Chitin

I am a professional nail biter.
Since I was a child, I had my fingers in my mouth, trying to numb whatever nervousness was dwelling within me.
I knew just how hard to bite down on my nails so that I could rip off each individual layer of the hardened, dead protein that somehow made things better. I was able to angle each finger in such a way that I could pull the entire nail off, from one side to the other. I had studied different ways to pull hangnails, knowing that if I clenched my teeth around the base and the pull, I could take the loose skin off with only a small blemish and a tiny amount of pain. Moreso, through trial and error, I figured out how much of the quick could be exposed to the air, before I felt pain, and was sure to stop short.
Sometimes, I might pull too hard on a nail, which at that point, would leave a nasty, open sore that would bleed, but only for a few moments while I applied pressure. I?d make sure to wrap it up, and hold it away from any hot water source, because the exposed nerves would shoot waves of pain throughout my entire hand. Other times, my entire nail might be gone, but due to the constant need to protect the skin, underneath would be many more layers that provided a protective barrier to any outside elements.
I knew each finger?s specific weak points and made sure to attack them whenever I felt a nervous situation turning over. I had no need for nail filers, or nail clippers, simply, because I didn?t have any need for nails, beyond the regular chewing.
I?ve tried gum. I?ve tried toothpicks. I even kept a straw from a large soda that I had chewed on for several days before realizing that my nails were gone the entire time. I?ve tried dabbing the tips of my fingers in salsa and specific treatments and polishes for nail biters, but I realized quickly that if I suffered enough discomfort, I could reach that tiny little cuticle that I knew had to be sheared away.
I was a chronic nail biter.
And I still am.
I have always been an anxious person.
I guess you could say that it stems from some uncovered childhood trauma. Maybe it comes from the many times I was bullied or tricked in high school that kept my nerves wracked. Whatever it was, I knew that it wouldn?t be solved by simple, habit-breaking procedures. It wasn?t going to be banished by hypnosis or self-trickery. At 28 years old, I didn?t think that it would ever end, since it had become so ingrained within myself, literally branding itself upon my own skin. I was open to just about any sort of treatment that could help me overcome my addiction, but most that I tried were just fruitless.
These are all reasons why I winced when I put my hand under a faucet to wash dishes with the hot water. It is the reason that you would feel the leathery texture of a bandaid against your hand if you were to shake mine. It is the reason that you could find me pouring into my hands from a new sharpie with the phrase ?Don?t Bite,? each letter covering a separate finger. It was the reason that you could find me sucking my thumb, trying to cover up the bleeding from the latest battle between proteins.
I had a problem, and I had exhausted every way to stop it. I needed something more.
This led to where I was. Sitting in a small room, holding onto a binder filled with various degrees and resumes, hoping for a chance that I might make it into a position that I could turn into a career. While the container was in one hand, I had my other hand balled into a fist, to try and stop the pain that I was experiencing from my latest venture into the world of protein ?recycling.? This was daily life. While my nerves began acting up again, my hand autonomously reached towards the gaping hole in my head once again, looking to fulfill another quick desire.
Another bite.
I winced just a bit more, as I had stretched myself as far as I could possibly when it came to my vigorous nail biting. My fist posthumously curled around itself again, to apply pressure to the liquid that began to pour from my self-inflicted wound. As I started to gain confidence that this was the last bite, I looked back at the fist that was squeezing the open sore, and noticed?
There was a small flap of skin that began to look even more appealing to my twisted tongue. I needed it. I needed to feel it peel off, leaving jagged grooves upon my epidermal layer. I craved the salty iron that would penetrate each and every taste bud. I fantasized about stretching the rubbery strip up my finger, competing with myself to see how much could possibly be shaved away.
My fist loosened its grasp, as I reached the hand towards it?s inevitable sacrifice.
Maybe it is the way that it tastes that brings me the joy and courage to continue with my habit. Perhaps I was a cannibal in a previous life, and this was the only moral way to continue to address the issue, to stave off the craving. Maybe it was about how much power it made me feel. If I could stomach tearing my own flesh from my body, then that made me stronger than anyone else. It could be the fear of nothing. In moments of nothingness, anxiety would strike, so instead of sitting in lonely silence, I would instead indulge myself upon each and every fleshy digit.
Again, I have no reason for what I am doing. Only speculation.
?It?ll be about 10 more minutes, Mr. Sims.?
A lady appeared to greet me in the lobby. And...her fingernails were pristine. I was furious. My nails should be that beautiful. My fingers should be that full of life. I was ****ing angry, that someone else could thrive with their perfect pointers and terrific thumbs. I collapsed further into the need for my own flesh.
No hangnails. I chewed furiously at a small nail on my thumb.
No bleeding. I bit down on a piece of finger that hung sharply off my hand.
No...munch...****ing...crack...quick. I kept biting, succumbing to the plight of my necromantic nails, barely hanging on to the life that was already sacrificed in order to make them.
I looked down at my previous feast.
Another thing that all nail biters have in common is the ability to pick a piece of nail and calculate the angle and direction that we would need to pull it in order to maximize the amount of area that they consume. We see chewable nails every day. Whether our hands are wrapped from a previous bloody evening, or if we?d just had them primped and trimmed, where dead protein exists, we can find it, and we can chew.
My hands began trembling as small pools formed in the areas around each hard, grey shield, staining the area with a deep brown hue. I sipped at each small oasis, hoping they would cease to fill, and only grew more desperate as the clock began counting down. I licked each metallic crevice, much like a dog, licking at my wounds. I felt as though my hands would never recover in time. Five minutes had passed, and the minute hand kept count of how many times I could cannibalize myself. I need help, I need someone to tell me to stop. I need that bitter polish that would destroy my sense of taste, and command a grimace. I need to pop a sugary gum to keep my mouth occupied and any small gizmo to prevent my hands from reaching their watery grave. I need another bite.
I found a tiny sliver that hung from the edge of my right ring finger. I pulled the hard keratinous solid at a ninety degree angle, and yanked away. I reached its big brother and it wouldn?t let me separate it any further. I tore at a different angle with the idea that I might be able to loosen its grip. I adjusted my teeth to grab closer to the base of the sliver, and slowly, carefully, began to strip it from the holds of the larger base.
And just like that, the pain began again.
Imagine someone forcefully pricking wooden needles on the underside of your fingers? polymer protectors, and pushing until they separate. That is the exact pain that I had experienced as far back as I can remember. But I couldn?t just stop now.
I gave it one last squeeze between my incisors and tore hard. I held my tongue as those needles pushed up my arm, as the signal to stop penetrated my mind. I silently cursed to myself, ?damnit,? and then decided to peer at my handiwork.
I had torn the main nail in two. The topography reminded me of a mountain range, but only on a scale that would accommodate the tiniest of climbers. Various strips of white and gray snaked their way across the nail, giving way to a Grand Canyon that would be flooded by the rising Red River. I noticed an overlook peeking over the edge that would have been easy to topple, but instead, took a moment to breathe deep, as my hand relayed the painful intonations of a dissonant chord through my nervous system. I squeezed the small crevice with force, hoping to conceal my pain and congeal the ooze that began to seep from the wound.
One trick that a person will learn early in their nail biting career is the idea of squeezing your indexes and thumbs between your hand, by balling it up in a fist, or somewhere that they might begin to perspire. This softens the tissue around the outer folds of their fingers and allows a much needed break from the ripping and tearing and allows a simple skinning or peeling. Lighter folds show up on your skin, much like wrinkles from a long bath, and these folds point in the direction of another treat that the nail biter might decide to indulge in.
As I relieved the self-inflicted pressure upon my ring finger, I noticed these lighter patches of skin. I knew that I would be biting down to the bone, but I had no forethought as to how that would affect me in the present. My teeth stretched towards their target, and began to gnaw away at the not so distant cousin, hoping to find a nice slice of dermal pie that might satiate my addiction. I finally found a point to grasp, and the satisfying peel would work to my advantage.
You also learn to only grab any fleshy folds where the two separating layers meet. This is very important, as it allows a person to peel the skin across their finger in one fell swoop. Much like fishing for dropped keys, it can be a long and boring process if you don?t hook your cuspids around the prize after the first cast. Once you?ve released the newly caught treasure from its hooks, you can chew at a very satisfying pace.
?Mr. Sims, would you please come with me??
The lady returned in the middle of my gorge, and I embarrassingly, and carelessly, ripped my hand away, to try and appear as normal as possible. This was it. My greatest fear was growing inside me.
I had always hated giving and receiving handshakes. Whenever I reach my hand out towards someone, I make sure to curl my fingers in such a way that that other person might not be able to observe my self-flagellation, and we could move along. Sometimes I mutilated my hands enough that even shaking hands was absolute agony. I brushed off the pain from ripping through a piece of skin that was not quite ready, only to stuff my hands in my pockets, in hopes that any bleeding that I had been chewing through would stop before I reached my destination.
As we reached the gates of judgement, the heartbeat in my hands grew louder. The pulsing was causing my hands to quiver without any conscious input from myself. I quickly approached a level of anxiety that shouldn?t be possible. My palms were sweaty, and I stealthily wiped them off on my pristine slacks, hoping to disguise how I was being eaten alive from the inside out, much less, eating myself from the outside in. The receptionist led me to the end of the hall, each step echoing in my mind, causing the cuticulus contents of my stomach to churn at an alarming rate. During the last few tribal steps, I needed to take one last, tiny, little nibble, hoping it would be the cure to endless hysteria I was facing. Trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, I reached towards my mouth, disguising the last bite as if I needed to scratch an outward itch that sprung suddenly. I pinched the epidermic tag that was hanging by a thread, and completely forgot about my nerves, instead being filled with a crushing blow to my hand that only I could inflict upon myself. I desperately squeezed the wound, as the receptionist pushed me along through the entrance into the same office I?d seen during many inaugural visits that consumed my search for a career. This was it.
?Ahh, Mr. Sims? It?s a pleasure to meet you.?
Another pristine hand reached out towards mine, and I eyed it adoringly, hoping that my jealousy was hidden deeply enough that it would be brushed off as a nervous tick. I instinctively reached my own out, fingers curled of course, and squeezed.
And I was immediately made aware of my mistake.
As the boss pulled back, I noticed him keeping a close watch on his own hand. Creeping along his wrist was the scarlet virus that I had grown so accustomed to, that I had welcomed in every waking moment. I looked at my own hand in disgust and realized that in my own haste to disguise my sick habit, my own fingers were stained in crimson, and encrusted with liquid ruby. Where I had thought I left my neurotic perspiration on my pants was actually where I deposited my confession. At that moment, I realized that I was ruined. I wiped my hand off, leaving a streak of red that contrasted the bright blue that covered my torso.
?Oh gosh...****...I?m sorry,? I begged for unanswered forgiveness as I turned on my heels and desperately searched for an exit from the crushing hallway that I was led down. I crashed through the entrance to the building, and promptly headed to my vehicle, hoping I could catch my heart that seemed to be racing through every vessel in my body.
As I reached my escape, anxiety then commandeered my personal vessel. Embarrassment flooded the deck and quarters. Stress began to break the mast and penetrate the hull. I took a few deep breaths, doing everything I could to reinstate control to the captain of my mind. I held my wounded fingers tight, hoping the flow ceased before I hit the road. While I began to calm the perfect storm that had overtaken me, I noticed a few splinters, aftermath of the recent shipwreck. Instinctively, practiced, perfectedly, I reached my torn hand towards my mouth, as I began to intricately unweave the flotsam of flesh.
The taste. The texture. The satiation.
That?s just what I needed.


Source.

I don't believe I'll ever be hungry enough to be a professional Fire Eater.