A Watermelon Seed

Eowyn Thompson

Chop, chop, chop.

With each cut, Beth’s knife sunk through the watermelon and hit the cutting board. The juice squelched, leaving a sticky syrup on the knife, the board, and her fingers. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on her hands as she continued to slice. She wished she had taken off her ring before starting. It was a college graduation gift she got in May, and she was trying to keep it nice, but her fingers were too swollen to easily twist it off.

Soft laughter drifted into the kitchen from the open windows. Outside, her parents were sitting on the porch. Mom had been reading the latest romance novel she found in the bookstore, and Dad was fixing a birdhouse. The sun was warm and the sky clear. A light breeze ruffled her hair. In the distance children squealed, running amidst the grass. The perfect day for watermelon.

Beth’s stomach rumbled, a sickening feeling. Empty and yearning. How she wished that was true.

The first half was chopped into triangle pieces. Beth arranged them one on top of the other on an orange tray, easy to grab, just how Mom liked it.She took the other half in hand and began chopping. Slice by slice, it fell apart, until there was nothing left of the whole, just fragmented pieces. These were for the fridge. Her parents got sick of watermelon quickly. Fun as a novelty, good for a day. The rest would rot. It would fall on Beth to take care of it.

Anxiety rooted in her stomach, a dense weight of nerves twisted together. There wasn’t much room in the fridge. All she could do was set it on top of the egg carton and hope it didn’t cave in.

After safely setting away the extra, she grabbed the tray with two hands and walked to the sliding glass door. She saw her mother, ignorant to her current plight. Beth knocked on the glass with her elbow, once, twice, three times. Nothing. Gritting her teeth, she balanced the tray on her forearm and pulled the heavy door open, tray teetering and tipping towards the ground.

Stumbling forward, she tried to rescue it; she really did. But a few pieces tumbled down, hitting the wooden deck hard. It left a stain of juice behind.

“Beth, why didn’t you ask for help?” Mom set her book aside and beckoned Dad over.

“You need to be more careful, you’re not just looking out for yourself anymore.” She poked at her stomach. Beth said nothing.

It took no time for them to get situated, each with a slice in their hands. Beth sat down on a cushioned chair but made no move to grab her own.

“C’mon, have some!” Dad said, wiping juice from his chin. “You used to love this stuff.”

“I’m okay, really. More for you,” she twisted her ring around her finger.

“Don’t be like that, Beth. There’s nothing like watermelon in the summer.” Mom slid the tray closer to her. “It’s one of those happy things in life. You’ll love it when you try it!”

In the silence, her stomach began to gurgle, prodding her insides with a fork and knife. It wasn’t her that was hungry, for her stomach was still full. It had been for almost 2 months.

Under the weight of her mother’s gaze, Beth gingerly reached for the watermelon, feeling its wet firmness in her hand. It was heavy, begging to be set aside. She raised it to her mouth.

Crunch. The unpleasant sound reverberated in her ears as she sunk her teeth into the pink flesh. The juice that threatened to cover her lips and drip down her chin was starkly different from the unpleasant gritty texture on her tongue.

Her teeth met something hard. A seed.

She hated seeds. They made her want to gag. But it was gross, wasteful, disgusting, inhumane to spit them out, and the seedless watermelons didn’t taste the same. When she was a child, she refused to swallow them. In Kindergarten she’d heard a story: a watermelon plant would grow in your stomach, expanding and pressing against your insides. It didn’t matter why you ate it. Like an engorged tick, it is your burden until you burst. A parasite, leaching on your very soul until it too decays.

As the melon dissolved in her mouth, Beth swallowed. The seeds slid down her throat, burying themselves within the acid of her stomach, growing roots, and sprouting. She could feel the leaves tickling the inner lining, making her shiver.Nausea bubbled in her throat, threatening to spill over. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

“I don’t want to eat this anymore. Please let me stop.”

Mom was silent, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

“Do you know how many people would kill to have that?” Dad’s cold voice hurt her ears. “This is a blessing.” He leveled her with a stern gaze. “So help me God, if you get rid of it, you will be no daughter of mine.”

And so, Beth ate. Crunch, crunch. Bite after bite, until she could no longer taste anything but the salt from her snot. A barren rind hit the ground. Beth sobbed, wiping tears with a soaked sleeve.

She could feel it now, expanding. A tumor within her body. How long before her stomach bulged, purple lines encaging her within the hard rind.

The summer sun beat down on her, burning her skin. Dad stood up and left. Mom followed, stopping at the door.

“I’m disappointed in you. You need to stop being so selfish.”

She, too, was gone. When she returned to her room, she’d probably find her favorite stuffed duck, Georgie, on the bed. As a child she cradled him in her arms and called him her baby. He would sit on her pillow to, “remind her who she was.”

Beth stood up and ran to the edge of the deck, forcing her fingers to the back of her mouth and down her throat. Bile rose, burning as it went. She heaved. Everything hurt. Shivering, she clutched her aching stomach. She could still taste it, feel it. Her legs gave out and she hit the ground, curling into a ball. Rocking back and forth, she hiccupped as she cried. It was too late. It had already rooted itself in the lining of her organs. It pressed against them, growing. Bile pooled in the cracks of the wood, speckled with chunks of pink and tiny, black seeds.

She hated watermelon.