Page 74 of Morsel

But I don’t want just anyone.

One day, there will be time to fill my appetite with beautiful women who fall for my good looks and awkward charm. Right now though, there’s only one piece of meat I want, and I refuse to let her go. I need her, and even more importantly, I need this.

Mona Milk.

Maybe I am a cannibal. Maybe I’m not. After everything she’s done to me, one thing is certain: I have to take back control. I can’t leave it like this.

And I can’t let her go.

Out the window, the grass sways with the breeze, like people drifting back and forth across the art gallery, whispering to each other as they mock me. I’m an animal in a cage, and Mona is the key to my confinement.

I tap my chin. The tall grass shifts, probably from a rabbit hiding behind the blades. Mona is high profile. People watch her. Wait on her. And then there’s the problem of Artemis. He works on movies. How can I explain their disappearances?

I tense my muscles as hard as I can until my whole body vibrates, then I pace the house and wrack my mind for a plan.

Finally, I zero in on an old book, another remnant of the last occupant. He fit in the furnace at the processing plant. Why couldn’t I fit Artemis inside of the furnace too?

I rip a weathered page out of the book. I grab the bucket from the fridge and dip my fork inside of the liquid. There’s not a lot of pig’s blood left, but there’s enough to write. I use my opposite hand to distort my handwriting.

Artist Statement, I write. Guilt due to my betrayal of?—

I hold the fork in the air. I could write my name, but then people will draw connections, and after I capture her, we’ll need to disappear. I can’t have them chasing after us, at least not until after I leave the state.

—the inspiration, I write, has overwhelmed me. I should never have misled and used so many people for my art.

The cold blood is thick and doesn’t spread easily, and at the same time, the tines of the fork seem to dance across the pages, like the ink is sparkling with violence. No wonder she loved using pig’s blood in her artistic experiment.

I write the final lines.

Thus, I need time to reflect on the next stages of my art.

Signed, Mona Milk.

I toss the fork in the sink and let the pages dry. Maybe Mona is right. Maybe I should have been more aware. Maybe it was my fault for not reading every line in that forty-page contract. Or maybe she gave me such a short time to read it because she knew I would never agree to it if I read it thoroughly. Either way, I let myself get too wrapped up in the hope of finally getting what I wanted. In my mind, I was her sole inspiration, and I let that flattery distort my vision.

That won’t happen again.

In an hour, the blood is dry. I jump in my van and drive to her neighborhood. I park down the street, then walk to her house like I’ve done so many times before.

From behind the elephant ear plant, I can see through the sliding door to the kitchen. Mona is absent—probably at her exhibition, luring unsuspecting people with her sultry aura—but Artemis is singing as he stirs a pot on the stove.

I’ll need to text Jerry. We’ll hang out once or twice, and I’ll be on his good side. I need access to the processing plant, and he’s the best way to get in there.

It’ll take time, but eventually, I’ll get what I want.

I’ll control myself.

I always do.

Chapter 29

Artemis’s pattern is simple. It only takes a week to figure it out. When he’s not working on a movie, he ambles between the university, Mona’s studio, and an old movie theater downtown. The idiot is fixated on his habits, and that makes it easier for me.

In the meantime, I gather my supplies, which includes a new cage: a bigger version of the one I used with the sex worker. This metal enclosure is large enough for Mona to comfortably crawl around in, as well as lie down in, but not tall enough for her to stand up. It’s completely flexible too; it can open up on all sides. The infinite possibilities inspire me and keep me going, but before I can use it on my morsel, I have to take care of her husband.

Not many people—besides special effects artists reliving their glory years—come to this particular movie theater. So when the chosen day finally comes, the parking garage is nearly empty. A car here. A truck there. Empty spaces. Then an electric vehicle.

I park my van in the corner of the structure, a few spots away from Artemis’s car. There’s enough space between our cars he won’t think twice about it.

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