Page 71 of Morsel

What if she never actually fed me her fingertips?

No. That can’t be. It can’t?—

Nausea wages a war inside of me, my stomach threatening to expel everything it contains. Instantly I’m small, so fucking small, as I stand there in the middle of the gallery, in a place where I don’t belong. Strangers gawk at the pictures, at the sculptures, at the pig’s heart in the glass, at the video clips of me, and it’s like they’re laughing at me. Me, the cannibal who thought he finally found the one. Me, the cannibal who was willing to do anything for her. Me, the pathetic little boy who risked it all for someone he thought loved him.

My mother’s voice echoes in my head: How much of a stupid little boy can you be?

I’m not stupid.

There’s an explanation for this. There has to be.

Another small display on top of a pedestal draws me in. The column is decorated with pictures of me, each frame slightly different, all of them with me covered in pig’s blood from the night I told Mona that we were going too far, the night I tried to stop us. On top of the pedestal, a blue velvet box holds two bloody toes and red paper towels, an exact replica of the ones she gave me. Underneath it, the red caption reads: And without your leg, you won’t be able to run away from me.

Then I notice the small table next to the pedestal. A platter, similar to the one with the charcuterie slivers, holds a horde of matching toes, each of them with painted red toenails.

A young man takes one, flinging it in his mouth like finger food. She made hors d’oeuvres? Is that all this is? Themed snacks?

Or is she making fun of me?

My chest clenches. I can’t stop staring at the art. Another pedestal displays small squares of toast with dark red jelly. It’s difficult to focus on the inscription, but I scrutinize the words until I can read it: I could eat you on toast.

Then I study a picture of us outside of her pool: Mona is naked with the apple in her mouth, and her stomach obscures the view of my genitals, but it’s clear that my head is tilted back in orgasm. The caption reads: What if we eat people together?

I said that to her in private. I could have told her I love her like a normal person, but eating people together means more to me than love. It was my best attempt at a commitment.

I feel so fucking used.

As I reach the back corner of the room, I find a picture on the wall of Mona standing next to the woman who accused me of rape that one day on the university campus. The caption reads: A special thanks to my inspiration, Desire, who goes by that alias for anonymity. I deeply appreciate her for sharing her story with me for this project.

I wrinkle my brow. What the fuck does Desire have to do with this?

Underneath that picture, there’s a black plaque with white text. Her artist statement. I read it.

Cannibalism, or the dehumanization of us.

What’s left after a cannibal has consumed what he wants of her meat? Unfavorable scraps. Rotting flesh. Bones. Feces.

Eating human flesh isn’t the only time we transform each other into consumable objects. Labor. Family. Sex. Rape. Romance. Even friendship.

Every human interaction has a power dynamic where the subject consumes and the object is consumed. The truth is that all humans are capable of cannibalism. We consume each other each and every day.

Once we honestly accept that and make changes to respect one another, we can begin to live fuller lives with our fellow humans.

And if we don’t accept this, we face the consequences of consuming humanity and being devoured ourselves.

Laughter erupts, breaking into my consciousness. My scalp tingles as if knives are pricking holes into my skull. I can sense her there before I even see her.

We instantly lock eyes.

Mona smirks, then tucks hair behind her ears. Her hands are completely exposed. Her fingers pale and unscarred. Her red toenails peek out of her open-toe stilettos.

All ten fingertips and all ten toes are intact.

She dismisses her entourage. My chest pounds, drumming in my ears. I ball my fists and imagine her neck in my hands, where I squeeze so hard, her brain bursts like a water balloon, the flesh and blood splattering her shitty art and ruining everything around her. Even me.

“I was hoping you’d make it,” she says.

She looks up into my eyes, challenging me. Even though I’m twice her size. Even though she knows I can kill her. Her lips curl at the ends, her permanent smugness digging a deep pit inside of my stomach.

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