Page 43 of Morsel

“It’s okay,” Mona says in between hyperventilating breaths. “It’s okay. Don’t panic. It’s only a little cut?—”

She’s right. It’s only a little blood, but it’s not enough. I still want to hurt her.

And I know I can’t.

I drop the knife and race through the house. The front door swings open, and I’m in the van in less than a minute. Blood has dried on my cheek, and my hands are red. I must seem insane right now, but I have to stop this before it goes too far.

Mona chases after me. Her words are loud, but I can’t hear a damn thing. I avoid looking at her directly. In my periphery, I see her shadow limping from the pain.

I can’t think about what that means. I can’t think about how much I like that she can’t walk without being in pain.

I did that to her.

And I fucking love it.

She hobbles down the driveway, then bangs her fists on the driver’s window. I suddenly remember the full tampon on the counter, but I can’t go back now. I put the car in reverse, and she jumps back, avoiding the wheels.

I need to get out of here.

I drive faster than usual and swerve through a red light. Car horns blare after me. I can’t stop though. I have to get away from her. I’ve eaten Mona’s tampons on crackers before, and I just ate Mona’s period blood on toast. The menstrual blood isn’t what unnerves me.

It’s the fact that I liked stabbing her pussy.

Chapter 16

Four black garbage bins enter my vision. My heart pounds. The alley behind the butcher shop is just wide enough for a car, which means there’s less traffic, and it makes my hunt for animal discards easy. Mona isn’t meat, not yet anyway, but I didn’t stab these animal discards, and they won’t talk back or try to enforce their will on me. I’m the one who conquers them.

Then I see metal locks dangling from each bin, shiny and new, taunting me with their barricade.

“Fuck!” I shout.

I slam my fists into the top of one of the bins. It knocks over and smashes into my shin. I howl and heave until I’m back in a calmer state. It’s been like this—clumsiness and agitation—ever since Mona spilled the pig’s blood and let me eat her period. Everything is going to shit.

I can’t let her control me.

“This is fucking bullshit,” I groan as I hoist the garbage bin up. Is the butcher locking me out? I grit my teeth. Why would he lock me out?

There’s a chance he’s locking out wild animals. Bears. Coyotes. Raccoons. Sacramento is full of densely populated neighborhoods, but it’s not unheard of to spot the occasional predator on the outskirts. And who knows what would happen if the zoo animals escaped?

I run a hand through my hair. This isn’t about me. It can’t be. Even if my favorite butcher shop blocks my access to their leftovers; even if my girlfriend—fuck buddy, professor, artistic meat hole, whatever the fuck she is to me—is the one leading our relationship; even if it seems hopeless, I can regain control.

The butcher can’t control me anymore than Mona can. Make a copy of the butcher’s key, and I’ll be back in the premium discards. And when it comes to Mona?—

Cold seeps into my bones, and every ounce of my control leaks onto the ground.

I don’t know what to do about Mona.

But the butcher? I can figure him out.

I open the front door of the butcher shop. A small chime rings through the air. An old bitch takes her time at the counter. While I wait, I stare at the cold display cases, and my mind wanders: I imagine taking Mona to the grocery store. First, we’d find our favorite cashier, perhaps someone sweet and tender, someone who reminds us of an innocent lamb, and we’d tell the cashier that we just got back from our honeymoon.

The next year, Mona would come in without a leg. It was the illness, she’d say solemnly, explaining her missing limb, and once we were in the parking lot, Mona would wink at me.

The year after that, we’d return again, and this time, Mona would have a missing arm. It was a terrible accident, I’d say, and perhaps it would be. Maybe I’d try to argue with Mona about only taking her forearm, but she, the stubborn little morsel she is, would strongly insist on me taking her whole arm, and I’d have no choice but to fulfill my lover’s desires.

And then I’d push her wheelchair. She’d only have an arm left, and yet, my precious little morsel would still have a smile on her face. The cashier would gawk at us, knowing there was something insidious behind our stories, our lies, and we would keep our secret close: there’s no better connection than a love like ours, where you literally give yourself to the other, and the other consumes, never letting a single flake go to waste.

After that, I’d come to the grocery store without Mona. I’d tell the cashier my wife was in bed. I wouldn’t mention the fact that she had to be spoon fed now, or that none of the food on the conveyor belt was for us but for me to cook Mona with. Naturally, I would ask the cashier to come visit my wife. She misses you, I’d say. Please. Won’t you come to our house and see her? And because the cashier was sweet inside and out, she’d come to our home. By then, Mona’s torso would be trussed like a turkey, seasoned with rosemary and garlic, a wreath of rainbow carrots surrounding her like a nest. Of course, the cashier would notice those were the ingredients I had recently purchased from the grocery store, and she’d be frightened. With the locks in place, the cashier would have nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. And then I’d?—

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