The cautionary tale our parents used to scare us with still echoes in childhood memories: "Don't swallow watermelon seeds, or a sprout will grow inside your stomach. One day, you'll turn into a watermelon yourself." It was never true, of course, but it became a running joke, a story we'd laugh about—except when it came to Geremiah Santos.
Geremiah Santos, a second-year student of MMNHS, was infamous on campus not only for his wide frame—over 180 pounds of heavy mass—but for his insatiable thirst for food. To say he ate a lot was an understatement. He devoured. He hoarded. He stole. His classmates loathed him not merely because he was obese, but because he couldn't stop snatching food straight from their bags, even from their hands. If Beelzebub had taken a human form, the students swore, it would look and behave like Geremiah.
His obsession grew so problematic that he was unofficially banned from the cafeteria. But like a curse that wouldn't be lifted, the school could do nothing about him. His parents' large donations ensured the principal's silence. So Geremiah roamed freely, a glutton unchecked, untouchable, and unstoppable.
Everything came to a head during "Healthy Lunch Day," when the cafeteria served not the usual greasy meals but fresh fruits. That day's highlight: a mountain of red, glistening watermelon slices stacked in trays, waiting to quench the students' hunger. Everyone lined up eagerly, whispering about the sweetest slice they hoped to get.
At the front of the line, as always, stood Geremiah Santos. His reputation preceded him: he always secured the thickest, juiciest portions, leaving scraps for everyone else.
"Three slices for me," he demanded, pointing at the fattest wedges of watermelon.
The server frowned. "Geremiah, the rule is one slice per student. We need enough for everyone."
Geremiah smirked, pulling out a crumpled bill and sliding it across the counter. "Rules are for ordinary people. I'll pay extra. Now, give me three."
The server hesitated, then surrendered. By the time the last student reached the counter, the tray was empty. Some got only rinds. Others, nothing at all.
Geremiah strutted to the center table, his tray stacked high with watermelon wedges glistening under the lights. He arranged them like trophies, smirking as he took his first bite. Juice dribbled down his chin, and he spoke loud enough for the cafeteria to hear:
"Life is about grabbing what you can before it's gone. Don't hate me for being smart enough to claim what I deserve."
His classmates whispered bitterly, but he basked in their resentment, even tearing off a small corner of a slice to give a friend—making sure everyone saw. "See? I share," he bragged, dripping sarcasm.
Last monday, Geremiah had not attended school, and it somehow felt peaceful. And to everyone's relief, he has not attended classes for the past few days.
"But what actually happened to him?" One of his classmates asked.
"Who cares? You should be thankful no one's stealing our lunches." Curiosity had suddenly struck one of his classmates—Siza Campo had asked their adviser what had really happened to Santos, a guy who had never taken any leave of absence with no particular letter to the homeroom adviser, just randomly didn't show up to school.
"He's in his home right now, just got discharged from the hospital. Doctors said that his lungs can't cope with his body anymore" the teacher replied. The room gave off a heavy "serves him right aura" and all of his classmates chuckled in response. Siza got caught up and just laughed along with them.
Campo is not entirely convinced and is still curious about what had actually happened to Santos. And so she made a bold decision, coming to his house—after all, curiosity can change everything. She once saw Santos walking in the same direction as her house; it was only a block away from their house.
She arrives at Santos' house, taking deep breaths as she rethinks her whole life decisions—well, she is here now; there is no point in going back. She pressed the doorbell once, and it only took seconds for the maid to open the door for her. The maid asked who she was and was shocked to know that Campo was a "friend" paying Geremiah a visit. The maid had no choice but to let her in and led her into Geremiah's room. It was the first time a friend had ever visited Santos.
Campo had brought gifts and dropped them as soon as the maid left her—she then again took heavy, deep breaths and opened Santos's room. He was lying in his bed, a normal thing indeed! But her sudden visit had made her regret getting concerned for Santos in the first place.
His pupils are eerily reminiscent of watermelon seeds—dark and elongated—giving him a haunting gaze that seems to pierce through the shadows. The fingers of his hands and toes are grotesquely transformed; his nails have sprouted small roots that dig into the fabric of the bed, anchoring him to this bizarre reality.
In a chilling display of self-cannibalism, Geremiah is methodically gnawing at the flesh of his own arms. Blood trickles down, staining the sheets crimson, but he appears unfazed by the pain; instead, a smile creeps across his lips as if he savors every bite. The room is filled with an atmosphere of surreal horror, blending nature's beauty with the grotesque, encapsulating Geremiah's disturbing transformation, but the horror that Siza witnessed had made her spine run cold and made her run to the maid. The maid, who had no idea of the events, asked the frightened girl what had happened. It seems that she doesn't have a clue about what was happening beyond the doors of Geremiah's room. Siza did not dare to tell the truth and just left with an apology.
Geremiah Santos has not returned to school, and Siza did not tell a single soul of what she had witnessed that day. Three months had passed by. The watermelon plant thrived in a way no plant should. Its vines stretched unnaturally long, curling over rusted fences and strangling nearby bushes with quiet, creeping hunger. The fruits it bore were misshapen—bulbous, veined, and pulsing faintly as though something inside still lived.
Siza stared at them, her breath shallow, her pulse quickening.
She remembered the vines—the way they slithered from Geremiah's nose and ears like parasites seeking soil. She remembered the sound of his teeth breaking his own skin, the way he chewed slowly, methodically, smiling through pain like he was being consumed from the inside out by something not entirely his own.
This was no ordinary plant. This wasn't nature.
This was him.
She stumbled back, hand clasped over her mouth, eyes wide with horror as she saw it: a tongue, small and shriveled, pressed against the inner membrane of the fruit like it was trying to speak. Black seeds slid out, slick and wriggling, each shaped like a curled nail. A faint gurgling rose from the cracked fruit, and beneath the sound of rustling leaves… she heard a whisper.
"S—siza…"
It was his voice.
She turned to run—haunted by the events that she just witnessed.
Geremiah Santos was never buried.
The house was abandoned, but the vines kept growing—creeping down sidewalks, wrapping around lampposts, and reaching toward the school where no one remembered him.
Only the plant remembered.
Only the plant spoke.