Page 73 of Morsel

I didn’t?—

“You lying, scheming bitch,” I mutter, spit foaming at the corners of my mouth.

“I never lied to you,” Mona says emphatically. “I did what I had to do in order to prove a point. You were willing to literally eat me, Kent.” She lowers her chin, and even though I’m towering over her, it’s like she’s looking down on me somehow. “Honestly, you should be locked up. Who knows what else you’re capable of.”

Artemis steps forward. He shows me his phone: 9-1-1 illuminated in bright numbers on the screen. His finger is lifted, ready to call for help.

How am I the fucking threat when I never actually ate her meat? When I never actually hurt her? How am I the fucking threat when I was the one who was lied to and manipulated?

And why does it feel like she’s pulling out my intestines right now? She’s basically gored me like an animal, and now I’m stuck on my hands and knees, picking up the last pieces of my soul.

“Did you even want to be eaten?” I whisper.

“Oh, Kent.” She chuckles, and my spine tightens. Her tongue slithers over her teeth. “When Desire first told me about what you wanted to do to her, I was fascinated. Honestly, I was. I watched every video and read every article I could find. But did it arouse me? Intellectually, yes. Sexually, no.” She clicks her tongue, then her lips peel back in a sneer. “I simply wanted to prove how a sexual predator is willing to dehumanize his prey for his own selfish gain.”

The lights inside of my mind go dark, and it’s hard to see anything besides Mona. On the surface, it sounds like she’s using her art to do something good for society, but there’s this raw, nagging sensation at the back of my throat, and I can’t let it go.

She used Desire, that shaved-headed man, and that brown-haired woman. She even used Artemis, and fuck, she used me. For fuck’s sake, Mona used all of us as stepping stones to gain notoriety in the art world. She’s stepping on me to lift herself up, and not once has she mentioned anywhere in this exhibit how much I did for her. That I watched her film collage. That I participated in her threesome. That I ate her fake flesh. That I got her a wheelchair.

Not once has she mentioned that I fucking worshipped her.

“So cannibalism is supposed to represent dehumanization?” I scream. I jab at the black plaque with her artist statement. “You used all of us! Everyone is dehumanized in your art!”

The gallery falls silent.

Artemis steps forward, his shoulders hunched and bracing for impact, like he can actually take me.

I growl at him, then face Mona again. “You don’t care about sex workers,” I say. “You don’t care about Desire. You don’t care about any of us.”

“You’re right,” Mona says. “I don’t care.” She purses her lips, then dismisses me with a flick of her hand. “It was nice seeing you, Kent. Thanks for helping me with this little project.”

Artemis heads toward me, and though I want to stand my ground and not move a damn inch, everyone in the gallery is watching me right now, studying the photographs of my obscured face and piecing it together. A man even puts his arm around his date’s shoulder and pulls her closer to him, as if I’ll break out of my human skin and attack her like a beast. I may have killed before, but I’m not a killer. I wouldn’t do that to some stranger, and definitely not in a place like this.

And I still don’t belong here.

Before Artemis can force me to leave, I head toward the exit. My heart pumps with rushing blood, and each muscle contraction is another step toward that abyss. Maybe the best revenge is to be a better person and not harm anyone, like everyone seems to think I will.

The night air swallows me, and I suck in, and in, and in.

But I can barely breathe.

There’s so much I can do to be a good person. None of it sits right with me though.

Maybe I’m not a good person after all.

Chapter 28

Inside of the mobile home, I stare at the previous occupant’s items. Photographs. Dust. Old furniture. The place is filled with another person’s life. A widowed husband maybe or an outcast like me. No one abandons a good home like this in California, but I didn’t kill him. He was practically dead already. I admit I got rid of the body, but he didn’t move for days, and besides, he hardly even flinched when I chopped him up into smaller pieces. At least then, his carcass became fuel for the furnace at the processing plant.

I don’t like telling anyone about him because I know what I did was against the law, but I didn’t hurt anyone. He was already a corpse.

As I scan the area, dehumanization echoes in my brain. In the end, every person needs to live, fuck, and eat. Who can judge me if I make a home in an abandoned place? If I make sure there is nothing being wasted, whether it’s a corpse or offal? If I search for sexual fulfillment with someone who knows about—and agrees with!—my particular fetish?

My neck itches, and though I scratch my skin, nothing satiates that burrowing ache.

I could find a nice slab of raw beef or dial the escort company. Both options would get me off, but after tasting what cannibalism could be, after being ridiculed and abandoned like a fucking rat, I know myself. I’d take out my frustrations on a sex worker, and if that happens, I won’t be able to stop. Even if I ate her afterward, killing a stranger—or even two of them—won’t satiate me right now.

Another option is to go to town and pick someone off the street. A flash of cash, and I can tell the bitch I want her to take a shower before we fuck. That’s a normal request for something like that. And out here in the fields, I can isolate her. I can feed off of her until she dies.

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