Thirty-two: there are thirty-two and they hang on the wall. What you ask? My collection of grisly souvenirs, the last one is barely a month old and frankly, it’s starting to show little signs of decay and putrefaction. No matter what I use, I can never stop that first biological rebellion that would keep them perfect.
The walls are pristine white, at least they were once, but now they are marred, stained and marked by the drippings and droolings of crimson that remind me somehow of Dali. Not that I care about much than the fragrance it leaves behind. It is art, and it is gorgeous to me.
Am I insane? Perception counts for much I suppose. We are all beasts, extent hominina and we were given teeth for a reason; to rend flesh from bone and ingest the delicious plasma proteins that sustain life. Are you any different? I know that you eat too. Are you better than I? Anyone would do what they had to, to survive if they were starving.
Granted, my actions would be frowned upon in boring polite society. They would call it cannibalism, but I call it, living. It is not society’s opinion that matters to me, and it never has. The only judgment that I fear comes from the ones whose thoughts of me really matter and they are the only ones who have the right to judge. Who? Those whom I grilled and gormandize, of course. They sacrificed their lives to feed me. And they stay in here, where I come to pray at their feet and beg for forgiveness.
This is my sane sanctuary, my quiet place and the only space of reflection that I have in the world. Only here can I be myself and lay myself bare before those who know me best, and beg forgiveness of the ones that are a part of me. Everything about them was delicious; their memories, their minds and their bodies. They were so tasty and the recollection makes my mouth water.
They aren’t all unknown. Several, admittedly, had people who loved them and that I will regret til the day I die. I wonder, though, did they have the same concern for the steak they ate off the grill on Sunday afternoons? One doubts it. The majority, however, have never been reported missing, or have had people on television with tearful eyes pleading for their return. Sad, isn’t it?
The first one though, she is my favorite, my best girl and I mean that. We lived together for years while I hid my all but rabid desire to devour her. My Love, she was so beautiful with her laser beam eyes that always managed to melt my defences. All she had to do was put her always cool fingers on my cheek and smile into my face and I would turn into a puddle of goo.
My Angel; I met her when I was already dead and her life had just ended. At first, she never seemed to stop weeping, and all I could do was wrap her in my arms and wait for her sobbing to slow and her bright bright eyes to meet mine in a clear and direct manner. Eventually, the weeping ceased and her clear stares eventually became something of a signal to her desire. Not that I complained, and never to her.
Now, her eye sockets are empty , devoid of the once vibrant colour that sparkled there. It happens with decay, but I didn’t let them dry and roll back into her empty noggin. I couldn’t do that to her. The holes leave a vacant glare that shivers my spine. I hate when she looks at me like that.
She watched me suffer, disgusted and horrified as I suppressed that need, when died inside night after night laying next to the woman I adored and smelling the luscious scent of her sleep warm flesh. I smothered my desires while I loved her, and chose to bite and never to tear flesh. I drew blood but I never drank what I spilled, although sometimes the urge was so overwhelming that I would shake with the paroxysms of bottled passion.
My Angel, I miss her so much that I swear I can still taste her on my lips. That night, I tried to be gentle and I succeeded, at first. I devoured her with my eyes until she was the one quivering. I remember the way her skin ran with goose-flesh and her breasts quivered and the way she looked up at me with those wide eyes that always made me wild with need. And then, she whispered inconceivable words that both stunned and made my fly a little tighter.
My Love, I had never truly wanted to – never her; I wanted to taste her but I couldn’t live without her. There was no other option and I clenched my fists and howled at the ceiling. Angel insisted I explain, allowing me to pull her into her arms and sit her nude on my lap while I stumbled through the horror that I had been holding back for so long.
Only then, feeling my anguish, did Angel see the error of her ways and her thoughts, and she repeated the same words she’d said before, this time with that sweet, secret smile that made my heart throb in its cage. She gave herself over to me, willingly as her final act of love, as my first meal. Angel lay back on the bed with her legs spread slightly and waited for me to begin. She volunteered herself to my strong jaws, and smiled as I nibbled and licked along her inner thighs and screamed when bit into her supple skin, tore into it and buried my tongue as though it were her forever wet well.
She screamed in pleasure at her ecstasy and mine, begging and pleading at first then just howling nonsensically. It was getting a bit much, the noise and she came alive beneath me when I punctured her eyes, and sucked them from her head like some rare delicacy. They were as delicious in my mouth as they had been watching me from her beautiful face.
The release was too much for her, the delicate flower that she was, and her heart staggered its last beats like a trapped bird in a cage while her too white hands danced a final pas de deux in the air over my heart. Ah memories.
You never forget the first, and she, my fragile Angel, was the first taste of freedom that I had savored. Just as her kiss had been the one I based all others upon, the flavour of her young, lean healthy muscle was one that all others have paled in comparison of. Angel, her hair was like spun glass, and she tasted like spring after a long, hard winter. Her blood was reminiscent of early morning dew, so much so that imbibed it like a fine wine and the vitality danced on my tongue for hours after the fluid had been digested.
Gently, I filleted her lean flesh from her bones, and carefully wrapped her so that I could ingest her piecemeal over time, and I made her last as long as I could, until there was so little left that I cried when she was gone. Angel was no more, in life but she still lives on here, hanging on the wall. She, though Angel’s head does not hold grey matter, not now but it is certainly not empty. She had the most amazing mind and now her skull holds a secret, a hidden treasure.
Small jars, not quite canopic although I did get the idea from a documentary I watched on the television a few weeks before she gave herself to me. It took sometime to find them, and eventually ordered a large number with the future in mind. The first ones I filled with portions of her puréed organs and her exquisite, perfect brain. The rest I ate in a stew with spring vegetables that turned out so well, I have used it repeatedly.
No other woman has come close to Angel, yet. Some have resembled her, but that only occurred when I was missing her desperately. Not one was her, or even had the same flavor. They have all have tasted tainted, spoiled somehow, and the last made me vomit for days on end. I had to dispose of the meat as I suspected that it was poisoned and nearly ended up in jail when a pissed off police officer decided my car looked worth inspecting. It worked out for the best, however, and I convinced him to come home with me for a beer and a home cooked meal.
Perhaps, this one will be different.