Page 14 of Morsel

I understand my likeness will be used?—

…series shall explore humans eating humans.

My pulse quickens as I continue scanning. This isn’t just an NDA to watch a movie together; this is about being a part of her next project.

An art project on cannibalism.

I flatten my lips, keeping my simultaneous desire and irritation at bay. Mona wants to use me for her art. In a way, creating art on human cannibalism is putting people like me behind a fence and gawking. My mother’s words echo in my mind: You little freak.

I grind my teeth and chew over the printed words. Mona will probably depict me as a cannibal that must be kept in a cage. Her fans will laugh at me. Judge me. Think of me as less than them. And I hate it, hate it, fucking hate it, and hate her for doing this to me. To us.

“It’s not like corporate needs the profit from a few ounces of meat,” Jerry whispers.

“Seriously. The fuck is their problem?” I mutter.

We bump fists, then pretend to listen to the supervisor again, and I find myself staring at Jerry’s missing pinky. On the day of the amputation, the supervisor was pissed; we had to toss the entire bucket Jerry was working on, and to spread out the blame, I pretended to be working on it too. The supervisor and a few other workers helped shift through the bin, but no one could find the rest of Jerry’s finger to reattach it.

It was in my jumper pocket. I had stuffed it in there before anyone even thought about searching for his severed finger. Instead of wasting his flesh with reattachment, I got to confirm my suspicions about men’s meat. I ate it in the bathroom stall as soon as I got a second alone.

It was too tough to truly enjoy though. I spit it out and added it to the furnace. Besides, there’s a good chance he never would’ve recovered the full sensation in his finger anyway.

When the supervisor asked why we were monitoring that part of the cutting machine together, I didn’t mention seeing Jerry put chicken breasts in a separate container; Jerry appreciated that. Now, he even eats the specialty ground meat I prepare at home.

In the end, that amputated finger started our friendship.

I haven’t tried Mona’s meat yet, but I’m certain her flesh will be softer than Jerry’s. Tender. Sweet and savory. Delicious in every possible way.

I’m not a cannibal though. Jerry’s pinky was only a sample, and to be honest, the texture was disgusting, like the gristle from a turkey leg.

Jerry gestures at the contract. “What is that?”

“This woman I’m dating wants me to sign it,” I say. “She needs privacy or something.”

“You’d do that for pussy?”

“If it’s a guaranteed premium cut, then fuck yeah.”

He stifles his chuckle behind his hand. I want to enjoy the joke too, but I grit my teeth.

The problem is that I don’t know if Mona is a prime slice. Is Mona my dream girl, or is she going to end up leaving me like everyone else?

The supervisor keeps yapping about the newest safety protocol, undisturbed by our quiet conversation, so I pull out my phone and flip to a picture of Mona from the personal ad, the one where she’s halfway inside of a large dog kennel.

“Here,” I say as I hand my device to Jerry. “Check it out. She’s an artist.”

Jerry’s eyes widen as he glimpses at the image. He squeezes my shoulder. “She’s kinky too? I didn’t think you’d be into that shit!”

He must think the chains around her shoulders mean we’re into sadomasochism or pet play. I guess in some aspects, sexual cannibalism is about pain and caging the livestock.

Not that I want to hurt her.

Not that I’m actually a cannibal.

I wink at Jerry. “I’d do anything with her,” I whisper.

“Even sign a contract?”

I inhale sharply. “I don’t know, man. This is intense, right?”

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