Page 68 of Morsel

I salivated as I looked up at the police officer, wondering what she would taste like if I just cut off a piece of her stomach. If she was alive, if she was fresh, would she taste better than my mother?

Everything happened fast after that. I don’t remember the rest of the police officers, the therapists, the judge, or the foster care system, but I do remember successfully avoiding them after a while.

“That’s it for now,” Artemis says. I shake myself out of the memories as he clears his throat. “Are there any questions?”

Mona had asked me if I killed my mother, and it was obvious she had a hunch about the answer. But it’s hard to explain that when you’re ten years old, the judicial system doesn’t see the full scope of your potential: they only see a child. So did I kill her? Maybe I did. Maybe it was my intention. Or maybe it was an accident. I can’t go back and change what happened twenty years ago, but I can admit that now, when I think about it, I wish I hadn’t just stabbed my mother. I wish I had kept her alive for a long time, slowly eating her alive as her body shut down.

I wish I had hurt her more.

The students rise from their seats and head toward the doors, while a few stragglers head to the front of the classroom to gawk at the supposedly famous Arty Milk. I stand behind them and wait for Artemis to meet my gaze. He avoids me so wholeheartedly it’s obvious he knows I’m here for him. I just have to wait for my turn.

Then the last student comes closer to him, and he gestures toward the door. The two of them walk out together.

I hold the one-time-use camera up and take a picture. The cheap shutter clicks, and finally, Artemis scowls at me.

With bared teeth, I wave, then exit too. For now, Artemis is safe. I’m not interested in eating men. I’ll kill a man if I want to, but I won’t eat him. I’d rather use his meat to fuel a fire. There’s no satisfaction in consuming tough meat like that.

With women though—with Mona—there’s something unworldly about their soft flesh. Their lips. Their pliable stomachs. Their fatty breasts. I can cut off any piece of a woman and show her that she may not need me, and that’s okay.

But I can still fucking eat her.

Chapter 26

In the evening, I park down the street and walk through the neighborhood to Mona’s house. I think about hiding in her backyard again, but that seems stupid. I don’t want to scare her. I’m not a stalker, and I’m definitely not a threat—not like she probably thinks—but I do want to apologize and give her the one-time-use camera. It was a gift, after all. It’d be wasted on me.

As I near the house, I run a hand over my face. Maybe I lied. Maybe I do want more than to apologize; maybe I also want to confront her for treating me like shit the other night and for calling me a rapist.

I also want to make things right. It’s what I’m supposed to do.

When I finally get to her house, there are two cars in the driveway: Artemis’s electric vehicle and another similar car.

My shoulders stiffen; if there are people here, then there’s only so much I can say. I don’t let it stop me though; I keep going up the driveway. This doesn’t have to be more than a conversation. We can have make-up sex later.

I knock.

She doesn’t answer.

I knock again, this time harder, and I don’t stop banging until the door swings open.

Artemis stands in front of me. A loose shirt hangs on his body, but his usual jacket is missing. He shifts his weight to the side. There’s a comfort to his stance, like he belongs here. Like this is his house.

Are they actually married, then? How could I have missed that? How could I have been so stupid this entire time?

No, no, no. I’m not stupid.

She fucking tricked me…for her art.

“What do you want?” Artemis asks.

He’s not a threat, I remind myself. And he’s not her husband. He’s probably just fucking Mona, and they have some sort of artistic pact to use the same last name together. Milk is a stage surname. A brand they’ve created for their mutual benefit.

And he’s not a fucking threat.

I scratch the back of my neck, doing my best to appear casual.

“Hey, Artemis,” I say. I lift the camera. “I was just stopping by. Mona forgot this, and I need to talk to her?—”

“She’s not home right now.”

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