Page 59 of Morsel

“It’s fine.” She nods at Artemis. “Arty can take me home.”

There’s a blanched quality to her expression, almost like sadness, or fear, or maybe dread. Like she doesn’t want me anymore, and she’s afraid to say it.

A sour taste crowds my mouth, and my scalp tingles with pins and needles. I wait, staring at her turned cheek.

She finally looks at me. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Call me,” I order.

She nods, then the double doors close behind me. Their argument penetrates the walls and rumbles into the hallway.

“You’re overreacting,” Mona says. “I know what I’m doing. He’s harmless.”

“He’s not fucking harmless. He stabbed you in the cervix!”

“The doctor compared it to a love bite. He’s doing this because he worships me?—”

“This isn’t just about him,” Artemis shouts. “I don’t trust you with him! You’re going to get hurt! Not just a fingertip. Not just a toe. Not just a cut on your cervix. You’re going to take this too far, and neither of us will be able to fix it. I can’t let that happen.”

I shake my head and walk down the hallway. Artemis is right, in a way. Mona and I are dangerous together. We are hunger and self destruction in the carcass of love.

Harmless. Gentle. They’re offensive words, especially coming from her.

I focus on the good though. She’s sticking up for me.

The elevator fills with bodies, the stench of mustard filling my lungs. Too many men. They smell as bad as they taste.

Once I step outside, fresh air fills my nostrils. I head toward the parking lot with a bounce in my step, because my morsel is upstairs, defending our love.

A woman steps on the walkway and blocks my path. She’s half my size. Scars circle each of her wrists like bracelets or handcuffs. Can handcuffs dig into a woman’s skin and leave a permanent mark like that?

Her clothes are white, and her skirt is impossibly short, her tits hanging out of her top. Floral perfume rings out from her skin. It’s technically a naturally occurring scent, but fuck me, it’s so strong, it’s nauseating.

“You hurt me,” the woman says.

She keeps her eyes on the ground, as if she’s working up the courage to look me in the face.

A chill races over my shoulders. Who the fuck is she?

“I don’t even know you,” I say. I step to the side, and she steps in front of me again.

“You raped me!” she shouts.

Several smartphones light up in my periphery. I scan our surroundings and notice about ten to fifteen students using their recording devices like shields, capturing our interaction.

I grit my teeth like a predator, although inside, I feel small and attacked, like I’m pinned to the corner of the room with a knife in my hand. I’m desperate to defend myself.

Control yourself, Kent. Control, control, control?—

“I don’t know you,” I say, raising my voice.

“You chained me to your bed. Kept me locked in a dog cage. You told me you were going to kill me and eat me. ‘Meat doesn’t talk.’ That’s what you kept saying, right? Every time I told you I didn’t want to do it anymore, that’s what you told me! I was meat to you, and I didn’t get to speak.”

My lips pull back in a grimace as the memory comes rushing back. It wasn’t an oven, was it? She was scared of being tied to the oven, so I compromised and tied her to the cage next to my bed. Desire, the sex worker. Desire, whose real name was Desiree—the dumb bitch told me she switched her stage name to Desire, because she couldn’t keep herself organized. The whore who wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Who wouldn’t stop crying when I gave her breast a superficial cut. Who sobbed like an infant when I untied her whiney little ass from the cage. Who limped away and rubbed her hands together, like she was so fucking destroyed, even as she carried double the cash of what I owed her.

I told her what I wanted. It’s not my fault she didn’t listen.

All I’d have to do is take a crowbar to the bitch’s head, and she’d never be able to speak again, like real fucking meat. Then she’d finally listen to me.

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