hearteaters

the first time it happens you think [[you're going to die.]]

of course you are. someone, someone you loved claws through your skin into your flesh, sticks their fist into your chest cavity and tears your heart out whole. eats it in front of you. your vision fades at the sight of their bloody smiling teeth and all you could think was, [['i never knew you were capable of this.']]

and you fade to black, like the end of a movie, and there's nothing, you feel nothing because it's the end and there's no feelings when you're dead. [[but then the lights come back on.]]

you're not doing well. you feel like shit. you can't move. you look down and there's bandages and red seeping through them, hospital gown low enough for you to see, and there's pain, oh god, there's pain. you can't stand. you can barely speak. and there's people you know at your bedside and [[they look sympathetic.]]

'oh honey.' 'the first time is the hardest.' 'we'll get you home.' you can't go home. don't they understand? you try to speak but you don't know where to begin. how can they see you like this and be so calm? sure, you're alive, but... surely they knew what happened to you? what do they mean 'first time'? how can anyone survive this? never mind [[more than once?]]

you're wheeled out the hospital gently and given painkillers and soothed when you cry. they explain. that they didn't want to tell you sooner. that they thought just maybe you'd avoid it til you're older. that maybe it'd stop happening. [[but hearts grow back.]]

it takes you months to recover. you're weak. you barely leave your bed. people you love are sympathetic at first, but they start to get exasperated at how long it takes for you to get back on your feet. the person you loved gets away with it and you have to face them from time to time. have to see them smile and get flashbacks to [[your blood dripping down their chin.]]

nobody wants to talk about it. when you try bring it up, you're shushed. and you know now that some people do this. that it just happens. and mostly, people survive it. but you notice, now. you realise, when you watch the news, that celebrities disappear for months on end sometimes, and you understand the euphemisms. you avoid getting near anyone like them. if you avoid people like them, [[maybe it won't happen to you again.]]

you find someone nice. someone you care for. someone entirely different. they can't be the same. they look different. they act different. they treat you better. [[and it takes a few years before the hunger gets to them.]]

even though you know now about how hearts regrow, it still feels like this time you might actually die. it hurts so bad. it's slower, this time, they say sorry as they rip it out and they're crying as they take a bite. their words echo in your ears as you fade away. [['i didn't want to have to do this. you just made me so hungry.']]

and you wake up again. and there's people you know at your bedside and they still look sympathetic, and it hurts just the same, and the stitches are messier this time, and the scar is thicker, and raised. //they're// there to visit you when you wake up. they bring you flowers. they say they're sorry. and your other loved ones [[don't make them leave.]]

you try stay friends. everyone wants you to get along. they're sorry, after all, and they were just so hungry. is that so wrong? it doesn't stop hurting. it takes longer to heal because you push yourself too hard too fast. eventually you cut contact with them. it helps you heal a bit, but only a bit. [[your scars are still ugly.]]

you find someone else to trust. and you start to wonder. why can't you just do it? turn the tables? why can't you just be the hearteater instead of the victim? nobody seems to care. [[does it really taste that good?]]

you wonder if it'd be better to do it to someone you didn't know, someone who wouldn't care that it was you. but that won't do. you have to understand. you have to see it through their eyes. [[you have to do what they did.]]

it's just after 9 at night and you give them no warning. just sink your fingers into their chest and your nails aren't quite long enough and sharp enough for it but they've been growing in since the first time you had this done to you, and it's sloppy and they're screaming and begging you to stop and you're trying not to cry and you yank it out and take a bite as you see the light fade out of them and it tastes awful. it's bitter and coppery like your hands after you've counted change. but you can't stop. you finish it, grimacing the whole time, adrenaline pumping through your veins, the rush of it like [[nothing you've ever experienced before.]]

you send them to the hospital and you never speak to them again. you wonder if it was worth it. you wonder if it's hurting them as much as [[it hurt you.]]

you don't find anyone else for a while. there's still people, but you keep them at a distance, don't let them too close. you can feel the blood stained on your hands for weeks after you do it. and you crave that rush again. and your stomach growls even when you're full. [[your nails are growing longer.]]

people keep inching closer every time you let your guard down. and you don't premeditate it. they're near you and you can smell it on them and your hand is around their still-beating heart before you know it. and it tastes awful. and the look of shock on their face is haunting. and the high isn't as sweet as it was before. and you're alone, and you're even hungrier than you were before, and was it worth it? [[was it really?]]

you find ways to tame your hunger. and you find ways to alleviate your guilt. you find an unrepentant hearteater and you stay with them and let them tear yours out every time it's ripe and you watch as they do it to others while they're waiting on you. they have some good qualities. [[they look after you well when you're recovering.]]

but eventually it gets to be too much. it's the fourth time this year, and it's only july. and you tell them you can't any more, that your body can't take it. it's only been two weeks since the last time, but they tear it out anyway, and you see it briefly before you black out, tiny and shrivelled, and [[they eat it whole.]]

you wake up again. and you're used to being here. and there's people you know at your bedside and they look bored. 'oh, you're finally awake.' 'took you long enough.' 'come on, get out of bed, we're going home.' and you can't walk and you're dragged, on your knees, still in the hospital gown. you're bundled into the car and driven home and berated for [[causing the hospital hassle over this again.]]

they lecture you the whole way home. you should have seen this coming. you should have known. this happens all the time. they're sick of it. [[they won't help you if it happens again.]]

you stop seeing your hearteater. and you rest up and you do the exercises you know so well. and you recover. it still hurts, but you're used to it now. [[your nerves are numb.]]

slowly, you reach out to people, but you keep them at arm's length, equally to keep them safe as much as to keep yourself safe. you focus on folks that are miles away. that are famous enough to be known, but not so famous they don't recognise your name when you send them things you made more than once. they know your face when you see them at cons. you convince yourself they can never get close enough to eat your heart. [[it works well, for a while.]]

then you talk to someone else in your position who met them face to face and woke up in the hospital. and you don't feel so safe any more. you saw them at a con just last week. they did it to someone they barely knew who gave them all their love in the hotel you were staying in. [[it could have been you.]]

you find another celebrity. you're wary. you take your time warming up to people, now, even when the relationship is completely one-sided. this one is more famous. they're far enough away from you, they'll never know your name. but it comes out again, because of course it does, it always does. [[you don't know if there's anyone on earth who hasn't done it.]]

for such a taboo, it seems so common. you've done it. your friends have all done it. and yet everyone knows it's wrong. is it unavoidable? is everyone subject to [[the hunger?]]

your scars are gnarled, an explosion across your chest. reminders of every time you've been a victim. reminders that you've done the same to others. the hunger still aches, sometimes. but do you want to keep this cycle going? [[or would you rather starve?]]

apparently, sometimes, if it happens enough, it can stop regrowing. you don't know how many times you have left. maybe next time you'll suffer total heart failure. [[maybe you'll deserve it.]]

but if you do survive it, you know you can push through the pain and recover. because you've done it so many times already. and maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones. and it'll always grow back. or maybe you'll be even luckier and [[it'll never happen to you again.]]

but you're not naive enough to assume anyone's safe. even the gentlest of people are capable of it. because they're not monsters. they're just people. and they're just hungry. and that doesn't make it hurt any less.

fuck nick fuck tim fuck my abusers fuck my ex friends fuck my past self fuck everything i wish i could be soaked in their blood instead of my own. i wish my senses about who's trustworthy and who's not were as sharp as my claws are.

warnings: gore trauma [[start|first]]