

She stopped smiling at us. She didn’t become some kind of wailing demon-child or anything. She just… looked at us differently. There was intent in her eyes.

Which actually makes sense considering the hell she put us through. Sneaking out of her crib, flooding the bathroom with toilet water, somehow managing to smash picture frames when we weren’t looking.

And what’s fucked up is I wish I could go back to when she was just being annoying.

Because ever since she sprouted those fangs, I don’t even feel safe in my own house anymore.

We got her one of those muzzle-masks after she killed our pet kitty, but who knows how long that thing will last.

Especially considering how sharp her nails are getting. I already caught her trying to claw her way out of it last night.

Which is a real shame because her birthday is tomorrow.

And acting like that is not how you get to eat cake.

My daughter has always been a bit of a miracle baby. Not in the sense that she, like, almost died or anything. I guess miracle isn’t really the word for it.

An anomaly baby. An anomababy? I’ll just stick to anomaly baby. That was stupid.

Anyway, doctors were puzzled out of their gourds when she was born. Mostly because they didn’t detect any abnormalities all throughout my wife’s pregnancy.

She just surprised everyone in the room when she popped out with two full rows of baby teeth. Me and my wife still joke about how she was our ‘smiling little angel,’ because that’s exactly what she was.

She refused to cry. Well, scream, rather. She kinda had to cry. Even still, she didn’t scream once. Just went right back to flashing those pearly whites like a used car saleswoman and glancing around the room with her big, wide, doe eyes.

I don’t have to tell you how many tests doctors ran. Mainly because I don’t even remember. All I know is we were in and out of the hospital for a week or two afterward.

They just wouldn’t let us take her home until they’d gotten all the information they could. I guess they gave up, and thus, our little anomaly baby got to sleep in her own crib.

Nothing really happened for the first couple of months. She just acted like a regular newborn. Well, aside from the fact that she’d wake us up with giggles instead of cries in the middle of the night.

She was hungry? Giggle. Needed to be held? Giggle. She’d even giggle when she soiled her diaper, which, I’m still convinced, was intentional.

I just don’t know.

We’re approaching her first birthday, and things are starting to get a little weird, to say the least.

It all started last month. My wife woke up to the giggling and went to check on her. It had to have been nearly 3 in the morning. Plus, it was my wife’s turn to check, so I just curled up and drifted back into sleep.

At least, I tried to. My wife’s screams woke me up before I could jump back into my dream. The way she was screaming, I almost thought that we had intruders or something.

I rocketed out of bed, demanding to know what was happening as my wife flipped the light on.

Not gonna lie, if I’d seen what she’d seen, I’d have probably freaked out, too. Who am I kidding? I did freak out.

My daughter was still smiling and giggling, crawling around in her crib, but it was just absolutely soaked in blood. Like, from end to end.

That alone made instincts kick in as I snatched my baby up out of that mess, but when I saw the waterfall of blood falling out of her mouth, I nearly had a heart attack.

It was hard to think with all the chaos going on around me. For some reason, I full-heartedly believed that she had eaten glass somehow.

But then, I noticed it.

All of her teeth were gone.

I looked in the crib, and there they were, scattered across the blood-soaked sheets and blankets. I must’ve missed them because of all the shock and adrenaline.

I don’t even think I put my shoes on. My wife and I just made a mad dash to the car before I drove us to the ER at a cool 95 miles per hour.

We stayed there for the rest of the night and well into the next day. All we could do, really, was hold each other. We kept trying to get updates from the receptionist, but she just kept asking us to be patient.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, we were able to go back and see our kid. She was asleep when we got to her. The doctors were just as puzzled as they were when she was born, with one of them even stating that, ‘losing all of your baby teeth at once at only 11 months old is definitely weird, but besides that, she’s perfectly healthy.’

And that was that.

We drove home, still shaken up, while our little girl kept catching Z’s in the backseat.

We got home and decided that we all needed to catch up on some sleep. We did keep our daughter in our bed this time, though. I don’t know, for closeness, I guess?

I was so tired from being up all night that I didn’t really have time to think about the logistics. I was essentially out before my head hit the pillow, wife and daughter at my side.

I wish I could say that it was the giggling that woke me up. But, of course, that would be too easy. It was actually the pain that got me. Well, that and the weird growling she was doing while gnawing on my arm.

My daughter hadn’t just regrown her teeth. She had her adult teeth now. And all 32 were lodged in my arm.

When I saw her, it was like the pain went away. It was immediately replaced with concern. 32 adult-sized teeth in an 11-month-old’s mouth. She looked like her jaw was gonna break, but despite the pain that she had to have been in… she was still smiling at me.

I kind of had to pry her mouth off of my arm, and now it was my turn to go to the hospital. She had a surprising amount of bite force for such a small body.

What’re you gonna do, though, right? I just took my stitches and moved on. However, not before, yet again, doctors had one last look at my daughter.

This time, they themselves removed the teeth.

It was more heartbreaking than anything. I mean, I knew it needed to be done just from looking at her. I just wish they could’ve gotten her to sleep before they did it.

I could hear her cries all the way from the waiting room.

When they brought her back, she was all gums. And that’s how she stayed for the next two weeks. Can’t say she was happy about it, though. If anything, she seemed to have developed a full resentment for my wife and I.

She stopped smiling at us. She didn’t become some kind of wailing demon-child or anything. She just… looked at us differently. There was intent in her eyes.

Which actually makes sense considering the hell she put us through. Sneaking out of her crib, flooding the bathroom with toilet water, somehow managing to smash picture frames when we weren’t looking.

And what’s fucked up is I wish I could go back to when she was just being annoying.

Because ever since she sprouted those fangs, I don’t even feel safe in my own house anymore.

We got her one of those muzzle-masks after she killed our pet kitty, but who knows how long that thing will last.

Especially considering how sharp her nails are getting. I already caught her trying to claw her way out of it last night.

Which is a real shame because her birthday is tomorrow.

And acting like that is not how you get to eat cake.

My daughter has always been a bit of a miracle baby. Not in the sense that she, like, almost died or anything. I guess miracle isn’t really the word for it.

An anomaly baby. An anomababy? I’ll just stick to anomaly baby. That was stupid.

Anyway, doctors were puzzled out of their gourds when she was born. Mostly because they didn’t detect any abnormalities all throughout my wife’s pregnancy.

She just surprised everyone in the room when she popped out with two full rows of baby teeth. Me and my wife still joke about how she was our ‘smiling little angel,’ because that’s exactly what she was.

She refused to cry. Well, scream, rather. She kinda had to cry. Even still, she didn’t scream once. Just went right back to flashing those pearly whites like a used car saleswoman and glancing around the room with her big, wide, doe eyes.

I don’t have to tell you how many tests doctors ran. Mainly because I don’t even remember. All I know is we were in and out of the hospital for a week or two afterward.

They just wouldn’t let us take her home until they’d gotten all the information they could. I guess they gave up, and thus, our little anomaly baby got to sleep in her own crib.

Nothing really happened for the first couple of months. She just acted like a regular newborn. Well, aside from the fact that she’d wake us up with giggles instead of cries in the middle of the night.

She was hungry? Giggle. Needed to be held? Giggle. She’d even giggle when she soiled her diaper, which, I’m still convinced, was intentional.

I just don’t know.

We’re approaching her first birthday, and things are starting to get a little weird, to say the least.

It all started last month. My wife woke up to the giggling and went to check on her. It had to have been nearly 3 in the morning. Plus, it was my wife’s turn to check, so I just curled up and drifted back into sleep.

At least, I tried to. My wife’s screams woke me up before I could jump back into my dream. The way she was screaming, I almost thought that we had intruders or something.

I rocketed out of bed, demanding to know what was happening as my wife flipped the light on.

Not gonna lie, if I’d seen what she’d seen, I’d have probably freaked out, too. Who am I kidding? I did freak out.

My daughter was still smiling and giggling, crawling around in her crib, but it was just absolutely soaked in blood. Like, from end to end.

That alone made instincts kick in as I snatched my baby up out of that mess, but when I saw the waterfall of blood falling out of her mouth, I nearly had a heart attack.

It was hard to think with all the chaos going on around me. For some reason, I full-heartedly believed that she had eaten glass somehow.

But then, I noticed it.

All of her teeth were gone.

I looked in the crib, and there they were, scattered across the blood-soaked sheets and blankets. I must’ve missed them because of all the shock and adrenaline.

I don’t even think I put my shoes on. My wife and I just made a mad dash to the car before I drove us to the ER at a cool 95 miles per hour.

We stayed there for the rest of the night and well into the next day. All we could do, really, was hold each other. We kept trying to get updates from the receptionist, but she just kept asking us to be patient.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, we were able to go back and see our kid. She was asleep when we got to her. The doctors were just as puzzled as they were when she was born, with one of them even stating that, ‘losing all of your baby teeth at once at only 11 months old is definitely weird, but besides that, she’s perfectly healthy.’

And that was that.

We drove home, still shaken up, while our little girl kept catching Z’s in the backseat.

We got home and decided that we all needed to catch up on some sleep. We did keep our daughter in our bed this time, though. I don’t know, for closeness, I guess?

I was so tired from being up all night that I didn’t really have time to think about the logistics. I was essentially out before my head hit the pillow, wife and daughter at my side.

I wish I could say that it was the giggling that woke me up. But, of course, that would be too easy. It was actually the pain that got me. Well, that and the weird growling she was doing while gnawing on my arm.

My daughter hadn’t just regrown her teeth. She had her adult teeth now. And all 32 were lodged in my arm.

When I saw her, it was like the pain went away. It was immediately replaced with concern. 32 adult-sized teeth in an 11-month-old’s mouth. She looked like her jaw was gonna break, but despite the pain that she had to have been in… she was still smiling at me.

I kind of had to pry her mouth off of my arm, and now it was my turn to go to the hospital. She had a surprising amount of bite force for such a small body.

What’re you gonna do, though, right? I just took my stitches and moved on. However, not before, yet again, doctors had one last look at my daughter.

This time, they themselves removed the teeth.

It was more heartbreaking than anything. I mean, I knew it needed to be done just from looking at her. I just wish they could’ve gotten her to sleep before they did it.

I could hear her cries all the way from the waiting room.

When they brought her back, she was all gums. And that’s how she stayed for the next two weeks. Can’t say she was happy about it, though. If anything, she seemed to have developed a full resentment for my wife and I.

She stopped smiling at us. She didn’t become some kind of wailing demon-child or anything. She just… looked at us differently. There was intent in her eyes.

Which actually makes sense considering the hell she put us through. Sneaking out of her crib, flooding the bathroom with toilet water, somehow managing to smash picture frames when we weren’t looking.

And what’s fucked up is I wish I could go back to when she was just being annoying.

Because ever since she sprouted those fangs, I don’t even feel safe in my own house anymore.

We got her one of those muzzle-masks after she killed our pet kitty, but who knows how long that thing will last.

Especially considering how sharp her nails are getting. I already caught her trying to claw her way out of it last night.

Which is a real shame because her birthday is tomorrow.

And acting like that is not how you get to eat cake.

My daughter has always been a bit of a miracle baby. Not in the sense that she, like, almost died or anything. I guess miracle isn’t really the word for it.

An anomaly baby. An anomababy? I’ll just stick to anomaly baby. That was stupid.

Anyway, doctors were puzzled out of their gourds when she was born. Mostly because they didn’t detect any abnormalities all throughout my wife’s pregnancy.

She just surprised everyone in the room when she popped out with two full rows of baby teeth. Me and my wife still joke about how she was our ‘smiling little angel,’ because that’s exactly what she was.

She refused to cry. Well, scream, rather. She kinda had to cry. Even still, she didn’t scream once. Just went right back to flashing those pearly whites like a used car saleswoman and glancing around the room with her big, wide, doe eyes.

I don’t have to tell you how many tests doctors ran. Mainly because I don’t even remember. All I know is we were in and out of the hospital for a week or two afterward.

They just wouldn’t let us take her home until they’d gotten all the information they could. I guess they gave up, and thus, our little anomaly baby got to sleep in her own crib.

Nothing really happened for the first couple of months. She just acted like a regular newborn. Well, aside from the fact that she’d wake us up with giggles instead of cries in the middle of the night.

She was hungry? Giggle. Needed to be held? Giggle. She’d even giggle when she soiled her diaper, which, I’m still convinced, was intentional.

I just don’t know.

We’re approaching her first birthday, and things are starting to get a little weird, to say the least.

It all started last month. My wife woke up to the giggling and went to check on her. It had to have been nearly 3 in the morning. Plus, it was my wife’s turn to check, so I just curled up and drifted back into sleep.

At least, I tried to. My wife’s screams woke me up before I could jump back into my dream. The way she was screaming, I almost thought that we had intruders or something.

I rocketed out of bed, demanding to know what was happening as my wife flipped the light on.

Not gonna lie, if I’d seen what she’d seen, I’d have probably freaked out, too. Who am I kidding? I did freak out.

My daughter was still smiling and giggling, crawling around in her crib, but it was just absolutely soaked in blood. Like, from end to end.

That alone made instincts kick in as I snatched my baby up out of that mess, but when I saw the waterfall of blood falling out of her mouth, I nearly had a heart attack.

It was hard to think with all the chaos going on around me. For some reason, I full-heartedly believed that she had eaten glass somehow.

But then, I noticed it.

All of her teeth were gone.

I looked in the crib, and there they were, scattered across the blood-soaked sheets and blankets. I must’ve missed them because of all the shock and adrenaline.

I don’t even think I put my shoes on. My wife and I just made a mad dash to the car before I drove us to the ER at a cool 95 miles per hour.

We stayed there for the rest of the night and well into the next day. All we could do, really, was hold each other. We kept trying to get updates from the receptionist, but she just kept asking us to be patient.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, we were able to go back and see our kid. She was asleep when we got to her. The doctors were just as puzzled as they were when she was born, with one of them even stating that, ‘losing all of your baby teeth at once at only 11 months old is definitely weird, but besides that, she’s perfectly healthy.’

And that was that.

We drove home, still shaken up, while our little girl kept catching Z’s in the backseat.

We got home and decided that we all needed to catch up on some sleep. We did keep our daughter in our bed this time, though. I don’t know, for closeness, I guess?

I was so tired from being up all night that I didn’t really have time to think about the logistics. I was essentially out before my head hit the pillow, wife and daughter at my side.

I wish I could say that it was the giggling that woke me up. But, of course, that would be too easy. It was actually the pain that got me. Well, that and the weird growling she was doing while gnawing on my arm.

My daughter hadn’t just regrown her teeth. She had her adult teeth now. And all 32 were lodged in my arm.

When I saw her, it was like the pain went away. It was immediately replaced with concern. 32 adult-sized teeth in an 11-month-old’s mouth. She looked like her jaw was gonna break, but despite the pain that she had to have been in… she was still smiling at me.

I kind of had to pry her mouth off of my arm, and now it was my turn to go to the hospital. She had a surprising amount of bite force for such a small body.

What’re you gonna do, though, right? I just took my stitches and moved on. However, not before, yet again, doctors had one last look at my daughter.

This time, they themselves removed the teeth.

It was more heartbreaking than anything. I mean, I knew it needed to be done just from looking at her. I just wish they could’ve gotten her to sleep before they did it.

I could hear her cries all the way from the waiting room.

When they brought her back, she was all gums. And that’s how she stayed for the next two weeks. Can’t say she was happy about it, though. If anything, she seemed to have developed a full resentment for my wife and I.

She stopped smiling at us. She didn’t become some kind of wailing demon-child or anything. She just… looked at us differently. There was intent in her eyes.

Which actually makes sense considering the hell she put us through. Sneaking out of her crib, flooding the bathroom with toilet water, somehow managing to smash picture frames when we weren’t looking.

And what’s fucked up is I wish I could go back to when she was just being annoying.

Because ever since she sprouted those fangs, I don’t even feel safe in my own house anymore.

We got her one of those muzzle-masks after she killed our pet kitty, but who knows how long that thing will last.

Especially considering how sharp her nails are getting. I already caught her trying to claw her way out of it last night.

Which is a real shame because her birthday is tomorrow.

And acting like that is not how you get to eat cake.

My daughter has always been a bit of a miracle baby. Not in the sense that she, like, almost died or anything. I guess miracle isn’t really the word for it.

An anomaly baby. An anomababy? I’ll just stick to anomaly baby. That was stupid.

Anyway, doctors were puzzled out of their gourds when she was born. Mostly because they didn’t detect any abnormalities all throughout my wife’s pregnancy.

She just surprised everyone in the room when she popped out with two full rows of baby teeth. Me and my wife still joke about how she was our ‘smiling little angel,’ because that’s exactly what she was.

She refused to cry. Well, scream, rather. She kinda had to cry. Even still, she didn’t scream once. Just went right back to flashing those pearly whites like a used car saleswoman and glancing around the room with her big, wide, doe eyes.

I don’t have to tell you how many tests doctors ran. Mainly because I don’t even remember. All I know is we were in and out of the hospital for a week or two afterward.

They just wouldn’t let us take her home until they’d gotten all the information they could. I guess they gave up, and thus, our little anomaly baby got to sleep in her own crib.

Nothing really happened for the first couple of months. She just acted like a regular newborn. Well, aside from the fact that she’d wake us up with giggles instead of cries in the middle of the night.

She was hungry? Giggle. Needed to be held? Giggle. She’d even giggle when she soiled her diaper, which, I’m still convinced, was intentional.

I just don’t know.

We’re approaching her first birthday, and things are starting to get a little weird, to say the least.

It all started last month. My wife woke up to the giggling and went to check on her. It had to have been nearly 3 in the morning. Plus, it was my wife’s turn to check, so I just curled up and drifted back into sleep.

At least, I tried to. My wife’s screams woke me up before I could jump back into my dream. The way she was screaming, I almost thought that we had intruders or something.

I rocketed out of bed, demanding to know what was happening as my wife flipped the light on.

Not gonna lie, if I’d seen what she’d seen, I’d have probably freaked out, too. Who am I kidding? I did freak out.

My daughter was still smiling and giggling, crawling around in her crib, but it was just absolutely soaked in blood. Like, from end to end.

That alone made instincts kick in as I snatched my baby up out of that mess, but when I saw the waterfall of blood falling out of her mouth, I nearly had a heart attack.

It was hard to think with all the chaos going on around me. For some reason, I full-heartedly believed that she had eaten glass somehow.

But then, I noticed it.

All of her teeth were gone.

I looked in the crib, and there they were, scattered across the blood-soaked sheets and blankets. I must’ve missed them because of all the shock and adrenaline.

I don’t even think I put my shoes on. My wife and I just made a mad dash to the car before I drove us to the ER at a cool 95 miles per hour.

We stayed there for the rest of the night and well into the next day. All we could do, really, was hold each other. We kept trying to get updates from the receptionist, but she just kept asking us to be patient.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, we were able to go back and see our kid. She was asleep when we got to her. The doctors were just as puzzled as they were when she was born, with one of them even stating that, ‘losing all of your baby teeth at once at only 11 months old is definitely weird, but besides that, she’s perfectly healthy.’

And that was that.

We drove home, still shaken up, while our little girl kept catching Z’s in the backseat.

We got home and decided that we all needed to catch up on some sleep. We did keep our daughter in our bed this time, though. I don’t know, for closeness, I guess?

I was so tired from being up all night that I didn’t really have time to think about the logistics. I was essentially out before my head hit the pillow, wife and daughter at my side.

I wish I could say that it was the giggling that woke me up. But, of course, that would be too easy. It was actually the pain that got me. Well, that and the weird growling she was doing while gnawing on my arm.

My daughter hadn’t just regrown her teeth. She had her adult teeth now. And all 32 were lodged in my arm.

When I saw her, it was like the pain went away. It was immediately replaced with concern. 32 adult-sized teeth in an 11-month-old’s mouth. She looked like her jaw was gonna break, but despite the pain that she had to have been in… she was still smiling at me.

I kind of had to pry her mouth off of my arm, and now it was my turn to go to the hospital. She had a surprising amount of bite force for such a small body.

What’re you gonna do, though, right? I just took my stitches and moved on. However, not before, yet again, doctors had one last look at my daughter.

This time, they themselves removed the teeth.

It was more heartbreaking than anything. I mean, I knew it needed to be done just from looking at her. I just wish they could’ve gotten her to sleep before they did it.

I could hear her cries all the way from the waiting room.

When they brought her back, she was all gums. And that’s how she stayed for the next two weeks. Can’t say she was happy about it, though. If anything, she seemed to have developed a full resentment for my wife and I.

She stopped smiling at us. She didn’t become some kind of wailing demon-child or anything. She just… looked at us differently. There was intent in her eyes.

Which actually makes sense considering the hell she put us through. Sneaking out of her crib, flooding the bathroom with toilet water, somehow managing to smash picture frames when we weren’t looking.

And what’s fucked up is I wish I could go back to when she was just being annoying.

Because ever since she sprouted those fangs, I don’t even feel safe in my own house anymore.

We got her one of those muzzle-masks after she killed our pet kitty, but who knows how long that thing will last.

Especially considering how sharp her nails are getting. I already caught her trying to claw her way out of it last night.

Which is a real shame because her birthday is tomorrow.

And acting like that is not how you get to eat cake.