Page 67 of Morsel

But it scared the shit out of me to be alone. I didn’t know what to do.

Please, I begged. I can’t live without you.

She spun around and faced me with the gleam of hatred in her eyes. She stepped forward.

You’re going to die alone, baby boy, she mocked. Sad and alone.

She leaned down to my level to humiliate me more, so I thrust my fists forward to stop her. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes wide in shock. And that’s when I realized I had stabbed her. So I did it again in the same spot. Then again. The first strike was an accident, but it didn’t feel like I was doing anything wrong, so I kept doing it. It was like playing a video game, something I had seen her boyfriend play on the TV when I was supposed to be asleep, a game where your character can stab a civilian, and you don’t feel any remorse, because it’s not real. Nothing is.

My mother slumped to the ground, and my body buzzed with electricity. I stared down at her lifeless corpse. The vacant, dark blue eyes were the same in death as they were in life. Her gapped teeth. Her lipstick on, always on, always her crutch to get her boyfriend’s attention, because he was more important than buying food for her own child.

The knife stood like a territorial flag in her stomach, the blood oozing onto the floor like a river.

I moved her onto the table. I don’t know how I did that at ten years old. It might be that my memories are jumbled from everything that happened, but that’s what I remember. The kitchen table. Her lifeless body. Her blank eyes. The knife in her stomach like a marker showing where the umbilical cord was cut, showing where she didn’t feel anything for me, and where I no longer felt anything for her.

I didn’t call the police. There was no reason to. She wasn’t dead; it was pretend. She was used to playing pretend, wasn’t she? She pretended to be my mother, and she pretended that she loved me. Why wouldn’t she pretend to be dead too?

After that, I went back to the kitchen and made the rest of my sandwich. I told myself that stabbing her was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was just a boy, after all. It’s not my fault that I was holding a knife when she came toward me. I was just trying to cut a slice of cheese for my sandwich. I was just hungry.

A few days passed in that hot house. Her boyfriend never liked having the air conditioning on unless he was home, which transformed the whole place into a living slow cooker. And the kitchen clock kept ticking. I guess I wasn’t sad or angry or anything. My mother was home. She would wake up soon. Her boyfriend would be back too, and then I’d have to worry about what he would do to me when he saw her body. I couldn’t even make myself care about that though.

Then her wound started rolling with maggots, the skin around the knife blooming into a sour green, and a gamey scent floated in the air, mixed with the feces expelled from her relaxed sphincter. And I was hungry. The deli meat was gone. The cheese and eggs too. There was some moldy bread left, and I could eat around it, but there was so much of her blue-tinted skin that didn’t seem that bad. No, it even seemed better than the bread.

Her skin was blue and purple, and even green in some areas. I pulled the knife from her stomach, then stuck my fingers into the wound. Inside was slightly warm and sticky, and it wiggled. It was probably a maggot feeding on her. I had seen them eating rotten meat before. And if they could feed on her, why couldn’t I?

While avoiding the living insects, I pinched what I could inside of that hole, and I pulled out red flesh. Damp. Metallic. I told myself that rotten meat is still nourishment. Maybe that’s all I deserved anyway.

My stomach growled, and my muscles cramped so hard that it hurt to breathe.

I didn’t see my mother after that.

I saw meat.

I put the flesh in my mouth. My stomach churned as the tangy flavor coated my tongue. I closed my eyes and swallowed it down. It was wrong, and I knew that, but I needed it more than she did.

And when I opened my eyes, I focused on her face. Her mouth was open, and inside, I saw that hunk of flesh. Her tongue.

I took the knife from her stomach and pinched the muscle, then cut off as much as I could. Then, without thinking much about it, I shoved her tongue in my mouth.

She couldn’t talk now.

She couldn’t tell me how pathetic I was.

And she would never leave me again.

Eventually, the police showed up, and when I heard the sirens, I grabbed some of her severed flesh and ran to the closet. Their footsteps got closer, and I knew I couldn’t hold her meat anymore. They’d take her away from me. This was my last chance. I finally had her where I wanted, where she could take care of me, giving me unconditional love in the way a mother does best. Rotting meat probably wasn’t a good idea for a growing boy, and to be honest, it made my stomach hurt, but it’s not like she stocked the pantry when she left, and it would be wasting food if I threw her away.

Kent Baker? We just want to make sure you’re safe, a female police officer said.

They were getting closer.

I stuffed the red flesh in my mouth, that metallic taste filling my cheeks. The meat was raw and rubbery.

But they couldn’t take my mother away from me. She was already inside of me.

The officer opened the closet door. Her eyes widened. Blood coated my hands, my lips, and there were tiny pieces of flesh coating my naked body. She pulled back.

Jesus, she whispered. Sadness pooled in her eyes. Are you alright?

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