Page 37 of Morsel

I hold the chicken meat to my lips. I lick the smooth flesh, my tongue writhing over the pebbled pink skin, the taste subtle and musky, and I imagine it’s Mona’s puckered nipple. I suck the blood and milk out of Mona’s imaginary tit as the chicken’s slimy pink liquid coats my tongue. Mona’s tears roll down her face, fear crawling over her body like sweat. She gives me everything she has, whether she wants to or not, and when I’m done with her, I’ll eat every last bite until she’s only bones.

I come, my jizz squirting over the raw meat sleeve and covering my hands, down my wrists, and dropping onto my boots. It’s more cum than I’ve had masturbating in a long time.

Usually, I try to think about the eternal love of cannibalism. This was different. This was like I was embracing the predatorial side of it: the total and complete control of a woman. And it’s all thanks to the palpable fear of that woman who was recording me, because for a split second, she thought I was going to kill her.

She was filming me without my permission. The only person who has ever gotten permission to film me was?—

Wait. Did Mona send that woman to record me?

The thought pops into my head, bursting any sort of leftover lust from seeing that woman panic. If Mona did send her, then we’ll have to talk about it. I don’t like being a part of her little art shows without my knowledge or agreement. It makes me feel off-balance.

I clean up, then check the dial on the side of the industrial furnace. The highest temperature is 2,200 degrees Fahrenheit. I picture Mona’s decapitated head being tossed out of a basket and into the preheated oven.

I shake those images away. I’d never cut off Mona’s head and put her in an oven or a furnace. I’m only thinking of that because the woman in the break room reminded me of the sex worker who freaked out when I chained her to the oven. Mona would appreciate the steak-and-knife play more than that sex worker. She’d probably enjoy it more than all the sex workers combined. We were made for each other.

And whatever surprise Mona has for me is probably even better than steak and knife play anyway.

Back in the break room, I slap Jerry on the shoulder. “Speaking of eating pussy, I’m starving,” I say. I motion toward the supervisor’s station. “I’ll see you later.”

“You’re calling out to get laid?” Jerry says. “Yeah, bro. What a man. Make that pussy cream!”

I find the supervisor and give him an excuse about having an upset stomach, and though his face twists in disapproval, I don’t hear his words.

I text Mona I’m home early. It’ll probably take her a while to get to my place, and I want her to be there right after I arrive. I don’t want to wait anymore.

But as I drive up and the mobile home comes into focus, I notice another car in the field.

Mona’s SUV.

Chapter 14

From the driveway, it looks like the power is off inside. I dart through the mobile home anyway, scanning to see if she’s there.

It’s empty.

In the backyard, she stands over the offal pit in rain boots. Textured tights. A short black skirt. Her gloved hand clutches a grayed pig’s heart, crawling with maggots.

“You didn’t lock up,” she says. She lifts the organ. A larva drops to the dirt. “Can I use this?” My upper lip curls. She giggles. “For my art, love. Just for my art.”

I blink hard. “Right.”

“Did you know they’ve used a pig heart for a transplant multiple times?” she murmurs. “This little thing could’ve helped someone, huh?”

The pig’s heart is helping someone. She’s using it to create art, and before that, I was planning to use it in my ground meat. How can she not see that it is helping?

Her empty, gloved hand, slightly damp from searching through the pit, touches my face. My temple twitches.

“Come on,” she says. “I want to show you your surprise.”

Mona wanders through my home like she owns the place, and my mind rolls with unease. I scratch the back of my neck. It’s almost like she’s been walking around my home while I’m gone, just like I’ve wandered her house when she’s working. Except Mona would never stalk me like that.

Would she?

No. Stalking is a threat, and Mona isn’t a danger to me.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks.

A question like that leads to even more penetrating questions, and it’s like the interrogation in the break room again. A camera poised, ready to catch me in the act.

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