Page 70 of Morsel

I’m not a killer though. Incinerating Artemis’s body is only a fantasy. I think about things a lot, but I’d never do something like that on purpose. With my mother, it was an accident.

And I really hope another accident like that doesn’t happen again.

Chapter 27

Days pass, and then with a quick internet search, I know it’s the opening day of Mona’s exhibit. I have to see her, and that comes with seeing her art.

The event listing on my phone states that the exhibition is simply titled Cannibalism. There’s no fluff around it, and that’s something I can appreciate.

My heart pumps at a steady pace while I stand on the opposite side of the street, just like the last time, when Mona and I first met. Guests walk in and out of the entrance to Sway Gallery. Each person has their jaws open and their lips curved, like they’re haunted but intrigued too. The giant windows facing the street glow like an aquarium. I scan the glass for Mona.

Champagne flutes on trays. Gourmet snacks in cupped hands. Gaping mouths and sharp fingers. Mixed ages. No woman with black hair, pale skin, and black clothes.

Mona isn’t visible from here.

Last time, she was waiting in the bathtub for me. This time, I doubt she’ll be in the bathtub, and yet a part of me hopes she is. Maybe we can start over. This time, I’ll do it right. Just me and her. Me, her, and the bathwater boiling the two of us alive.

Her husband claims that she doesn’t want to see me. What if he’s lying in some misguided attempt to protect her? What if he’s jealous of what we have?

And after all we’ve done together, what kind of person would I be if I didn’t see her art for myself?

I’d be a stupid little boy. A pathetic child.

And I’m not stupid or pathetic.

Inside the gallery, I head toward the bathroom. Before I get there, I immediately stop in my tracks. My jaw drops, my pulse narrowing around my windpipe.

A pig’s heart floats inside of a jar, suspended in liquid, and a light emanates from the bottom of the container. The backside of the jar is decorated with the picture of the old woman, the one Mona took from my wall, and that picture is surrounded by tiny photographs of me. My eyes scratched out with black ink. Blood on my face. My teeth bared and open, chewing on what I know are her toes.

The cannibal eats the mother, the caption reads.

The news articles didn’t use my real name in order to protect me—a young boy at the time—from the public. How does she know what I did to my mother?

She doesn’t know though. She can’t. Mona is making assumptions about me.

I take in everything around me. There are photographs of us everywhere with our faces obscured. But in most of them, there’s no Mona. It’s just me.

I’m her main inspiration.

My gut spirals into knots. Why does that make me so uneasy now?

On the far wall, the film collage from our private screening plays, but now, the footage is spliced with video clips of me fucking her as I chew her toes.

As I draw closer to the main wall, the focal point of the entire gallery, my back crawls with invisible insects. In the giant black-and-white photograph, my eyes are scribbled over again. Red paint, what I assume is meant to represent blood, is fingerpainted over my hands, my skin, and my lips. A chill runs over me, clammy against my skin, as I read the photograph’s caption: You’d become a part of me.

Next to the main wall, a silver platter holds tiny, flat sculptures painted a dull pink. I squint my eyes and realize it’s fingertips. The platter has been arranged like a charcuterie board serving slices of hand.

A stranger reaches over me and takes a fingertip from the platter.

“Oh! She must’ve used tofu,” the person says. She pops it in her mouth. “Hmm. It tastes good! Extra firm, maybe?”

Another man takes a slice from the platter and chews on it methodically. “No, dear. This is definitely pork.”

I gawk at them, my stomach churning as everything spins around me. I scrutinize the charcuterie board. The silvery edge is decorated with red, delicate cursive: You want your meat to melt in my mouth, don’t you?

I said that, didn’t I?

Sweat beads over my skin.

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