Severed Foot on Nightstand

That foot rests on the nightstand, light slanting across the white athletic ankle sock, its colorful stripes sharp at the cuff.

A yellow ribbon is loosely tied just above the severed edge, like a hasty gift bow. It still holds warmth; toes curled naturally inside the sock tip, the sole’s shape faintly visible through the thin cotton. I step closer, place my palm directly over it—feeling the soft give through the fabric. When I press, it pushes back, just slightly.

I ease the sock cuff down, exposing the ankle. The cut is clean and fresh: layers of flesh peeled open, dark red interior glistening wet, a few beads of blood still clinging to the rim. The limb’s curve should be ordinary; now, marked by that raw wound and the bright yellow ribbon, it carries a breathless, forbidden pull.

I grip it. Thumb traces the severed edge slowly, blood smearing into the sock border, staining it faint red. I picture taking it to the bed—tongue first gliding over the toes through the sock, then pulling the ribbon free, sliding down, pressing hard against the bare sole, sucking deep, teeth grazing the inner arch until it’s entirely claimed by my scent…