D.I.Y Meat

January 12, 2010 at 12:44 am (Bodies, Intoxication, Rooms) (, , )

His head is warm; I grip it between my knees. It faces the wall. His eyes are blank and yolky now, but I shudder at the thought of their gaze between my legs. His lips are still pressed together, almost pursed or pouting. It scares me when people do this.

I stand up, holding the head against my belly. The line of his jaw is neat and clean, surprisingly little blood, almost dry save for one messy pipe of an artery. My blue dress bloodies to a black, blooming from the naval downwards like a punch in the gut. The carpet here is worn, dark and coppery, yet still I try my hardest not to bloody it as I buckle my shoes with his face resting gently in my lap. A single drop of crimson splashes upon their supple white leather, it looks awful.

Everything looks cold and chipped in the stairwell, but I dive into the stale air leaving my door to slam behind me and run as fast as I can to the fifth floor clutching my skirts. Door 67 opens at the sound of my balled fist. Em has no breasts and no hair at all, the Flesh are rarely so ambiguous. I think he is a boy today. He tiptoes to kiss my forehead, though he is already the perfect height for it, and embraces me tightly shouting “Red!”
My name is not Red. I don’t even have red eyes. Sometimes I can barely find Em’s eyes, they are such a pale blue and his pupils are tiny. His head almost looks empty; white skin, white eyes, and two dark pinpricks to viddy this poor world. There is no comment upon the rounded bulk between us, he simply ushers me to a plump arm chair. Its shades of pink and mint green somehow manage to make even paisley vulgar, yet still I clutch the sapphire cotton tightly around my belly. Not a drop, not on this poor chair, not on anything.

Em strokes my shoulder as he passes me, “I’m just going to check my cabinet, I won’t be long.” But as soon as he leaves the room I start to sob, believing him to be gone forever without the comfort of his face. The second he returns I stand up holding my dress out to present the head, “It just broke, it just came off in my hands”, I sob.
“You are always so rough, little sister, and you often overstep.” He pushes me gently back into my seat and turns the head in my lap to face his own, “How were you to know the creature he was? His flesh is convincing, see the delicate creases of his eyelids? Those are imperfections. The Embodied would never choose to possess such obscene blemishes. This creature craved Flesh. And you, little sister,” he pauses and tweaks my nose, “broke the bastard.” Em shows me his opened palm: three green pills. “Let’s slow this beast down, and see exactly what he is beneath that pretty skin.” Em smiles, rattling the tablets gently, “Those air canisters are dangerous. If you’re not careful you can over-inhale, and your pink little mouth will go all swollen and plummy, and the insidey bits of your bones will go all dry and crumbly, and your bloody, sloshy bits all jellied. And then what shall we do? Each of these pills fortifies twelve seconds, no more.”
My throat too narrow to nod or speak, I take the pill from his hand without a word.

We swallow one pill each with cold coffee dregs. The air thickens faster than I imagined, grey and speckled. Soon my legs feel leaden and useless, they hang from the seat of the chair like dead red meat. The head almost roles from my knees, but Em catches the forehead in his palm. He takes the face of the broken stranger in his hands and presses his thumbs into the top of the skull. It cracks and gives with a sickening ease like a shell of cocoa butter. He prises the opening apart to reveal a thick, yolky liquid. My palm rests on the closed eyelid of the Embodied creature, the lens trembles beneath the skin like the fly. The seconds hum nauseatingly now. Gently, Em opens the mouth which is no longer set-pursed. “Or, if you prefer, we could toast his tongue and dip it in his headspace like wee marmite soldiers!”

I laugh. Em’s voice sounds deep. Not low, but fuller, filled with a strange depth. I push a thumb and two fingers between the lolling lips to the back of the throat and grip the tongue.


1 Comment

  1. flotsamyoni said,

    Throws the reader right into the blood. Why not? You’ve chosen an event – a portion of time – very well fitted to the overall length of the piece; it feels neither rushed nor stretched out. Your ability to make the horrific sound delectable continues to astound, the disgusting and the beautiful merge to the extent that it is impossible to say which detail is which. Also, very good balance between character and environment description; in a piece this short there isn’t much time for giving anything but scant details of surroundings.

    A couple of less shiny observations:

    – ‘My blue dress bloodies to a black, blooming from the naval downwards like a punch in the gut. The carpet here is worn, dark and coppery, yet still I try my hardest not to bloody it as I buckle my shoes…’ I found this to have an odd amount of ‘b’ alliteration given that the story as a whole is not stylized to be consistently poetic.

    – ‘…supple white leather, it looks awful.’ I suggest a full stop or a semi-colon rather than a comma here.

    Love x

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