Swallowing it was an aphrodisiac like no other. I wanted to do it again and again.

As I dry-swallowed —water dilutes the ripeness of the nail —my eyes would roll back into my head as I savored the hard, bendy points sticking in my throat. Sometimes, before I even started chewing the nail like bubble gum, I’d lift it to my nose and inhale the aromas of sand and dust and slightly moldy cheese. Most people find such odors gross, but I associate them with comfort and order, since we moved so much when I was a kid. Yeah, I was an Army brat. Never in one place for too long.

I never thought I’d find myself here. Who would, right? In the hospital on a drip. All because I swallowed a few toenail sculptures so my mother wouldn’t harass my old man after he quit the family. She didn’t understand how calming my hobby was. I tried to collect her toenails for my jar, but no. We fought all the time about my jar of clippings. I collected clippings from anyone, and believe me, getting hold of them is no easy feat because most people just throw them away. It took some creativity, but I ended up with quite an assortment. Some I ate, but most I used to build cool little miniature sculptures like scorpions and other insects. I did eat the toenail wasp —custom-made of specimens I got from a hooker who took my fee for the service —and I think that’s where I got the fungal infection in my bones.

Yeah, neat right? I sat hooked up to the IVs while my mother spoke to the doctor on the other side of the glass, her forehead scrunched in an expression that made her look like a constipated golden retriever. As the doctor spoke, my mother nodded over and over, glancing my way every once in a while through the open slats of the blinds in my observation room. I wished someone would turn them down for me. I didn’t want her to see what I did next.

The infection, the doctor was no doubt explaining to her, caused pockets of pustules to form on my bone. The pustules grew over new tissue trying to form underneath. I could feel the disease eating my bones. I’d spent hours poking at my right tibia until I found a pretty mushy spot and imagined the pus gushing out. If I could just find something to relieve the pressure —that would probably stave off the pain, if even a bit.

While my mother and the doc yapped away outside my room, I swiped a used needle from my blood draws —I had watched closely as the nurse discarded them in the hazmat receptacle —and started digging into my calf. It stung and blood welled up in pools, rivulets soaking like grape juice into my white cotton weave blanket. I’d have to ask for a clean one later, but priorities. I was intent on my prize. I wanted to taste this pus that my body had produced from infected toenails. I already knew what toenails tasted like. It seemed the next logical step.

Carefully, I poked holes around the mushy place, wheedling the pus to the surface. It was a thick, cheesy, off-green color and smelled ten times riper than anything I’d ever smelled underneath my toenails. Whoa! I scooped some up from my wound, appreciating how the blood and pus resembled ricotta cheese with a bit of jam. I carefully dabbed it on my index finger and stuck it in my mouth.

Delicious.

The slime, with its lumpy texture, distinct fetid aroma, and salty aftertaste, plied its way down my throat. Oh, heaven. I wanted more. But I needed to pace myself, lest I get caught. My recovery, I reasoned, would be a long one. Plenty of time to savor the fruit of my infection. I cleansed my palette with a swish of water and lay my head back on my pillow, wanting nothing more than a nap. I fell asleep, remembering to ask Mom to bring in some rice crackers and currant jam, so I could fully appreciate the pustules. I drifted off, contented.

About the Author:
Nora B. Peevy is a cat trapped in a human’s body. Please send help or tuna. She toils away for JournalStone/Trepidatio Publishing as a submission reader and a reviewer for Hellnotes, and reads scripts for The H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival. She also writes nonfiction articles for The Weird Wide Web, is a syndicate author for Thrill Ride eZine, and has taken up freelance editing as well as editing for Baynam Books Press, also narrating their podcast, The Midnight Manuscripts. Her quirky tales are published by Eighth Tower Press, Carnage House, The Sudden Fictions Podcast, and elsewhere. For the Sake of Brigid, her first novelette, came out in 2024, and her first short story collection debuts from JournalStone/Trepidatio in 2025. She is also a visual artist, mainly photography and mixed media, though she dreams of her turtle painting in watercolor alongside her.

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