Morsel

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Armed with the one-time-use camera, I settle into the back row of the lecture hall. The class’s start time passes, and as the minutes go by, the students’ chattering gets louder. Mona isn’t usually late.

Maybe she’s late to class because of me.

Saliva pools in my mouth, like I’m waiting for the first taste of a giant feast. I like the idea of it: the bitch is so scared, she can’t even come to class.

After the other night, I have to apologize. There’s a chance she may never want to see me again, and I have to make it up to her.

I can’t let her go like this.

A dark gray ponytail bounces down the aisle. A leather jacket swings on a man’s shoulders. He spins around, his proud weathered smile gleaming at the students.

Artemis leans on the podium. “Professor Milk is hard at work on her new exhibition for Sway Gallery. I offered to cover for her today; I hope you all don’t mind.”

My chest compresses. Is her new exhibition actually that close, or is it an excuse because she knew I’d be here?

She’s avoiding me, isn’t she?

“I’m Artemis, but you can call me Arty,” he says.

A student shouts: “Wait. Are you Arty Milk? Like the practical special effects artist who worked on Hunting Sasquatch? That Arty?”

He waves a hand in the air, dismissing the question with feigned sheepishness. “No one has forgotten about that shit show, have they?”

The classroom erupts into conversation, an energetic buzz floating in the air.

Artemis Milk, huh? Like they’re fucking married.

I roll my eyes. His name sounded fake before, and now it sounds even more made up. Mona would never marry a lowlife like him. He must’ve stolen the name from her. And Hunting Sasquatch? So fucking what if it’s a cult classic now? That movie bombed at the box office. They lost money on that piece of shit.

A few students raise their hands and ask Arty questions about the monsters and gore he’s created over the years. I slouch in my chair and grind my teeth. Artemis substituting for Mona’s lecture is a blow. She knew I’d be here, and this is like rubbing our non-exclusivity in my face. Just like my mother.

When my mother was going to run off with her boyfriend without me, she showed me how little she truly thought of me. Her only child.

If you could control your needy little tantrums, you’d get what you want. But you can’t do that, can you? You’re selfish, my mother said. A spoiled rotten little boy who never stops whining about what he wants when he has more than enough. How much of a stupid, little boy can you be? Look at yourself! She pointed to the knife in my hand. You’re making a sandwich out of ingredients that Daddy bought for you, and you want to complain about me leaving to go find him?

I remember staring at the knife, then back at her. The bread was molding; I had to cut around the fuzzy blue spots. The cheese was as hard as plastic, and the meat smelled sour, but I knew if I wanted the stomach pains to go away, then I had to eat it. And deep down, I also knew she wasn’t leaving to find him; she was leaving for good this time, and she would never come back. The home was empty without her boyfriend.

I wasn’t good enough for her.

No wonder he left us, she hissed. He takes care of us, feeds us, and does everything for us, and all you want to do is break us apart. Why can’t you control yourself, Kent? Why can’t you just be happy with what we’ve done for you? Why can’t you be grateful for once? No, you have to ruin everything by being such a pathetic little freak.

Thoughts rushed through my head; none of them were fully formed. They were more like bubbles floating in the air, each one of them popping as soon as they skimmed my fingertips. The only thoughts that stayed—that didn’t evaporate as soon as I had them—were the memories of when her boyfriend, or Daddy as she so affectionately called him, hurt me.

Daddy kicking my ribs because I breathed too hard, while she pretended to be asleep.

Daddy forcing me to pretend to be happy at my tenth birthday as bruises healed on my neck.

Daddy knocking me out when I didn’t eat the extra hot dog.

Did I have to be grateful for that too?

Anger simmered inside of me, threatening to boil over the edge.

He takes care of you, I said to her, putting extra emphasis on that last word. I tightened my hold on the knife’s handle. He told me he would be happier if I was dead.

Maybe you should be dead, she said flatly. You don’t like living with us anyway.

Those words were sharper than a knife, and I swear in that moment, I could’ve gutted myself and spilled my intestines on the floor, and my mother would’ve laughed.

My mother picked up her duffel bag, hiking it higher up on her shoulder. She angled toward the front door.

Panic rose inside of me, fighting with my inner rage. She couldn’t really leave, could she? A mother is supposed to love you unconditionally. She gave me life. We were supposed to be connected beyond the umbilical cord. Why was she leaving me?

Please don’t go, I said.

Control yourself, Kent, she muttered. You really are pathetic sometimes.

I tried to remind myself she liked her boyfriend because he was unafraid. Because he was strong. Because he had control. Because he wasn’t afraid to put us in our places. I tried to tell myself I could be like that too.

But it scared the shit out of me to be alone. I didn’t know what to do.

Please, I begged. I can’t live without you.

She spun around and faced me with the gleam of hatred in her eyes. She stepped forward.

You’re going to die alone, baby boy, she mocked. Sad and alone.

She leaned down to my level to humiliate me more, so I thrust my fists forward to stop her. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes wide in shock. And that’s when I realized I had stabbed her. So I did it again in the same spot. Then again. The first strike was an accident, but it didn’t feel like I was doing anything wrong, so I kept doing it. It was like playing a video game, something I had seen her boyfriend play on the TV when I was supposed to be asleep, a game where your character can stab a civilian, and you don’t feel any remorse, because it’s not real. Nothing is.

My mother slumped to the ground, and my body buzzed with electricity. I stared down at her lifeless corpse. The vacant, dark blue eyes were the same in death as they were in life. Her gapped teeth. Her lipstick on, always on, always her crutch to get her boyfriend’s attention, because he was more important than buying food for her own child.

The knife stood like a territorial flag in her stomach, the blood oozing onto the floor like a river.

I moved her onto the table. I don’t know how I did that at ten years old. It might be that my memories are jumbled from everything that happened, but that’s what I remember. The kitchen table. Her lifeless body. Her blank eyes. The knife in her stomach like a marker showing where the umbilical cord was cut, showing where she didn’t feel anything for me, and where I no longer felt anything for her.

I didn’t call the police. There was no reason to. She wasn’t dead; it was pretend. She was used to playing pretend, wasn’t she? She pretended to be my mother, and she pretended that she loved me. Why wouldn’t she pretend to be dead too?

After that, I went back to the kitchen and made the rest of my sandwich. I told myself that stabbing her was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was just a boy, after all. It’s not my fault that I was holding a knife when she came toward me. I was just trying to cut a slice of cheese for my sandwich. I was just hungry.

A few days passed in that hot house. Her boyfriend never liked having the air conditioning on unless he was home, which transformed the whole place into a living slow cooker. And the kitchen clock kept ticking. I guess I wasn’t sad or angry or anything. My mother was home. She would wake up soon. Her boyfriend would be back too, and then I’d have to worry about what he would do to me when he saw her body. I couldn’t even make myself care about that though.

Then her wound started rolling with maggots, the skin around the knife blooming into a sour green, and a gamey scent floated in the air, mixed with the feces expelled from her relaxed sphincter. And I was hungry. The deli meat was gone. The cheese and eggs too. There was some moldy bread left, and I could eat around it, but there was so much of her blue-tinted skin that didn’t seem that bad. No, it even seemed better than the bread.

Her skin was blue and purple, and even green in some areas. I pulled the knife from her stomach, then stuck my fingers into the wound. Inside was slightly warm and sticky, and it wiggled. It was probably a maggot feeding on her. I had seen them eating rotten meat before. And if they could feed on her, why couldn’t I?

While avoiding the living insects, I pinched what I could inside of that hole, and I pulled out red flesh. Damp. Metallic. I told myself that rotten meat is still nourishment. Maybe that’s all I deserved anyway.

My stomach growled, and my muscles cramped so hard that it hurt to breathe.

I didn’t see my mother after that.

I saw meat.

I put the flesh in my mouth. My stomach churned as the tangy flavor coated my tongue. I closed my eyes and swallowed it down. It was wrong, and I knew that, but I needed it more than she did.

And when I opened my eyes, I focused on her face. Her mouth was open, and inside, I saw that hunk of flesh. Her tongue.

I took the knife from her stomach and pinched the muscle, then cut off as much as I could. Then, without thinking much about it, I shoved her tongue in my mouth.

She couldn’t talk now.

She couldn’t tell me how pathetic I was.

And she would never leave me again.

Eventually, the police showed up, and when I heard the sirens, I grabbed some of her severed flesh and ran to the closet. Their footsteps got closer, and I knew I couldn’t hold her meat anymore. They’d take her away from me. This was my last chance. I finally had her where I wanted, where she could take care of me, giving me unconditional love in the way a mother does best. Rotting meat probably wasn’t a good idea for a growing boy, and to be honest, it made my stomach hurt, but it’s not like she stocked the pantry when she left, and it would be wasting food if I threw her away.

Kent Baker? We just want to make sure you’re safe, a female police officer said.

They were getting closer.

I stuffed the red flesh in my mouth, that metallic taste filling my cheeks. The meat was raw and rubbery.

But they couldn’t take my mother away from me. She was already inside of me.

The officer opened the closet door. Her eyes widened. Blood coated my hands, my lips, and there were tiny pieces of flesh coating my naked body. She pulled back.

Jesus, she whispered. Sadness pooled in her eyes. Are you alright?

I salivated as I looked up at the police officer, wondering what she would taste like if I just cut off a piece of her stomach. If she was alive, if she was fresh, would she taste better than my mother?

Everything happened fast after that. I don’t remember the rest of the police officers, the therapists, the judge, or the foster care system, but I do remember successfully avoiding them after a while.

“That’s it for now,” Artemis says. I shake myself out of the memories as he clears his throat. “Are there any questions?”

Mona had asked me if I killed my mother, and it was obvious she had a hunch about the answer. But it’s hard to explain that when you’re ten years old, the judicial system doesn’t see the full scope of your potential: they only see a child. So did I kill her? Maybe I did. Maybe it was my intention. Or maybe it was an accident. I can’t go back and change what happened twenty years ago, but I can admit that now, when I think about it, I wish I hadn’t just stabbed my mother. I wish I had kept her alive for a long time, slowly eating her alive as her body shut down.

I wish I had hurt her more.

The students rise from their seats and head toward the doors, while a few stragglers head to the front of the classroom to gawk at the supposedly famous Arty Milk. I stand behind them and wait for Artemis to meet my gaze. He avoids me so wholeheartedly it’s obvious he knows I’m here for him. I just have to wait for my turn.

Then the last student comes closer to him, and he gestures toward the door. The two of them walk out together.

I hold the one-time-use camera up and take a picture. The cheap shutter clicks, and finally, Artemis scowls at me.

With bared teeth, I wave, then exit too. For now, Artemis is safe. I’m not interested in eating men. I’ll kill a man if I want to, but I won’t eat him. I’d rather use his meat to fuel a fire. There’s no satisfaction in consuming tough meat like that.

With women though—with Mona—there’s something unworldly about their soft flesh. Their lips. Their pliable stomachs. Their fatty breasts. I can cut off any piece of a woman and show her that she may not need me, and that’s okay.

But I can still fucking eat her.