# BLOOD AND HUMAN MEAT
Phobia from the perspective of a girl named Khushi.Written by a friend who finally decided to tell her story.
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I love animals.
I really do.But I can’t go near them. Not because I’m scared of them—But because I’m scared of me.
I’ve always had this... space inside me.An emptiness that hums. It feels cold and loud and quiet all at once.I try to ignore it. But sometimes it whispers.
And sometimes, it screams.
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I remember the first time it really happened.One second I was laughing with my younger brother—The next, I was slamming his head into the table.Again.And again.And again.Until he stopped moving.
I didn’t want to.But I couldn’t stop.When it was over, I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe.That was the day I knew: something was wrong with me.
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It got worse.I started craving blood. Not in a fantasy way. In a physical way.I imagined tearing into the people I loved.My parents.My friends.Alive.
Their skin. Their smell. Their muscles pulling away from bone.
I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. I stopped touching anyone.To keep them safe, I hurt myself.Scratched my skin raw.Bruised my own body with blunt objects.I counted 110 scars across my legs, my arms, my torso—like tally marks in a prison I built myself.
I didn’t want to die.I wanted to be caged.
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For one year, I rotted quietly.
Then one night, I caught myself watching my father with a hunger in my eyes that terrified me.
I left home the next day.
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I moved into a PG far from the city.I begged for a single room. Didn’t get it.Luckily, my roommates were never there when I was.It was like the world was giving me space to fall apart.
I tried to die seven times.
Jumped from a balcony.Held a knife to my throat.Grabbed a live wire.Stood in front of speeding cars.I always failed. Some part of me—just a thread—held on.
But the cravings didn’t stop.So I bought handcuffs. Three of them.Every night, I locked my wrists and ankles together before bed, just in case.
I didn’t want to become a monster in my sleep.
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Six months later, I stood naked in front of a mirror and counted the injuries again.
There were more now.Too many to hide.Too many to keep living like this.
So I asked for help.
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The psychologist listened. Didn’t flinch.He said my obsession with blood and flesh was a twisted coping mechanism.A need for control.A desperate scream for power in a world where I once felt powerless.
He said something inside me had snapped long ago.Something I'd never been taught to name.
Now I’ve been in treatment for three months.
Still breathing.Still afraid.
Still me.
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I don’t know if I’ll ever be "better."I don’t even know what “better” looks like.
But at least now, the monster isn’t hiding.It’s sitting across from me in the mirror.And we’re learning how to live together—without killing anyone.
Not today.Not again.
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[Optional Epilogue: From an Outsider’s Eyes]
> She talks like she’s made of glass, but her eyes are iron.You wouldn’t know what she’s survived unless she told you. You wouldn’t believe her even if she did.But I do. Because sometimes the ones who scare themselves the most… are the ones still trying to protect the world from their darkness.
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