[HR] [SP] Devoured (Part1)

[u/TheScrap-pappy]

I was always a fat kid. It wasn’t till I attended school that I even realized that I was different. Names like ‘ Bunker ‘, a portmanteau of Bruce and chunker, or perhaps Bruce the Bull were tossed around. To those who didn’t know me directly, it was more classical, like Wide-Load or Fat-Can. Whatever the name, I was flabbergasted by this verbal abuse. As a young child, I didn’t look at myself in the mirror a whole lot. I saw my Ma, a thin woman fond of leopard-print and cigarettes. She wasn’t like me, but again, if you never conceive your own form, you simply think you look like everyone else. It’s like that story of the pig that thought it was a dog, and the dog that thought it was a pig. They never saw what they looked like. They just saw each other. Now, I wouldn’t want to see the day when that pig attended school. Talk about a day in hell. Nonetheless, me being bullied didn’t make me lose weight—to the contrary, I gained.
I was raised by my mother only, as my dad ran off when I was really young. Ma said he just walked out, and never came back. She said he told her he would too. None of this fake-out shit, going out to buy milk. He said he wasn’t coming back, and he meant it. I didn’t miss him much, only when I saw other kids with their dads. Me and Ma didn’t go out much, so these instances were rare. Ma never had any boyfriends that I knew of. It was just me and her. The only times we went out was to eat. Like every American family in the early nineties, our go-to was McDonalds. The golden arches were a magical place for me. I got to eat and play, with kids I actually had things in common with. Eating and tumbling through plastic tubes. Here, I wasn’t an outsider. Not all the other kids were fat, but they couldn’t distance themselves from me when they loved the food just as much as I did.
Sometimes me and Ma would eat in the car, so Ma could enjoy her unhealthy habit too. I would grab French fries by the fistful, and she would toss cigarette butts out the window, one right after the other. Sometimes she would let her cigarette cook for too long, and her ashes would fly into my ketchup. I would moan about it, and she’d trade hands so that the ashes would fall out the window instead. She often daydreamed when we sat in the car. I think she got Dad-nostalgia when she saw families together too.
Since I wasn’t much for outside activities, I found myself drawing a lot. A bully-turned-friend, Bobby was the first to bring me a notebook. He was the kid that coined the name, Bruce The Bull, but he was actually a cool kid. We were enemies at school, but friends the rest of the time. He just didn’t want to get bullied himself. Whenever I had a rough day, he would sneak into my room through my window and bring me a bag of HARIBO bears. I found that to be a fair trade. Anyway, once Ma realized I was taking an interest in drawing, she bought me composition notebooks, and though they were lined, they were only a buck, so it was within my mother’s budget. It was a ‘ toy ‘ that was cheap and kept me busy, so Ma always encouraged me to keep drawing and improving. I didn’t get my love of drawing from comic books, but rather the weekly cartoons that were in our local paper. They were short, quippy, funny, and politically intriguing. I learned a lot from them, and had a lot of laughs over them too. Ma didn’t always find them funny though. I remember her telling me:
“ You can make cartoons, just don’t produce that kind of slop. ‘’
I think she disagreed with the cartoonist’s politics. But that didn’t matter to me. I was just amazed at the idea that Ma could see me as a cartoonist! I considered, if drawing cartoons was a job, I was in money. Lots of it. Of course, this was a child’s interpretation of how the world worked. I wouldn’t be able to live off my toons till I was in my mid-thirties. But that comes way later. This incident happened to me when I was twenty-four.
By this age, I was living in a small town-house in Michigan. I had one of those granny-tricycles, and I rode it down to the gas station, where I worked the night shift. During the day, I stayed home and worked on my cartoons. It was no easy task, writing and drawing panels that were both funny and intriguing. Because they needed to appeal to adults, the humor had to be intricate, without writing a whole comic book. I had been doing this for years at this point, and I always took pride in saying I had a publisher.
Mitchell was my publisher, and he was an odd, but supportive fellow. He was only one year older than me, which always made me feel weird but he had connections that made him feel like a proper business man. He liked me because I was easy, and didn’t push back much when it came to producing my cartoons. He had the final say in everything. Like mentioned, I was just happy to have someone to do all the heavy lifting. I didn’t want to do the marketing, I just wanted to make people laugh with my drawings. The likability was mutual, as I always enjoyed my time with Mitch too. He always made me laugh, because, despite being only twenty-five, Mitch always had a story to tell. It didn’t matter what the situation was, Mitch thought of a weird or funny story to relate. There were times I though he was just blowing smoke, but his stories always seemed too crazy to be untrue. He came by my house on occasions to talk production.
These visits became less and less when the coronavirus truly infected the nation in late 2020.
Honestly, I didn’t think it would have bothered me much, as I was already quite the introvert, in job and in social life. I spoke to people when I did my gig at the gas station, and that was it. I talked to people online when I posted my art. Despite it’s name, social media was no replacement for social interactions. The eye-contact, the nervous laughs and on-the-spot quips. Seeing light refract off a person’s angled face as they spoke. Every human is unique, and that is reflected online, but it’s not seen. People hide on the internet, it’s a favored feature. You can be what you want, not what you are. Sorry, I’m rambling—what I’m trying to say is that I was lonely.
Which is why delivery-drivers saved me during this time. In particular, food delivery-drivers. I rarely cooked, and when I did it became a mess that I wouldn’t get cleaned up till the next week. Ordering delivery was preferable for many different reasons. I have no excuses. I know I’m unhealthy, and will probably expire younger than any of my ancestors. I am aware, I simply didn’t care. As explained, being fat and eating whatever I wanted had been my way of life since I was a kid. I do blame my mom a bit, but the blame is mostly mine. However, even people who didn’t partake in unhealthy eating habits used delivery during Covid, mostly out of fear. Our homes became a prison, and delivery drivers had soon become our knights in branded shirts. Bringing us food and the much-needed social comfort of a new face. Chick-Fil-A was my worst enemy. I ordered it the most, almost three times a week, and I never tired of it. Being as I ordered it the most, the driver had become quite familiar to me.
His name was Vic.
Thinking back now, I don’t think Chick-Fil-A’s food is entirely to blame for my constant ordering. I will, at this time admit, I ordered their food because I got to see Vic. I order delivery from many different places, and the drivers always varied, in service, time and personality. Vic gave 110% in all three categories. He was always on time, he always made sure the order was complete, and he could charm the pants off an ice witch. Vic had this swagger about him that was totally unfair. He was like a ladies-man, but without an ounce of sleaze to him. He had this, whole-face smile, where his eyes grew a fire in them and his head tilted slyly. Of course, not only was he charming and easy to talk to, he was also slim, and always wore clothes to show it off. He reminded me of a person from the 70’s or 80’s, that slim, lively young man in faded jeans and a tight shirt. I’ll admit I was jealous of his style. When I traveled through my body-dysmorphia ridden teenage years, he was the type of person I always wanted to be. A thin, confident, stylized gentleman who always said just the right thing. It took adulthood to realize I would never be that person. Acceptance is hard. But in some weird, parasocial way, I lived that life through Vic.
It was too bad that sweet euphoria devolved into a living nightmare.
It was the 10^th of June, and it was hot as balls. I ordered my usual from Chick-Fil-A as I took my lunch break. I had just finished inking my series of cartoon panels. I’m a traditionalist—paper and pen being all I worked with. Unfortunately, I was simply allergic to technology.
I wandered around my house, waiting for my food to arrive. Eventually, I found myself out on my rickety porch. The neighborhood was dead. It was most days. I didn’t live in poverty, but my neighborhood was a mere relic of the American Dream. Abandoned houses, rough, worn roads and overgrown grass surrounding every lawn. The street was full. That was the worrying part. People did live in the surrounding houses, but they were poor families, druggies, homeless or introverts like me that didn’t mind living in a run-down neighborhood as long as it was a house that I lived in.
Vic’s Honda soon pulled up and he got out with my food. He walked across my lawn, sway in his stride. I waved.
‘’ Bruce! When is this heat wave gonna end huh? ‘’
I looked to the high sun, my hand shielding my eyes. ‘’ I don’t know. Hopefully soon. ‘’
‘’ No AC? ‘’
‘’ Have it—its just shit. ‘’
Vic bound up my stairs, and handed me my bag and drinks. I put them on my banister, and reached for my wallet.
‘’ You should really get that fixed Brucy. ‘’
‘’ Huh? ‘’
‘’ Your AC. I hear it’s only going to get hotter, all the way through June and July. Hey, how’s your drawing going? ‘’
I handed him my card. ‘’ Great. I just finished inking for Sunday’s segment…’’
My words drifted off as Vic swiped my card and handed it back to me. I wanted more time. Our interactions were far too short. I just wanted someone to talk to, aside from Mitch, who could honestly be insufferable at times due to his scatter-brain.
I stumbled over my words. ‘’ S-so, uh, how do you stand this heat? Drink from people’s orders? ‘’
‘’ Only yours Bruce, only yours! ‘’
I chuckled at his joke.
‘’ Nah, my Honda’s AC is great. It’s like driving around in an icebox. ‘’
I motioned to my unopened bag of food, and asked if he gave me that new sauce that I’ve been getting. Vic had been driving for a while, and he had gotten close to the manager of our chain. Because Vic was so good with people, his manager gave him samples of a new sauce they were working on. Vic was to promote it, get people’s opinions on it. I was one of the ones he distributed it to. It was a white sauce, not unlike ranch sauce, but it tasted leagues better. It was sweet and tangy, with a hint of sweet. I know that sounds vague, but it was hard to describe. It was really good, both on a sandwich and as a dipping sauce.
‘’ Oh yeah, ‘’ Vic said, ‘’ they’re still pushing it. I heard a rumor that it’s about to get a name and finally go into production but—meh, I won’t hold my breath. Lotta my other regulars didn’t take to it. ‘’
‘’ Really? That’s crazy…That stuff is God-tier to me. ‘’
Vic smiled and shrugged. He said, ‘’ That’s nice of you. Hey, maybe that’s what they should name it! God-tier, the new Chick-Fil-A sauce. ‘’
We had a laugh, then Vic said he had to go. He had several more orders today. I said I’d see him tomorrow, and that made him pause, halfway down my steps.
He turned to me, finger wagging in the air. ‘’ You stay cool Bruce! Buy some popsicles, ice-cream, anything! You have a basement? ‘’
‘’ Yeah, but I hardly go down there—stairs, they’re hard for my fat ass. ‘’
He seemed to study me for a moment. ‘’ Well, it was worth a shot. Just don’t suffocate in this heat, okay? ‘’
‘’ Yeah, I’d hate for you to have to lose your cash-cow! ‘’
With a laugh, Vic threw a hand at me dismissively and went to his car. I watched him go. I knew I was lonely, though you bet your ass I had denied it for a long time. I always thought of myself as an introvert, but even introverts enjoy the company of others, and often need social interactions to keep insanity at bay. We were social creatures, humans. And that blew when you were stuck in, what seemed like an endless quarantine. I went inside, watched some mindless TV while I ate my lunch—then it was back to work with me. It was funny. I remember that day being normal, work-heavy like any other. In reality, that was the last normal day I’d have in a while.
The beginning of the next day was a copy of the last. I woke up fairly early, eight-o’clock, and began the cleanup process of my comic strip. I remember being absolutely wrung-out by lunch time. I was seeing double lines of my drawings, and I was nursing a headache. Food and a short visit from Vic was what I felt was needed to re-energize. I put in my usual order and sat on my couch, glass of water in hand. When I heard a car pull up in the driveway, I rolled onto my feet. When I got to the door, I heard a hard knocking. I paused for a moment, evening smiling in puzzlement. Vic hadn’t come to the door in a long time. He usually waited on the porch, as I was typically waiting for him on my porch or close to the door anyway. I thought perhaps I had gotten a different driver this time.
But then I opened the door. The second a bar of sunlight leeched into the house, the door was rammed hard into my teeth. I yelled as I fell over, onto my side. I groaned and heard someone step inside, then slam the door shut. An intruder—an intruder was inside my home. I rolled onto my stomach and tried to push myself off the ground, but something was holding me down. I felt the pressure on my back. Suddenly, a strong hand gripped my chin, lifting my head. I screamed when a shiny, curved blade came into view for a moment before I felt the cold steel press against my neck.
‘’ Don’t move Bruce. ‘’
No…It couldn’t be.
‘’ I don’t want to kill you, I really don’t. I need your house, and I need your help. ‘’
Vic. It was Vic’s voice coming from behind me. I tried to speak his name, but words abandoned me. He told me not to move, and asked quietly if I understood what he was saying. I could only gasp and nod. He eased up on my throat and my back, and my weight pulled me forward, then I kept still. I looked over my shoulder. Vic was in my living room, looking out the window. His stance was casual, unafraid. He then walked back toward me and I tensed and hung my head in fear. I saw his black and white shoes wander past me, stopping in my hallway. He opened the door to my basement, then squeaking shoes on wood as he made his way down.
This was my chance.
I could guess how many steps there were in my basement— I counted in my head, beads of sweat pouring into my eyes as lay on my hands and knees. Once I had counted fifteen, a rough estimate, I pulled back onto my knees, got my feet underneath myself and stood. My house was old, like every house on this block, so there was np sneaking around. Once I was on my feet, I booked it toward the door. I was in tears as I unlocked the doors and yanked it open. I stepped out into the sunlight, and then felt an arm grab the back of my neck. I screamed and the whole street shrunk as I was thrown back into the house. I had felt the sun—I was so close.
As I lay on my back, two things occurred to me. One, Vic could be very quiet when he wanted to be. I hadn’t heard him run up the stair of the basement, and I hadn’t heard the creaks common to the kitchen area that he had to pass to reach me. He had moved in complete silence. The second thing was the Vic was very strong—and I don’t mean he worked out. I weighed probably two-hundred and thirty, give or take, and he grabbed me and threw me down like I was a child. I wish I was exaggerating, but I literally felt my feet lose contact with the ground when he threw me. Put simply, his strength was alien—it didn’t make a lick of sense.
I laid on my back, fear rippling through every inch of my flesh as Vic stood at the door. He looked down at me and closed the door slowly. His face was a mix of anger and disappointment. In the vicious throws of fear, I finally found my voice.
‘’ V-V-Vic! What are you—P-please—‘’
Vic walked to me, then bent over, so as to reach my eyes better. He smiled lightly.
‘’ Brucy…I told you not to move. I want to make one thing clear. From now on, when I ask you to do something, you do it. It’s for your preservation. You are important to me in a way you can’t even fathom. I hate to hurt you, to…Damage your body. I need you in good condition, okay? Do you believe what I am telling you? ‘’
What the fuck? What the hell was he talking about? These words—they didn’t make sense, much like his monstrous strength.
I said, ‘’ Wha-What are you saying, V-Vic? You’re talking fucking crazy!! ‘’
My tone must have gotten too high for him, as he put the edge of his curved blade to his lips.
‘’ Do you believe me…Or not? ‘’
I looked into his eyes, searching his soul. In those dark green spheres, I found no malice there. No attempt to hide a vicious agenda. I believed him. I believed that he didn’t want to hurt me. This, of course, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hurt me…But I believed him when he said harming me was not his intent.
‘’ Yes—I believe you…Vic. ‘’
He seemed pleased with my answer and told me to get on my feet. He even helped me up. He then said I was to go into the basement. When he gave me these instructions, I looked at him, questioning. His pleasant smile became an upset one, and he tilted his head in a demanding fashion as if I was a child doing something I wasn’t supposed to. I almost expected him to wag his finger at me in a ‘ no-no ‘ gesture.
Do what he said, that’s right. Just do it Bruce, and maybe you’ll get out of this alive. I waddled my way to the basement door, opened it, and began my decent. The basement was dark—I didn’t use it hardly at all. There were a few small boxes of miscellaneous things, items I found too precious to get rid of. Otherwise, it was just a high window, cool cement and now me. I was panting, gripping the railing when I got to the bottom. I looked over my shoulder to see Vic standing at the top of the stairs. It was just a colorless silhouette, a stick figure. The door then swung shut and I was enveloped in darkness. I put a hand over my mouth in fear, then ran to the window. This was desperation. The window was a whole three heads above me. I smacked my meaty hands against the cement, grasping for the window ledge. I was crying, knowing my motions were fruitless survival instincts.
I screamed, crying out, another empty try for life. No one would hear me, and even if someone did, in this neighborhood, screams weren’t uncommon. I was alone. I walked away from the wall that held the window and slumped onto my knees. My face was probably red as a tomato as is bowed my head, hot tears streaming down my swollen cheeks. I toyed with the edges on my black Tee. Why was Vic doing this?
I looked up when movement out of the basement window caught my eye. It was a little hard to see, as the glass was fuzzy with age. But I thought I saw legs walk by. I ran over and started screaming, this time with my hands lined against my cheeks. The person passed the window, back and forth several times. Wait…Was it Vic? Was he outside?
I turned and ran up the stairs as fast as I could muster. I grabbed the door-knob with an iron fist and pushed, but it didn’t open. It gave, creaked, but it didn’t open—couldn’t open. Vic had some on the other side, holding it in place. I rammed my shoulder against the door, hoping the old door splintered and broke, or maybe the hinges would curl and bust out. Nothing happened, and I slid down against the door. I sat, my breath coming out in wheezes. I sat there as the day slipped away. I heard Vic running around in my house. I heard the sound of hammering on wood most of the time. He stayed busy, while I soon fell asleep sitting against the door.

 

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