CONTEST WINNER ‘Rotten Fruit’

Y. N. P. is an aspiring photographer not afraid to showcase his creativity.

Rotten Fruit 

A bite first, juice dripping down and sticking in between fingers, red and sweet, with a slight tang finish. Another bite, more urgent. Sticky, almost dried. Pungent, smelling sweet with sugar and sweat trembling, about to fall down and pool on my upper lip. Mixing with juice and stilling on my tongue. Blood and nectar. Another bite, slowly, savoring. Chewing slowly, saving in the space between my teeth, pulsing my tongue to mush out every last bit of flavor. I take the fruit in my mouth and suck on it, slurping up syrup and sucrose, living in the moment my mouth meets the tender flesh. A candy start, caramel finish, acid all over. Red juice drips down my chin and falls in drops onto my shirt, staining bubbles of blood. A sugar high coup in my head, a fast-paced pitter patter heart. Hands crimson, juice underneath my fingernails, I lick them clean. The fruit persuades me. Another bite of flesh, meaty and rich overtakes me. I close my eyes and see sparks, acid stars and sweetener headaches. Better than aspartame, and sharp as lemon juice on an empty stomach. The last bite left stares at me, following my movements with keen eyes. It goes down as easily as the rest, leaving a trail of velvet down my throat and resting in my stomach. The squelch of my puckered lips echos, my teeth are bruised. The red drizzles down my forearms, drips at my elbows and puddles on the floor. 

There's more juice on the floor. With abandon I drop to my knees, lapping what's left like a cat and her bowl of milk. It’s rotten at the edges but I don’t care. The more I drink, the more it tastes bitter, like fermented blood. I find the peel discarded on the floor, skin sagging, torn. Two eyes, still with their nerves attached. I take it in my mouth and bite. Outer shell crunching easily, draining the pudding middle. The next eye is just as good, glistening and jelly, briny and warm. The heart is already gone, but the rest of the body is just waiting. My mouth is watering, and bursting with flavor.  

His cologne caught me first. Fawning at the scent, black pepper and burnt wood. He smelled like security. Like a comfortable bank account, business class and dry cleaned suits. He smelled like dinner. A roast in the oven, getting better by the hour, sweating with each drink. Sweetening with every glance. Every time he leaned closer I closed my eyes, and took a deep inhale. Memorizing his scent, getting lost for a moment in the future, when I get to taste it. Candles in the middle of the table, but they’re weak vanilla and linen is obsolete. This man is all consuming. Our wine glasses klink and we laugh, my lipstick staining napkins, the light dancing in slow circles. 

I watch him watch me—eyes lingering, mouth curved. There’s something practiced in it, something processed artificial, something hungry. Like he’s already planned the next step, just waiting for me to catch up. His hand brushes mine as he reaches for to refill his glass, knuckles grazing my bare arm like it’s accidental. It isn’t. His hands are cold, sending me chills where our skin meets, a warning or a promise—I haven’t decided. 

“You ever think about leaving early?” he asks, soft and casual, like asking if I want dessert. I look at him over the rim of my glass, tasting fire on my tongue. “Leaving early to where?”

“To somewhere better than this,” he says, gesturing vaguely around the candlelit table. 

A small laugh escapes me—shorter this time, more breath than sound. I take another sip of wine and set my glass down, slowly. Deliberately. Tasting metal and traces of cinnamon. His scent rises again as he leans forward. Pepper. Heat. Wood still smoldering. Like he was carved from a fire that never really went out. I imagine that he’d taste sharp at first, then slow and soft, like something melting on the tongue. Giving in. 

“You assume I’m looking for better,” I say. 

“I don’t think you settle,” he replies, his voice closer, low, alcohol mixing with pine. “I think you’re just waiting.” 

I glance down, then back up, letting the quiet stretch between us like silk. Like smelling dinner from the living room. Tension spun fine and shining. His fingers rest just near mine on the table, close enough that I can see the blue-purple of the veins that protrude from the tops of his hands. 

For a moment, I think about the roast. I think about a future that smells like his cologne on my pillowcase. Like wine-soaked nights that never quite end. The thought is gone before it settles, herded away by a superior.  

I lean back in my chair, smile just enough, and say, “Tell me what you’d do if I said yes.” “Like you’d ever say no.”  

I feel everything. The velvet of skin-on-skin mixed with sweat and dried honey, lukewarm. Hatred pools in the bends of my knees and the smooth curves of elbows, fingers feeling foreign. Cold and clammy hands scouring every inch of my body, There is no part of me that is clean, I have been stripped of silence. The sheets feel like sandpaper under my bare thighs, polyester and salt clinging to me like steam on a mirror. An impossible itch. Burning friction. Sticky and slow, I try to shift, to peel away from this moment, but even breathing feels like carving marble: slow, deliberate, and irreversible. My lungs are stone, chiseled breaths heaving heavily. Heavenly. My ribs are brittle, cracking under his weight. 

Clenched fists in angry aftershocks keep me warm. I knew this would happen, I could feel it the way he kissed me. The fruit was already bruised when I bit it. Now, it’s rotten. Overripe. Collapsing under its own sweetness. 

The breath we shared has turned knife-sharp, heavy and heaving. 

He chases himself in circles, moving with me as I turn away from him. His scent turned sour. We sat, hearts touching, his eyes closed, moving in confidence. 

He groans against me, oblivious to his precarious situation. Men never know how much danger they’re in, eating fruit they didn’t plant, reaching into clouds they didn’t earn, egos fluttering and flying. Eyes closed to the blistering sun.

I love to hear a man whimper, but it happens so rarely. He is an exception. When I stab the man in his back he trembles with force. His eyes snap open, wide and glossy with disbelief. The whites glow in the dark like boiled eggs. I can tell that he’s surprised by my sudden violence, mouth still in a silent “oh.” Warmth still flowing, blood still rushing. Mild spoiled milk stains dripping clumpy rivers down our thighs. 

“Shh shhh shhh” I whisper, consoling his whimpers and tears. I pet his damp hair, run my fingers down the side of his trembling face. I forcefully pull the knife out, blood bursting with a splash. I pierce him again, and again. Faster with each stab. Needy and desperate I dig gashes into his back, skin sticking to the blade. I chop and slice, rusty droplets flying. My eyes are bloodshot, as red as the walls. 

Water flows, useless and slow. I lean down and lick the tears from his face. They taste like salt and desperation. My heart flutters. I lean in close to hear every trembling gasp, to hear the heat of his last pained pants infatuate the air between us. My pulse quickens with anticipation. I watch his eyes close and a pitiful wheeze withdraws. The fight leaves him like air from a balloon. I exhale with my cadaver, and slowly pull the knife from his back. It comes free with a squelch. 

His blood has soaked the sheets, sticky, sodden, stained garnet. Rhythmic and lazy blood drips in a tap tap tap down onto the hardwood floors. An inconsistent ending. 

I start to carve him like a thanksgiving turkey, deliberate and clean. The squelch of raw flesh echoing in the big bedroom. I pause my menstruations to bask in that gleeful silence, save for the noise I make myself. I start to hum a melody, tuneless and upbeat, like I’m baking cookies, scooping up dough instead of intestines- still warm on my fingertips. I use my blade with precision, slicing through sinew with a wet rip, feeling the sound behind my eyes. I spatchcock his ribs, cracking with a brittle snap, sharp and quick. Obedient. The air fills with a coppery sting of death and salt and sweat. 

The bedroom makes all my movements sound bigger than they are, my palms against cartilage, thuds of insides dropping to the floor. Already black with rot. The blood leaves pulsing trails down my forearms, like a sigh after a long day. 

When I’m done, I put all the best parts in a bowl, ready for me, slippery and safe. And finally, all I hear is silence. Charged. Perfect. I can still hear him ringing in my head, his last little whimper. Almost a lullaby. 

The lights are suddenly too bright. Sterile. Holy and hostile in their glare. I clean the sheets with peroxide and lemon juice, trying for a glimmer of white to peak out beneath the crimson. It fizzles like champagne. 

I scrub in slow, controlled circles. Each pass of the cloth refracts a different tone—rust, garnet, copper, rose. Methodical movements make my vision clear, like windshield wipers in a storm. Before a blurry picture, with heat and breath and chaos. Noise and need, now polished. Stains lifting like memory, fighting yet yielding.

The overhead bulb hums softly above me, casting a pale, sacred light. Surgical. Confessional. The shadows on the walls shift with my every movement, long and thin like silent witnesses. I pause to watch the way the blood fades under pressure, the way the fibers of the sheet drink the stain before surrendering. There’s grace in dying. 

I drop the soiled sheets into a garbage bag, it lands with a soft thump, muffled with damp liquid. I replace them with a fresh set, crisp, white, and pure. Cold from the linen closet, light bouncing off the white fabric in waves. Fluorescent. I smooth the duvet and plump the pillows until the bed looks innocent. 

I open the window and the night spills in, soft and silver. Streetlights cast golden halos on the sidewalk below. A distant flicker of television from another apartment flashes blue against brick. A moth flies inside, drawn helplessly toward my light. 

Room clean, I take one last look; still. Spotless. Clean like a confession, pure like denial. I close the door, and the light follows me out. 

My stomach is full and comfortable, a lazy pressure behind my belly button. Filled with fire and his audacity, leftovers sitting in my fridge. My limbs grew sluggish, I felt my blood reroute, going to my fingertips and down to my knees. Body humming in afterglow, indulgence. I am certain. Strong. Spine tingling in satisfaction. 

This itch, nestled under my skin pushing me to taste, the need to consume is a skintight vice. Punishing- but who? My own mind; in a dark corner covered in blood. Searing and numb. Feverish and tender. I am helpless. I am hungry.

Amanda Draznin (she/her) is studying English and Creative Writing at Elon University. Her work has been previously published in The Weight Journal, Beyond Words Magazine and Youth Be Heard. When she isn’t writing you could find her playing the tenor saxophone or reading through her collection of books.