The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep14: NoSleep Podcast S19E14

Episode Date: May 7, 2023

It's Episode 14 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about frightful food."My Hair Is People" written by Doug Mallette (Story starts around 00:04:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Matthew Bradford"We Are the Gorillas" written by Douglas Ford (Story starts around 00:26:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Kaleen - Mary Murphy, Mr. Van Doren - Elie Hirschman, Mr. Garwood - Dan Zappulla, Librarian - Sarah Ruth  Thomas"What Goes Down, Must Come Up" written by Evelyn Freeling (Story starts around 00:48:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator - Erin Lillis, Husband - Jeff Clement, Director - Sarah Thomas"Zombie" written by Seann Barbour (Story starts around 01:16:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Jesse Cornett"Blackout" written by Ivan Lopez (Story starts around 01:26:35)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Lance - Graham Rowat, Alyse - Kristen DiMercurio, Evan - Kyle Akers, Michelle - Nikolle DoolinThis episode is sponsored by:Green Chef - Green Chef makes eating well easy with plans to fit every lifestyle. Whether you’re Keto, Paleo, Vegan, Vegetarian, Gluten-Free, or just looking to eat more balanced meals, Green Chef offers a range of recipes to suit your preferences. Go to greenchef.com/nosleep60 and use code nosleep60 to get 60% off plus free shipping!Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Douglas FordClick here to learn more about Seann BarbourClick here to learn more about Ivan LopezExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Blackout" illustration courtesy of JörnAudio program ©2023 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. The works of Edgar Allan Poe reside in the public domain.

In the dark shadows of the Rue Morg, to the rhythm of the stolen telltale heart, as the black cat swings upon the pendulum, and the cask offers its sherry, deep and dry. As you knock at our chamber door, we open and usher you. Our sleepless tales for you in store, and the terror shall be lifted. Brace yourself for the no sleep. Welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. I love the adjective, delicious.

I find it rather, well, delicious to use for things you typically don't think of in that way. That wasn't a beautiful goal they just scored. It was delicious. That rather pointed insult, a friend just leveled at a deserved victim. Ha ha, ha, such a delicious barb. It's a fun word to use in that manner, but of course the real use of the word is meant mostly for food. We enjoy something so tasty, so delectable that we proclaim it to be well and truly delicious. And in this episode, we consider all manner of things we eat, or at least things that make their way down our gullet.

As you might anticipate, with this being a horror podcast, the subject matter might be of the sort that the word delicious doesn't leap to much. mind. Ah, but don't worry. This one won't be too hard to stomach. In the horror genre, food is usually relegated to scenes where a victim is forced to eat something terribly disgusting. It's not the food itself that's horrifying, but rather it's putrid, spoiled nature in question. But since food is such a basic human need, it can be used as a form of torture. Imagine a starving person tormented with the sight and smell of sumptuous food agonizingly close, yet out of reach. It's a scene that even Edgar Allan Poe felt worthy to use. In his story, the pit and the pendulum, there's a scene where the narrator finds himself

strapped on his back to a wooden frame. To add to his woes, food and drink is used cruelly to torment him, as we hear in this short passage. To this, I was securely bound by a long strap, resembling a surcingle. It passed in many convolutions around my limbs and body, leaving at liberty only my head and my left arm to such an extent that I could, by dint of much exertion, supply myself with food from an earthen dish, which lay by my side on the floor.

I saw to my horror that the pitcher had been removed. I say to my horror, for I was consumed with an intolerable thirst. This thirst, it appeared to be the design of my persecutors to stimulate, for the food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned. Yes, food can be found in all manner of horrors. And so, we hope when all is said and done that you might be able to consider this a delicious episode of horror, whether you're queasy afterwards or not.

And so, dear sleepless listener, bonapit. And now, our tales come to you upon a midnight dreary. best not to ponder them while weak and weary. In our first tale, we meet a man who loves his long, lush, luxurious hair. Must be nice. To have a head of hair that is admired and desired, looking splendid as it grows ever longer. But in this tale, shared with us by author Doug Mallet,

the man has to cut his long hair for a new job. It's a shame he has a serious reason for avoiding any harm to his hair. Performing this tale is Matthew Bradford. So look after your hair and treat it well. Even if you're not like this man who tells us, My hair is people. It's a strange feeling. Going to the store to buy an instrument of literal genocide,

testing the grip and weight of a device that will end the lives of thousands before the day's over. And this is all brand new to me, so I find myself famously scouring label after label for buzzwords like durable, versatile, high performance, effortless. I hope you believe that it wasn't lost on me just how morbid it was to be considering my own comfort at a time like this, but I have awfully sensitive skin. I've never actually bought hair clippers before, so as I do with most purchases, I just pick up. one that was priced somewhere in the middle, a pair that I think will get the job done. And by job, of course, I mean killing. You see, my hair is people. You've ever seen those shampoo commercials where some lady dumps a bottle of stuff on her head.

At the end, they're describing her hair as lush or healthy and strong. And sometimes they even use the word alive. Well, they're just saying that because it sounds good. It paints a pretty picture. But when I say it, I mean it. My hair is alive. Each strand is a living, breathing being. Each strand has its own personality, its own voice, its own history, its own future.

And the future is bleak. You know how in those shows. shampoo commercials, as that lady washes her hair, they pump in those canned ooze and awes, like they just can't believe how great her hair looks. Now, when I wash my hair, I hear that too, but it's real voices, straight from the source, a chorus of satisfaction from a headful of living creatures that love to be cleaned and scratched and cared for. Does that make sense?

No, and it's long, too. lush as those commercials say. I've been growing it my whole life. My mother would say it's down to the crack of my asphalt. I even get compliments from strangers telling me how gorgeous it is and how jealous they are. Usually they want to touch it, which I do not allow because my hair hates being touched by strangers, and they grumble and growl like overprotective dogs. But I don't want to paint them, in a bad light. As a whole, they're pleasant enough. A lot of those strands are wise, nearly as old as I am, passing on knowledge to budding hairs who are just now experiencing life and teaching them about the world and its wonders. At least, that's what I'd like to imagine.

I can't actually understand them. They speak in some weird, garbled language all their own, and different parts of my head have their own unique ways of speaking. The bangs and the crown is different as Spanish and Swahili. Sometimes they even fight like warring factions around my skull, tangling with each other until the knots are so tight that I can barely separate them with a comb. It's not always shouting, but there's always at least a low murmur. They love to chatter. Honestly, it can be hard to take,

the blabbering of a hundred thousand individual voices arguing or gossiping every after, hour of every day. At my work, I have to tuck my hair into a hat which works to muffle them, but the noise is always, always there. But the voices aren't always bad. Like I said, some hairs are very old, but they don't live forever. They fall out, a single strand giving up its deep hold on the roots, letting go of life, floating down to the ground or swirling down the drain to a watery grave, clogging my pipes with their fallen ancestors. The other strands mourn these deaths by coming together to sing a tune of loss, a somber choir that transcends their petty differences.

Again, I cannot understand the words, but I can understand the tone, and it's absolutely beautiful. Their mournful song brightens my darkest days, allowing for a good cry that pushes out my own pain and a flood of salty tears. There have been times when I've considered pulling a hair out just to hear that wonderful melody. But I'm not a murderer. Well, until today, my clippers have been charging, and the red light signaling dead batteries will soon be green.

The massacre will begin shortly. I guess, I guess I just need to explain myself. So you remember that job I mentioned before, well, I didn't explain just how, much I loathe it. I work in fast food. That's not glamorous, but I guess no one is expecting it to be. I come home most nights with my skin waxy and oily and a faceful of pimples to prove it. The smell bothers me even more.

A smell of hot meat and french fries that soaks deep into my clothes, into my pores, and, of course, into my lush hair. For most people, a job like that is just fine. It's honest work, and it'll pay most of the bills. Maybe if I really tried, I could deal with the greasy skin and the lingering stench, but I just can't deal with the people anymore. The customers, the angry, bitter people that don't see a human being when they look at me. I just see a futureless waste, an empty shell handing them a greasy lunch. Recently, a man spat in my mouth.

He spat in my mouth. I was just trying to apologize for forgetting his ranch. It happens, I'm sorry, it does. When he hawk the fattest, warmest lugie and spat it straight into the back of my throat. I swear to God, I could taste what he tasted. I could taste his burnt morning coffee. I could taste the hot sauce. put on his runny eggs.

I could taste my own breakfast as I quit that day, the contents of my stomach rushing out in hot streams across the parking lot. But I found a new job. A job I'm actually excited about. An office job. I mean, sure, it's just data entry for an insurance company. I've never had insurance in my life. I don't really know what data entry means,

but I don't care because it's in a cubicle. No one gets excited about cubicles, but I sure do. That's three walls between me and any and all customers. No more face to face, just face to computer. No more angry stares. No more cursing. No more spitting. It's perfect, but long hair is not allowed.

Believe me, I've thought hard about this. I don't want you to think that I haven't, but I just don't have a lot of options. And why can't I just think about me? My happiness doesn't matter to anyone, anyone, so for once, just once, maybe it should matter to me. And I do think about my hair. I do think about what it means, but honestly, despite being literally attached to my head, my hair and I aren't really that close. I mean, they talk to each other, but they never really seem to communicate directly with me.

They don't care if I'm doing okay. They don't ask about my day. They don't even seem to really recognize my existence at all. I'm just some lifeless planet to them. Truthfully, I feel a bit taken for granted. But I did tuck them into a beanie when I went clipper shopping so that they couldn't see what I was buying. And it wasn't just because I didn't want to hear them protest,

because I didn't want to cause them more stress than I have to. Of course, it doesn't matter, because when I fire up the clippers, they seem to know exactly what the whirring of those blades means. They know that I hold in my hand a gnashing, ripping, well-oiled death machine. I know it sounds crazy, but I don't think that they can feel pain. I said that people are always wanting to touch my hand, but sometimes they don't even ask. My head has been jerked as some curious asshole grabs my long walks and gives it a tug,

like they're expecting it to be a wig or something. And my hair never seemed hurt. They never screamed out in pain or anything. Mostly they just sneer, more an exclamation of violation over a non-consensual groping than actual agony. So I don't think they'll feel anything at all. I realize I'm very, very wrong with the first pass of the clippers. The screaming is so loud, an anguish that is understandable in any language, thousands upon thousands of voices shrieking and cut short by the stroke of a blade.

And boy, did this blade work. I was able to make it from the forehead to the back of my skull without a single snake. But those screams. screams of agony, of disbelief, of betrayal, sonic horror that reverberates so loudly I could go insane. If it goes on much longer, they'll find me running down the street with my new reverse Mohawk, matching my hair streaks of terror with my own lunatic screams.

The two things usually happen when you cause someone or something extreme pain. Both come from the instinctual desire to make that pain stop, to end the suffering. One is by simply stopping whatever you are doing. Oh, I didn't know pointing you with this pointed stick was hurting you. I'll give it a rest. This is the rational approach. The other is to end the suffering by ending the life altogether.

This is often reserved for severely wounded animals, the finishing shot, so to speak. The sooner my head is shaved, the sooner the agony stops, right? So I continue carving paths of pure destruction across my head, moving as quickly as I can, seeing men, women, and children, young, old, and in-between fall to my bathroom floor and clumps. I swear I can feel the hairs trying to escape, trying to dig back into my scalp, looking for safety beneath my skin. Now I feel pain, and all I want is for it to end, so I shave faster and faster. and the hairs keep falling and the screams continue but thankfully those cries grow fainter and fainter and soon their numbers are nearly culled to extinction with only wispy strands that dodged the blades

having lasted lone survivors on the barren landscape of my pasty skull and soon they're gone too they put up little resistance together the hair is strong but alone they stand no chance against my durable, precise, high-performance machine. The murmuring voices that I've heard for a lifetime are gone, and I'm experiencing something I've never experienced before. Silence, and it's beautiful, as beautiful as the mournful song of my hair, the song of loss that they weren't afforded here at their premature end, but this silence makes me cry all the same,

but not of loss, something gained. Peace. My tears hit the floor, giving the countless corpses strewn across the tile one last shower. For the first time, I sleep the whole night through. The next morning is the day I start my new job. A new day with all new possibilities, and I'm excited and nervous at the same time. The shower I took was the strangest I've ever taken because I'd instinctively rub my head for hair that was no longer there. but I don't miss it

and I'm going to save so much on shampoo that sensation is one I can get past the one I can't get past is the tickle in the back of my throat it kind of feels like a kernel of popcorn clinging desperately to that little thing that dangles in the back of your mouth the uvula no amount of hawking is getting it loose but my mother taught me a trick eat some bread Let the fluffy yeast do all the work.

But it doesn't help. In fact, the bread itself is incredibly hard to swallow it all. And I have to chase it with two glasses of water just to force it down. Checking the back of my throat in the mirror, I realized what I should have realized to begin with. It isn't food. It's a hair. Long hair falls out. Long hair gets into your mouth.

No problem. I'm able to snag it with my thumb and forefinger, and boy, it's a long one, thicker than the usual. The hair on my head wished it was this thick, almost the consistency of fishing line. So lush, so healthy, so strong. As I pull, it feels like a magician pulling a handkerchief from his fist. It just keeps coming and coming and coming before finally catching. It takes some tugging and takes some twisting, but I jerk it free, and it hurts. It hurts bad.

The white, blocky root at the end is damn near the size of a pencil eraser, and I have the iron taste of blood in my mouth already. But with the throbbing pain in my throat are more tickles, more hairs dancing on the back of my tongue. It's becoming harder to swallow, and a crazy thought crosses my mind. Did some of those hairs actually escape? The ones that felt as though they were crawling back into my skull, were they successful? Are they traveling through my blood looking for a way out? Did they find it? Is it called a soft palate because it's easy to break through?

I'm jam my fingers back into my throat and feel more hairs. Maybe a dozen or two dozen. And I'm telling you, I'm not crazy, but I swear I can feel them curl around my fingers, latching on like a snake twisting around its prey, cutting into my skin like tightly wound dental floss. My yank, but there's no amount of yanking that's going to get these out without dragging my entire esophagus into the sunlight with them. And it's getting harder and harder to breathe. It feels like I'm sucking air through a mouth full of straw. And the audacity of these hairs, can you believe they're singing that song?

That beautifully sad song of loss, now coming out of my own, open mouth, but it's slower, angry, mocking because I think they're singing it for me. I hack and I cough, and some of the hairs spill from my mouth. They rive and wiggle, singing louder, war cry. And before I can even grab them, they retract back into my mouth, diving down my throat, clogging it like the drainy at my tub. Breathing is no longer difficult. It's impossible.

The scissors are pure desperation. Are you the type of person that can't find a pair when you need them? I am. I fumble through drunk drawers spilling the contents on a countdown to suffocation. My vision is blurring. My brain feels like it's floating away from my skull. Drifting up. I catch it briefly and it offers me a lifeline.

There's a pair in the knife lock. I snatch them with numbing fingers and jam them into my mouth. The hairs are so hard to cut like copper wiring. I pinch them and twist them and soon they're falling on my tongue and I can finally pull air. That's not much, but it's enough to clear my head, to literally bring me back to life. It's desperate and it's fleeting.

Now the hair is intertwining, braiding itself to seal off my throat just as quickly as I can cut it out. Those bastards have finally learned to work together, I guess. But I just keep cutting and spitting out little living hairballs that squirm on the floor like salted slugs. Snip and spit. Snip and spit. And soon the hair is joined by blood.

Cuts on my cheek and my throat and my tongue dribble out fresh red. Blood didn't hair out, but still no air in. I pushed the scissors deeper, and at some point I'm pretty sure that I snip that UVA because the next time I spit there's a little round chunk with it. An unidentifiable piece of need. And soon there's just too much blood. Too much hair. I keep cutting.

I really hate that song, and boy, are they belting it? And I keep cutting. I know people think that hair continues to grow when you die, but it doesn't. It's just your skin receding from dehydration. So don't think for a second that the hair's won. It hasn't, because it needs you. When you die, it dies. And I don't think either of us are making it to work.

When you're in school, you learn a lot about social interactions, how you're viewed by others, how you judge other kids, even how your teachers view their students. And in this tale, shared with us by author Douglas Ford, we meet a girl whose social studies teacher declares the class to be animals of a sort. It's a designation she takes very much to heart. Performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Ellie Hirschman, Dan Zepulah. and Sarah Thomas. So grab your pen and write this down with your feel-good ink. Then declare with pride, we are the gorillas. We are the gorillas, and I'm the only female gorilla.

We became the guerrillas because Mr. Van Doren took one look at us, his third period social studies class, and said, You're all a bunch of guerrillas, aren't you? Van Doren's guerrillas. We all looked around the room, at Mr. Van Doren, at each other. What did he see? What did he mean? Then something happened.

It started with Mark Esper, a boy who sat in the back. I know Mark Esper from English class. He took up more room than anyone in our middle school. He stood so tall and his clothes never fit right. His shirt's never really covering his big stomach. Also, I know from English class that Mark Esper can't read, but Mark Esper started it. He stuck his big fist up into the air and twirled it around,

like someone moving an invisible crankshaft. Mark Esper did this as he began making a barking sound. Pretty soon, other people began making the same fist motion in the air and making the same sound with their mouths. I, the only girl, the only girl, gorilla, did it too. I did it with all the boys. And the sound of our barking filled the classroom like a war cry. We thought Mr. Van Doren would get mad.

We knew what we did might cost us somehow. But Mr. Van Doren surprised us all by smiling. His teeth big and white. When we quieted down, Mr. Van Doren said, That's right. Gorillas, all of you. Later, I learned that gorillas don't bark. They hoot, though.

I know now that what we did that day, and on many other days is called hooting. A bunch of gorillas. Mr. Van Doren would say, handing back our tests, mostly D's and F's. We hooted when he said this, and we hooted when the teacher's aid came in one day. And Mr. Van Doren said, Look at these gorillas. The computer sure was good to me, wasn't it?

Putting all of them into one class like that. We had no assigned seating, but we always sat at the same. same desks anyway, except I gradually moved further back, one seed at a time so no one would notice, until I sat right next to Mark Esper. Mark Esper didn't seem to notice or care. I wanted to sit near Mark Esper when the hooting began. I wanted to help start it. Mark Esper couldn't read, but I sensed another sort of intelligence. The way he kept his eyes level, as if he noticed and measured everything. He kept measuring Mr. Van Doren,

and Mr. Van Doren had no idea. The teacher's aide laughed uncontrollably when Mr. Van Doren called us gorillas. Pretty much everyone laughed the same way as a teacher's aide, even the principal, Mr. Garwood, a big, tall man with a bald head and a smile that never went away, even when someone sent you to his office for doing something bad. He would keep smiling as he should.

showed you a big wooden paddle hanging from his wall, and tell you how in the old days he would have smacked your butt with it. I'd even get to pull down your pants, even the girls. Just hearing him say that made you feel embarrassed and want to look away. But he would make you look right at him as he said it again. I'd get to pull down your pants. When the principal's bald head appeared in the doorway of our classroom, Mark Esper shifted in his seat.

He normally sat so still and straight, but not so much with Mr. Garwood there. I could picture what Mark Esper would look like as a grown-up. He would have a chin that stuck out real far, and lips that would curl into a confident smile. Someday he would punch guys like the principal in the stomach, but now the principal had the upper hand. When Mr. Garwood came all the way into the classroom smiling, Mr. Van Doren turned and looked at him as if he just noticed him. for the first time. Your computer was real good to me, principal. He said it just like that.

Not even using Mr. Garwood's name. You gave me a bunch of gorillas. We hooted as usual, but I noticed that Mark Esper did not. He remained quiet as everyone else made the noise. I watched Mark Esper sit as still and quiet as a statue, and I tried to match his quietness. I didn't hoot at all except maybe.

once. The principal smiled through the hooding. His eyes seemed to roam around the room, as if in search of something. When his eyes came to me, they stopped. You have one girl in this class, Mr. Van Doren. The room got quiet, no hooding. I thought maybe everyone remained quiet so I could say something, but I didn't. I didn't know what to say. Yes, that's right. Like I said, They're gorillas. Mr. Van Doren said this in a quicker voice and he normally used, like he wanted the principal to leave. Some of us hooted, but it didn't get loud the way it did other times.

Part of me didn't want it to get loud, but part of me did. It was like everyone hooded for me. Right, yes, I see that. Mr. Garwood looked at me the whole time, smiling. Then someone used to that word, the one I hate. I don't know who said it. Someone from several rows away. Dog. Not dog. Like he would for an animal. But dog. The word for a girl who looked ugly. Instead of hooting, laughing. Even Mark Esper laughed a little. The principal kept smiling. I'm glad they didn't hoot. I like hooting. I didn't want that ruined. Mr. Van Doren told us he had to assign a son. a project with research. I don't want to do this because I know how you'll all do.

You all, just a bunch of gorillas. After the hooting died down, he told us to get started with choosing our topic. We each had to do a presentation in front of the class on the history of something. I decided to do the history of gorillas. Later, I sat in front of a library computer, looking up guerrilla history. I couldn't find anything. I asked the librarian for help. When I told her my topic, she looked at me in a funny way.

Then she showed me a website full of pictures of men in army suits carrying guns through a jungle. I went back and asked for help again. The history of gorillas, I said as clearly as possible. And she made the same sound my English teacher made when Mark Esper couldn't read out loud. Gorillas don't have societies, so they don't have history. So fine, I thought. I'll just research gorillas and so much to learn. Did you know that they live in groups and each group has a leader? One dominant male, I read, a silverback. The big silverback protects the others. And if anything comes close to the group, the silverback chases it off. I thought again of what Mark Esper would look like as a grown-up. Right now he had a head full of.

of thick hair, so much that I bet the principal felt jealous of him. One day, I bet, Mark Esper would have silver hair. He wouldn't have a bald head like Mr. Garwood. I read so much about gorillas that I had trouble writing it all down. I'd write a little bit, then start thinking of Mark Esper, then write down a little more, and pretty soon all my time was gone. I almost didn't hear the bell and had to hurry. Later that night, I stood in front of my mirror naked. Hair had started appearing in some crazy places, not just down there, but up to my stomach and even onto my back.

I think because I started thinking about guerrillas all the time. I think because Mr. Van Doren called us gorillas. I think because I was becoming a gorilla for real. The next day, Mr. Van Doren made us stand up and tell him what we planned to do our presentation on. Most people didn't know, so they didn't have much to say, including Mark Esper. During his turn, the principal appeared and stood in the doorway, smiling as usual. How are your guerrillas doing, Mr. Van Doren? Well, acting like gorillas.

We hooted for Mr. Van Doren, but we didn't hoot for the principal. Mr. Van Doren called on me next. You're up, Kaleen. Go ahead. I didn't say any of. at first. I plan to surprise Mr. Van Doren with my plan to do the history of gorillas. The way the principal just stood there in the door smiling, waiting to hear my answer, something about that made me not want to say anything. Mr. Van Doren snapped his fingers. Finally I spoke. I don't know. Mr. Van Doren almost looked disappointed, but the principal

kept on smiling. Even the pretty lass, a gorilla. Did you know that gorillas will hurt people? Did you know that some people, people called poachers, have scars on their stomachs where gorillas took swipes at them? One person said that the gorilla almost disemboweled him. Disemboweled. That means all your guts fall out.

That night, I stood naked in front of the mirror again, noticing how in just one day, more hair covered more parts of my body. I don't want to tell you where. It's weird. I looked at my fingernails too. I knew why the hair kept coming in so thick and dark. Because when I lay in bed every night, I wished for myself to turn into a gorilla for real.

I wished for my fingernails to grow out into big, rounded claws for disemboweling. And I even stopped biting them all the time like I used to, standing there in front of the mirror and thinking about my future claws reminded me of something, something that made me worried. The paper I was using to write down all my guerrilla facts, I left it that day in the library. I put on my clothes real quick. Normally with my clothes on, you couldn't see all the hair coming in.

Now you could see a lot of the hair, so dark and thick. Some of it even made it to my face. with mom still at work and dad asleep on the living room sofa next to some empty beer cans. I knew I didn't need permission to walk back to school this late, but I took a kitchen knife, the biggest one I could find for safety. I didn't know if I could find the door to the school open. Also, I didn't know what sort of things might be hiding behind the trees and the cars. I imagined poachers who looked like the principal.

I hooted just like we do in class. A warning to stay away, or you might just get disemboweled. By the time I got to the school, the darkness had spread everywhere. I didn't think the big front door would open. I thought I might have to walk back home and hope I could buy my notes the next day. But it opened right up. I went inside. Everything looked so different from the daytime, with kids hanging around the lockers,

talking and laughing. It felt so empty. I hooted, just to see if someone would hoot in return. The sound echoed, so loud to my ears. My hoot sounded deeper than any sound I ever made before. I passed Mr. Van Doren's classroom, taking a quick look inside, just to see if I would see him sitting at his desk. Teachers hardly ever left their classrooms. If he sat in there as usual, I would hoot so he would be. call me a gorilla, but the room sat empty. I found the library and could see the computer screens glowing through the glass of the door window. There in the light, I saw my notes sitting where I left them. Someone locked the door, though, so I couldn't get in. At least I knew I could get my notes

in the morning. Then I had an idea. I knew from the times I spent in the principal's office, waiting for my mom or dad to pick me up after I did something wrong. That his office had a special door to the library. Should I try that one? Did you know Gorillas show no fear? I thought of that. Still holding the big knife. I went by the principal's office and saw light from under the door.

I tried that door and I found it unlocked. From the other side, I could hear sounds. something like smacking. Did you know gorillas are curious? I am. When I went inside, I found what made those sounds. I saw Mark Esper's bare bottom burst, red and sore looking. Him bent over, with Mr. Garwood standing behind him, that big paddle upraised.

I watched as he brought it down again, Mark Esper making a sound like it hurt. Not a big sound like most people would make, like I would make. A little one. Like he didn't want to show the pain. The redness on his bottom showed it enough. I couldn't see the principal's face, but I knew that if I could, I would see his smile, the one always there like he knew things.

I knew things too. I can't tell how I knew them. I just did. I knew that even though Mark Esper couldn't read, that he would keep passing his classes if he let the principal use that paddle he loved so much. The one he said nobody would let him use anymore. Mark Esper couldn't read, and that's okay, because gorillas can't read, though they can use sign language sometimes.

And if he could read, he would know what I know. That paddle had words burned into it. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Mark Esper must have heard me come in. because his neck turned slightly. He saw me, and I use sign language to tell him to keep quiet. I know how to do that. I don't know how to say, don't be embarrassed.

I won't look at your butt. But if I could, I would have said that with my fingers too. Mark Esper can't read, but he understood what I said when he saw my fingers held to my lips. He might have understood the other thing, too. Did you know that Gorillus protect the others in their group? Did you know they have strong bonds? Even when they act mean to one another sometimes, like when they laugh at the word dog.

I snuck up, the knife still in my hand. I got up right behind the principal just as he brought the paddle back for another swat. Then he noticed me. He swung around, looking at my face, like he recognized me and didn't recognize me all at once, probably because of all the hair. It probably grew more as I walked through the school.

I hooted once to help him know who stood before him because he stood still looking surprised. I had time to use the knife, real swift and fast across his belly. I would use claws if they came in fast enough, but I had to use the knife, the biggest one I could find in my mom's kitchen. And his belly must have been soft because a knife went in so deep. or maybe I've grown strong. He looked down, still with a surprised look.

The smile hung on his lips. Sort of. It looked different now. Probably how someone would look if they got disemboweled. The posher didn't get disemboweled. But I used my new guerrilla powers to make sure that Mr. Garwood got disembowled. He fell back, trying to grab something on his desk, dropping his paddle. I didn't know what the principal might be trying to grab, but Mark Esper did.

Mark Esper pulled up his pants and grabbed the phone before Mr. Garwood could. He smashed it under his foot. Then Mark Esper took the other phone, the one the principal used to call my parents all the time, and he pulled it out of the wall. The principal's guts kept coming out, and he fell into a big puddle of his own blood. More kept coming out. His eyes got shiny like glass, and Mark Esper and I both watched as his smile went away. Nobody knew I came there that night, and nobody knew that the principal kept Mark Esper there so late either.

Not even his parents, I guess. Before we started walking out of the school together, I used the door from the principal's office to the library and grabbed my notes from the library, and we left quickly and quietly. I kept the blood knife out the whole time, just in case he needed me to protect him some more, because my claws still hadn't come in. I told Mark Esper all about them until we came to his street, and he had to turn and walk his own way. I watched him walk a little way. He looked smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I'd grown larger. Either way, we are the gorillas, and I am the only female gorilla. and my back now glows silver. Food can very much be a part of someone's own personal horror story

if they deal with eating disorders. If you or someone you know struggles with bulimia, you know the nightmarish relationship that exists with eating and purging food. And in this tale, shared with us by author Evelyn Freeling, we meet a woman who is desperately trying to overcome her disorder for the sake of her new daughter. But unlike food, this disorder is extremely difficult for her to purge. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Jeff Clement, and Sarah Thomas.

So treat this story with caution. This woman's tale is not an easy one to hear, and she's not being glib when she tells us, what goes down must come up. We meet again. I'm crouched over you, my porcelain god. I don't set my knees on the ground. I'm agile, practiced, giddy, because I successfully created a diversion to get here, to come meet you.

I'm at dinner with my husband and brother who's visiting from out of town. An Italian joint, brother's choice. I can't help myself around pasta. My husband's a finance exec. My brother, an anti-capitalist neo-hippie. I start them arguing on a tax bill in the news so they won't notice how long I'm gone. Now, tope tiles under my heels, the perfume of potpourri, and the leftover stench of a stranger's shit, poison the air. I dance a slight shoulder jig at my stealth, my cleverness, my ability to deceive the people I love and keep up appearances simultaneously.

I'm sick. Our meetings are brief. If this were an affair of a more illicit nature, we might call them quickies. I slide my fingers into my own wet warmth. I understand the appeal of it, why my husband enjoys it so much. I have the spot memorized. I fiddle. The muscle there is strong after so many years of this.

It resists. I make it give in. The same come hither must. motion my husband occasionally makes inside of me. It comes, and you're ready to take it. It lurches in my stomach first, acidic, gurgling. It blazes its way up through my esophagus and throat. It doesn't taste bad anymore.

Vomit is an acquired taste. I can tell, without looking, which parts of the meal come up first. I can discern the olive oil from the chunks of bread, the Italian dressing on the salad, the red pepper and the marinera. My palate is well trained. I avoid spice normally. It burns too much. Sometimes I like the pain, though.

That's my answer when you ask me, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this? Sometimes I come to you for the pain. Most times, I don't know why I come to you anymore. I button my shirt back up. It's a white blouse and I can't afford suspicious stains. It isn't unusual to do this partially naked. I've stripped dresses off in public restrooms to keep our encounters discreet.

I clean my face, wipe spots off of my jeans, a chunk of lettuce off of my left heel. I return to my husband and brother, like nothing has happened, like there's still so much to look forward to this evening. Like three brief minutes with you? isn't the best part of my night. My favorite thing to purge is ice cream. It tastes exactly the same coming up as it does going down. It's almost like enjoying two servings, except for the muscles constricting and the body heaving

and the deep ache in my gut afterwards. I've convinced myself that purging ice cream is okay because the dairy is a base which neutralizes the acidity of the purge, meaning it shouldn't destroy tooth enamel. Meaning even if I someday do end our relationship, I can always come back if it's ice cream for the warm memories. Like I said, I'm sick. I'm pregnant.

I lie in bed, rub my belly, swollen and bloated, and nearly ready to pop. My husband's urine tinkles against your porcelain, reminding me. I'm into my third trimester, and I hardly miss you. During the first, you and I spent more time together than ever before. So much time, you and I are no longer we in my mind. If there's a time for this relationship to end, it's now. For the sake of my daughter inside me, depending on me, on my body, my love for it. I keep the bathroom door closed, so I don't have to look at you every time I pass.

As my palm circles slowly around the dome of my belly, she hiccups. Her daily reminder that this sacrifice is worth so much more than my fleeting encounters with you. I tell myself this is her way of thanking me, but I'm the one who should thank her. It's now three months since our last rendezvous, longer still since our last meeting not coerced by nausea. The longest I've gone without you in a decade. A decade. Can you believe that? This is my longest-lasting relationship. Was my longest-lasting relationship.

You and I are over now. The first time I heard of bulimia was in third grade. I picked up a babysitter's club book from the small, raw, pinewood shelf at the daycare I attended after school. One of the characters had it. I don't remember which one. I don't remember any of the girls. I had never read a single installment before. I don't know why I did that day or why it happened to be that installment.

Maybe we're soulmates. I have never felt that way about my husband, but I met him online. You and I met serendipitously. I have and continued to give so much of myself to you all because of one seemingly random choice to pick up a silly book. If there's such a thing as you, fate, I suppose that's as close as it gets. After I read that book, I was fascinated. I inquired with my mom, what's bulimia? She explained and asked why I wanted to know. I could have told her I read it

in a book, but I lied. I was ashamed of the way you left me awestruck long before I knelt down before you. Instead, I told her there was a girl in my class who threw up during school lunches. It became a thing. Every day, my mom urged me to go to the school counselor and report the girl. She was eight like me. It terrified my mom that a girl so young could already be so ill. Finally, my mom did it on my behalf. The counselor wanted a name.

I gave him one, I thought made sense. Someone who, to my young mind, looked like they could be coupled with an eating disorder. She was the pretty blonde in my class who all the boys ogled. It was only third grade, and already I noticed these things. Already I made these associations. I collapse onto the couch and prop my feet on the coffee table. Legs spayed out. My hideously bloated ankles unable to cross.

I'm exhausted, I complained to my husband. His hand is warm on my back as he pats. Yeah, pregnancy is hard. We do this every night now. Feet raised, hand. and forearms cupping my belly, lifting up to relieve the constant ache in my pelvis. I'm exhausted. I whine. Pregnancy is hard, he reminds me. He doesn't understand.

The final weeks of pregnancy are a brutal lesson in the miracle of the pregnant body. The intestines, together nearly 21 feet long, squeeze into the space of a few inches, compress into the legion. lungs. Only a little food makes me feel so full I'll burst. It's a dangerous feeling. When it comes, bugs writhe underneath my flesh, my mind blurs, my breath shallows until I'm winded. Anxiety is physical, a devil residing in my body, breaking me down, convincing me I cannot live without you. I'm exhausted from resisting. I want to. I want to. Gorge. I want to stuff my face with every piece of food in the kitchen until muscle memory kicks in and my body reflexively forces every bite back up. So far, I have resisted for her. After my husband

finishes patting me on the back, he withdraws to the kitchen. The freezer door peels open and smacks closed. He returns, something hidden behind his back. A clandestine's smirk across his face. He flourishes a pint of ice cream, Ben and Jerry's. I dip the spoon in and eat. Leasierly. I pretend to watch whatever Netflix show we're binging. Inside my head, I count the minutes between bites. 120 seconds between each. This is how I control myself. It works. I don't gorge, But I don't need to. Six minutes, three bites, and already my body pleads. The anxiety is too much.

Just this once, you say as I kneel before you, ready and willing, finally? Just this once! I even believe myself as I say it. My water breaks two hours later, four weeks and two days early, late enough that my daughter doesn't end up in ICU, but early enough that she's considered premature. It's my fault. I don't have self-control.

I never did. I hate myself for a month while her body grows before my eyes. Her skinny arms kill me. It's my fault. The doctor tells me otherwise, but I know better. Never again, I tell myself.

My husband and I have done it. The baby is sleeping on schedule. for six hours through the night before she needs to be fed and put back to sleep again. Four hard months, and we're finally here. I take the opportunity to shower. I even shave my legs. With my leg propped on top of you, the razor blade in my hand, I am David.

You are Goliath. Finally, I've vanquished you. Four months strong. I know you don't like this. I hear you call me at night. Beg me to go to the kitchen while my husband and baby sleep, then come to you. But I'm strong now. Motherhood has empowered me.

I slip a silk nighty over my now, smooth as a dolphin's skin, and crawl on top of my husband in our darkened bedroom. I put him in my wet warmth, where my fingers haven't played in four months. I gag as he slides all the way back. Four months, and still my body readies itself for you, not for him. Don't stop. He doesn't understand. I have to stop. I straddle him instead. He sighs.

This is good, too. He watches me, in the blue light of the moon through the window, as I grind on him the way he likes. I turn it into a show. Lift the nighty, lick my fingers, and slow, dramatic. dramatic slurps and touch myself. It's been ages since we last made love. He's eager, takes control, bounces me up and down. I close my eyes and enjoy the pounding until it makes me dizzy.

I gasp. I clasp a hand over my mouth. No, I think. It can't be. I'm stronger than this, but the dizziness makes me nauseous. I need to run. To you. My husband grips my hips, holds me firmly on top of him.

Oh, fuck. He's almost done. I can hold it. But I can't. I feel acid burn my nose, leak out of my nostrils, drizzle over the crest of my lip. No, I think. My last meal hurdles through me and projectiles onto him. A flood with chunks that glimmer in the moonlight, waterfalls over him. his chest and splatters onto our bed sheets at the same time that he comes inside of me.

He screeches and flies off the bed without waiting for me to disembark. I fall to the floor and lie there, moaning in shame. He wretches in the bathroom. The sound of his vomit splashing against you wafts through the hall into our bedroom. I tremble to him. He's on his knees, arms, limbered. over your rim. He isn't used to this. Ugh, fuck was that.

I wonder the same thing. Mr. Tate, my freshman English teacher, had our class read Go Ask Alice. During discussion, he asked if we thought Alice had an eating disorder. Mr. Tate was a well-meaning older man, white and bald with square-rimmed glasses. He kept a record player in the classroom, and like to play us music from decades past. He was the kind of teacher who was raw and approachable, even when he got on his metaphorical soapbox.

He wanted us to understand there were dangers behind small decisions like, just this once. I didn't speak as the other students discussed whether Alice's behavior with food could be classified as an eating disorder, until Mr. Tate explained that eating disorders were about, control. Then I raised my hand. People get eating disorders to lose weight. I insisted this relentlessly. I argued with him for nearly five minutes until he was visibly annoyed, until I noticed other students shooting me looks with squinted eyes and scrunched brows. Then I shut up. He was right. I realized

that in college, when my rendezvous with you no longer coincided with feeling fat, but with midterms and finals, bad grades, fights with my boyfriend, when I ate to fulfillment what's widely considered healthy food, but feeling fulfilled at all made me ache with anxiety, and I felt compelled, forced to turn to you. I realized only when our relationship had already become a power struggle. My daughter cooes in the back seat. She's blossomed into a chubby little thing with black curly hair like her fathers and eyes that light up when she looks at me. She fills me with a happiness I didn't know existed. It's not all good, but even the worst moments with her are infinitely better than the best moments of my life before she existed. I glance in the rearview mirror that reflects a small

round mirror hanging above her car seat. I put it there so I can sneak glimpses of her while I drive. Maternity leave is over now. My days are a routine of dropping her off at daycare and anxiously watching the clock, waiting to scoop her back into my arms. Feel her tiny open mouth against my cheek in a slobbery infant kiss. It's a 20-minute drive from the daycare to home. For 40 minutes each day, the little round mirror is all I get of her gummy smile. She giggles. Her body parts are a recent discovery. I watch in the mirror as her fingers fumble her nose and ears.

She reaches into her mouth, sticks her fingers inside, mouths on her hand, sticks her fingers further. She gags. The noise freezes my blood solid. It's not the first instance she's done this. Every time I think it's a circular punishment to teach me a lesson, a message to say, see what you've been doing to yourself all these years? I strain behind and around the car seat, crooking my shoulder at painful angles.

She cackles as I wrench her fingers from her mouth. I don't mean to raise my voice. I'm scared, but now so is she. Her face grooves up and she bursts in sobs. I can't calm until I stop on the side of the road. crawl into the back seat and hold her in my arms. I ache for her to love herself like I never have. To show her body a kindness mine has never known.

I don't know how to teach her these things yet. I'll learn, though. In so many ways, mothers are birthed during labor. The other night was a freak accident. Nothing to do with you. You did not cast a spell on me and call my husband to you out of spite. This isn't a curse my daughter is predestined to inherit.

You're an inanimate object. A toilet. I'm the one with the power. That's what I tell myself. I'm different now. I have the power to choose. It's been two days since I last eight. My breast milk is drying.

My daughter is furious that I can't feed her, that I'm forcing her to switch to formula. My husband doesn't understand the transition. is intentional. He doesn't see me chew and spit food into my napkin at dinner. He doesn't notice I use seven napkins at a meal now. This isn't to lose weight. This is self-control. To prevent myself from falling to my knees before you, repenting, begging your forgiveness for the time spent away. At work, my stomach gnaws. I fill it with black coffee in the break room, cream or sugar, would be ammunition for you.

I laugh at someone's joke I don't hear, and wonder what it's like to be a stranger to your torment. I'm envious of the people in my office. Men and women. Gender doesn't matter. You don't discriminate. I can't remember the last time you didn't occupy my thoughts. I can't remember what it was like to not struggle against you every second.

My life is a constant fight now. This daily battle, Me, I'm worn out. Ready for your presentation? My director beams at me. She's the kind of woman and mother I wish I was. Tall and slim in the places motherhood hasn't eviscerated, always well-styled with a red lip and a dark-haired bob

that stuns against her pale skin. These aren't the reasons I wish I was like her. She tells me every day how wonderfully I'm doing. What a good mother I am. What a good wife. What a hard worker. How amazed she is by me. My cheeks suffuse under her shower of flattery.

Part of me loves it. Her positivity is infectious. I almost believe her. The other part of me despises how good I am at fooling the people I respect and admire most. Nobody knows who I am. Only you do. When I don't answer, she pats my arm. You're going to throw down.

You always do. I smile, Wanley. My thoughts immediately turned to throwing up, not down, as I finished my second cup of coffee. My stomach hates me for it. Ten minutes later, the board of directors spread out across the long table in the conference room. Their eyes drill me as I pitch our latest non-profit initiative to improve body image education in high schools. I appreciate the irony, but can't point this out to anyone. else. The coffee hits my stomach acid, hungry to consume and furious at being delivered only coffee

yet again. My intestines growl. The board members hear it. They glance at each other and avoid looking at me in front of them, clutching my gut and grinning too widely. I speak over my stomach, but it's no use. You're hell-bent on punishing me. The black coffee snakes into my throat. It tastes like watery, infernal sludge. It burns like that, too. I swallow it down. You will not win. I'm almost done.

I can make it through this. I feel my panties wet. Something trickles down the insides of my thighs, out of the hem of my dress, over my naked knees, and squishes between my toes, exposed by a pair of peep-toe pumps. A stream of brown urine stains my beige flesh, like the topography of a muddy river in a dry, dead land.

Not urine, I think, but that is impossible. A wave of gasps sweeps the board of directors, 12 in total. I lose my breath. I want to give in. Run to you. Crumbled my knees, throw my arms around you, and nuzzle my face into your nook that fits my entire head, like it was specially designed for me. I clench a hand over my mouth.

You can't make me come to you anymore. Instead, there in the conference room, black coffee and bile spurt out of my mouth, sputter between my fingers, splatter across the gray and navy pebbled carpet. I double over and shake my head in shame. You won't stop there, though. This is retribution.

You're a vengeful porcelain god full of wrath. The audience groans. Behind my closed, humiliated eyes, board members hurl. An unsincipated chorus of gagging and heaving. My director rushes out of the room. She has the self-control to retch in a can out of view. I collect my bag. My director meets me and daintily dabbs a tissue at the corner of her mouth.

She pats my shoulder. Go home. You're sick. At home, my husband packs two overnight bags, one for him and one for our daughter. As he says goodbye for the night, he doesn't let me kiss our daughter's chubby cheeks. He holds her six feet away. I blamed it on a stomach flu, and she's not old enough for that vaccination. We can't take the risk you might infect her. You're right.

I reply as I wave them goodbye. He doesn't know how right he is. I stand on the porch, long after the car turns the corner of our suburb into the sunset towards the nearest hotel. I return inside only when the spectrum of oranges and yellows receding into the horizon remind me of putrid stomach acid, bubbling and floating in toilet water. This is the first time I've been home alone in nearly a year since I found out I was pregnant. My husband is doting. He's practically welded himself to my hip. I love it because it steals me against you.

But here we are, alone once again. I open the fridge. I'm starving. I tell myself I won't overdo it, just a bite, not even a full meal. I scarf a Tupperware of leftovers down and wash it with a glass of water. Finished and sitting on the couch, I pretend that I'm not already thinking of you. I go back to the kitchen, nibble a bag of popcorn, start and finish a tube of my husband's favorite cookies, the remaining half of a pint of ice cream, scramble and stuff my face with four eggs. Slowly but surely, I eat everything in sight until the kitchen is empty. If I could, I would eat the kitchen itself. Maybe then you would leave me alone.

I keel over and gasped for breath. My body can't handle this. Muscle memory kicks in. It's fighting to go back to our old ways. Look at that. You and I are we an hour, once again? How easily I slip back into our old patterns. I shake my head.

I won't let it happen. I won't give in to you. I tear apart the junk drawer and find the sewing kit I've used once. My fingers shake as I ain't. the unbearably thin thread and miss the eye of the needle. It takes six tries to get it through. I remember how to properly nod it thanks to a home at class in high school. If only I knew then that the class's infantile lessons would be used for this purpose.

I use up three arm lengths of thread and proceed. I dig the needle into the flesh of my bottom lip. Up. I groan and fight against the pain. Blood sprinkles my hand and flows into the crevice of my working elbow, wet and sticky. I jab the needle through my thin upper lip. I plunge the needle half an inch over and back down through my bottom lip, back up my top lip, until my mouth is sewn shut.

It isn't enough. I repeat this process three times, going back the other way, then back over. twice more. When I tie the final knot and cut the needle off the dangling thread, I feel empowered. I march into the bathroom and stand a kimbo above you. In the mirror is a shadow of the woman I should be. Slivers of fatty flesh protrude between imprecise stitches. The string lifts the corner of my lips into a twisted smile, like a maniacal marionette. I stand there. Feet wide apart.

Finally, I've conquered something. You didn't know the lengths I was capable of going. I didn't either. I guess you taught me some things about myself. I want to laugh, to say, look who's in control now. But I can't. I realized too late my mistake. The food bounds through me, twisting and turn.

burning up my organs. What can leak through the tight seams of my lips does. It's not enough. My mouth balloons from the pressure. My flesh rips. I won't let you win. I swallow it down, gulp by gulp. It isn't enough.

It comes back. I want to scream from the pain, but my voice traps there with a flood of puk that is nowhere to go. I'm fighting against my body now. I pry my fingers under the stitches, but they're so taut against my skin I can't find leverage. Vomit, scented like battery acid, waterfalls out my nose. I'm drowning. Puk fills my lungs.

An agonizing fire. I collapse against you. On my knees, arms sprawled around your curves. Your cold porcelain skin warms under my touch, as if you're welcoming me back with open arms. As if to say, you love me unconditionally, no matter how hard I try to turn my back on you. I weep, salty tears I can't taste. This is how my husband and daughter will find me. My secret exposed in this dying embrace.

Once upon a time, I thought I could never quit you. You were never going to let me. Sleepless tales have dispersed this night. Poetic works from darkness alight. We leave you with this a question on a theme. Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream? The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Mikulski. Jeff Clement and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Ollie White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. Please visit the nosleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for being a supportive season pass member

and for joining us within the exquisite, horror of our reality. This audio program is copyright 2023 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program

is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.