I don’t know why I bite. But I also don’t know why I don’t lay down. I don’t know why I don’t back away. It’s not pride. I don’t mean to victimise myself, but I am not the strongest, nor the most handsome. My smarts are nothing to get me noticed or on the front page of a newspaper. Instead, I’m known to bite. And I believe that is something to be proud of.
Being bitten does not mean you are hurt. Dogs do it to play and cats do it as a warning. Not every time, but most times, when you know a pet well and they bite you, you do not take it to heart. Most people don’t mean to dangle keys in front of my face or for that comment to slip out. They most likely know of me and don’t expect me to do what I do. It’s stupid, really—but people are kind.
They see the good in everyone. This world is kind. Most never learn that I don’t change. They keep putting their hands out and expecting that they are the person who can calm me, empathise with me.
I have no handler. I have no owner. In this kind, kind world, I am the one they pity. The one they feel bad for. I don’t need any pity—I like myself. There are people that like me for me, and I want to keep those friendships for as long as possible.
It’s when I use teeth that I hurt—others, of course. It doesn’t hurt me physically or even mentally; it’s just something that happens. What hurts is when they stay and don’t run away. Barely anyone has run away from me. They are kind. They know it is not my fault. They could have bite marks all along their arm, but they choose to stay. They choose me.
In the end, it’s always me or them. And I always choose me. I’m not selfish; I just look out for myself. I do not feel guilty when I bite. They don’t make me feel guilty. They are kind. Because they don’t want me to freeze; they know I don’t mean to bite. It’s just an instinct.
- ─────── ·ʚɞ· ─────── ·
The time said 2:16pm. The sun had just come down from its peak, the breeze had turned icy again—just like this morning. I felt no shift, personally. I was in the same place I was when I first woke up.
Everything had stayed the same.
Just like yesterday, the day had repeated itself. I put on my hoodie that I had merely taken off just a few hours ago, when the sun hit its apex midday. When I walked out my front door it was hiding behind the clouds. I tucked the posters under my arm and buried my hands in my hoodie pocket—walking out onto the street. It’s grey. I know it’s winter and all, but the world feels more dreary.
I kick off frost that was stuck to the concrete, the sound echoing on the empty street.
I brush past posters I’ve already stuck up, or maybe they were Mum’s—I was on autopilot at that point. August’s face was staring back at me. He was drenched in orange and pink powder from the marathon we ran a couple of weeks ago.
His picture met my gaze. I looked down at my sneakers. Damn it, I forgot the tape. I turned on my heel, the bright red ‘MISSING’ being the last thing that catches my gaze before I start walking back home.
I stop on my tracks as I gaze out into the field. The only free space on our street. And despite standing out in the open, nobody else seemed to have noticed August standing shirtless in the green. His dark skin contrasted with the pale pastels of the overgrown grass. He had a red tint to him on his chest that was made clear as I walked closer.
I smelt the blood before I saw how much there was splattered all over his chest.
My sweats dragged along the dewy, damp field as I picked up pace when I saw the gash along his arm. He couldn’t bear to look me in the eyes. “It’s an instinct. I don’t mean to bite.” His voice was shallow. He did mean to bite this time. I couldn’t blame him. “I know.” I reassure him calmly.
My eyes are glued to this giant cut along the inside of his arm. It was too cold for his own blood to leave his body; our body keeps enough warmth for our blood to flow. On a day like this, shirtless especially, you’d be freezing. So all that blood on his chest—was not his. Not a cut on his chest in sight.
I led him back quietly to my house. I turned on the hose, put it in the warm and hosed him down. I see him flinch when I spray water in his open wound, but he doesn’t say anything. After all the blood washes off his chest and down into the drain, I grab him a towel from inside and he dries himself down. I pull him inside and sit him down on the couch, throwing him another pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. We move in silence as I start to boil tomato soup on the stove and bring him a glass of orange juice.
Now I sit with August.
I take a look at his cut again—oozing out already. It’s best to let a cut bleed in warmth then freeze over in the cold.
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