Page 89 of Morsel

I lift the roasting pan again. The moaning resumes, which quickly morphs into cries, but the bitch can’t even argue now, and besides, meat doesn’t speak. Her body twitches, and she gives a surprisingly strong thrust to the side, an attempt to avoid the final meal. But her torso merely dances in the pan like a rocking chair. I adjust her position and keep my hand fixed firmly on what’s left of her cunt. She stays stuck in the pan after that.

I open the oven. It’s cold, and I didn’t preheat it on purpose. Maybe it’ll fuck with the meat, but eating is only half of the fun. The other part is listening to her come to terms with her death as the oven’s temperature rises.

I move the oven shelf to the lowest rack. Then, as I place the roasting pan inside of the oven, her head bangs into the side. I slant her body at an angle, and though her black hair spills over the edge of the oven, she fits well enough. I’m lucky it’s a deep oven; only her forehead is touching the side now. I’m not sure if the contact with the walls will sear her flesh, but I suppose that if it does, it’ll give the meat more texture.

I wonder how long it’ll take before I can smell her cooking flesh.

I crouch down beside the oven’s opening, then fix her hair so that every part of her fits inside of her final cage. Her sniffles echo between the metal walls.

“Don’t worry, my sweet morsel,” I say. “I’ll always keep a part of you with me.”

I close the door and twist the dial up to four hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I sit on the countertop. The spices and oil stain my pants; I don’t mind it though. Right now, I’m the one looking into her cage, watching her squirm around like an animal, and it’s so fucking right.

I can’t help it; I stroke my cock, gently this time. Her dried pussy juices and the leftover cooking ingredients flake off of my skin, like I’m a snake or some other molting beast, but I keep going. I’ll have to edge myself while she cooks. I don’t want to come yet.

I’ll have to leave this mobile home soon and move onto the next destination. But maybe it doesn’t matter if you live in a state with open-minded, sexually adventurous women. Maybe you can live anywhere; you just need sedatives, restraints, and a sharp cleaver.

Soon, the wailing starts, and it’s muffled by the oven. I jerk myself harder, memorizing the moment. The temperature rises even more, the heat seeping through the cracks in misty puffs of steam, and her cries grow quiet. Eventually, she’s silent again. She may be unconscious from the heat, or she may be dead.

The smoke of her burned flesh—probably her scalp and hair touching the oven’s wall—caresses the kitchen. I stare at the oven and clutch the crown of my shaft, imagining my little morsel slowly dying inside of the metal walls, cooking just for me. The savory scent of roasting meat fills the mobile home, and I accidentally come again.

I keep my dick out and continue stroking myself. I stay in the kitchen while she cooks. I don’t leave her.

I’ll never leave her.

Epilogue

one year later

Cicadas hum through the trees, whistling through the branches. Sometimes, their song gives me a headache, but I like cooking outside when I can. Working like this feels natural to me.

A carcass is slung over my lap. I slide a metal rod into the spine, lining it up with the woman’s nervous system. It’s a fucking bitch to do, but it helps to paralyze the tissue, keeping the body from rigor mortis a little while longer, and it helps with roasting. The fishermen like to insert the rod straight into the fish’s spine. Personally, I enjoy sliding it into the woman’s asshole first, then pushing it through the spine and up out of the mouth. I like gutting them like that. It’s my favorite kind of spit roast.

It takes some effort, but after a while, I get the woman over the open fire and hook her to the oversized rotisserie. Her brown hair dangles down like feathers each time the machine rotates her meat. I marvel at her skin; this one is speckled with freckles, and I like the way it looks in the fire’s flickering light.

The truck camper glows behind me, surrounded by swaying pine trees. By saving up from odd jobs and from emptying the women’s wallets over the last year, I was able to buy the camper outright with cash.

I climb up the steps and make my way to the closet.

Down at the bottom, where most people keep their shoes, cheap duffel bags line the floor; each contains various bones and Artemis’s decaying head. Maybe I’m sentimental, but I can’t let any piece of them go, and eventually, I’ll find a way to use the rest. And on the top shelf, where folded clothes usually go, four decapitated heads are propped up, like filet mignons in a cold display case. Each head has a different skin tone and a different hair color. With salt and other organic material, their faces have stayed intact, like ancient mummies in a museum, and once I’m done roasting the woman outside, her head will join the display too.

The heads won’t last forever; they will eventually decay. Still, I like looking at them. Mona taught me that I don’t care for face meat anyway, and I don’t think of their decapitations as wasting; I think of them as trophies to remind me of how far I’ve come.

It feels good to be a self-made man surrounded by women who will never leave me. I had to survive, so I ate my mother, and eventually, I ate my lover too. When it comes down to it, I never had a choice.

And now, they don’t have a choice either.

Propped up on the floor behind a few duffel bags, I pick up the only corpse with its head intact. No legs. No arms. Just a torso. The skin is browned and dried like leather to the touch, and slices have been shaved off of the cheeks and stomach. Layers of skin flake off of the corpse, and a cockroach crawls out from a hole in the breast area. I swat it away, then pick up the skin flakes from the ground. Nothing will ever be wasted when it comes to her.

My little morsel.

I take Mona to the folding table. Her pussy is like fucking the scaly skin of a pineapple now, but I do it because I owe everything to her. After all, she’s the one who helped me embrace my true self. Her eye sockets are actually hollow caverns now, her hair is burned off in patches, but she’s still beautiful to me: a symbol of everything I’ve accomplished. I hammer inside of her, and the dry interior scrapes my dick. A patch of skin sloshes off her thigh stump. She stinks like a sewer, but no matter how many women I fuck, rape, kill, and eat, no one will ever feel as good as her.

She’s the only one who ever came close to understanding me.

I pick a piece of her waist, then toss the scrap and the other flakes into my mouth. The texture is similar to beef jerky, though it’s slightly bitter, with a garlicky aftertaste.

In the background, I hear the news on the television.

---