Feeding The Family

Stumbling through the hanging branches, like a drunk reaching for the final pint, the figure made her way down the trodden trail. Drizzled chocolate hair yanked her backwards as it tangled with the branches above, separating as she hit the earth beneath her. A scream broke through her pursed, chapped lips and an unsavoury expression, all crumpled, an old face on a young woman, began to spread across her face; her pierced, juicy skin beginning to crack and whither.

Sounds such as her wilted scream could attract all sorts of predacious creatures, none of which were as unhinged as the one watching. Watching and waiting. Waiting for the opportune moment, the moment in which her hope runs out and leaves her to rot. That's when they strike. Never allowing the innocent to last, to survive, to live.

Attempting to stand, she reached up to grasp at the nearest tree branch; another scream. Blood began to seep out of her hand and work its way round the branch and slowly drip, drip, drip. Time was running out. Step by step she made her way further across the landscape, further from it, but then she stopped. Just out of sight.

This was the moment. My moment.

Filled with both fear and panic, she didn't notice the approaching sillhouette. Large boots protected my feet from the thorn entwined wildlife, allowing me to move swiftly, pain free. Shadows lurked between each tree, concealing my identity from anyone within sight.

Before she could hear anything through the rustling leaves enclosing her, she felt a cold pressure on her neck, and a voice. A low raspy voice, telling her not to struggle, and after the cold pressure turned into a sharp tingling prick, followed by the trickling liquid she began to lose, I assume she realised that resisting would not result in anything good, and that it was better to just do what I want, to just follow me. Follow me down to the secluded cabin, down the stairs into the place of which she would remain.

After ensuring her security, I retreated back up the stairs and left the woman to herself. Desperately trying to work out why I wanted her captive would have been one of her priorities – if she knew, maybe she could use it as an escape plan? But at the same time, if it was nothing that could suggest escape, how would she get out? I had left all of her clothing intact, telling her that I was after something other than lust. And if lust wasn't my main priority she would question what was? Money? But on a household income of only $28,000 a year, there wasn't a lot that could be gained. Could I have just brought her here to inflict brutal wounds onto her? This single thought should have sent panic searing through her veins. Where she comes from, a person should not be able to be that lacking of the ability to withhold his need to cause pain, that lacking of the one thing humans claim they have, the one thing they have to hang on to – their humanity. Could someone really be lacking that one natural human instinct?

Struggling hopelessly, the young woman prayed for escape. Surrounded by darkness, she hadn't yet attained a full look at me, only the dull eyes heavily weighted within the depth of my tenebrous skull. Eyes which looked straight through her, as if she was already a corpse, rotting away as the thriving bugs began to prosper from chewing at her insides.

Thumping sounds began to come from above her, large boots, heavy footsteps. Looking towards what she believed was the door, she trembled. I made my way down the stairs to the cellar. In the small space in the corner she waited, like a chicken in a battery farm. Being held against her will should have been the least of her worries, yet still she squirmed. What was with this woman? It's not like she knows why she is here – now that would cause her to panic. A lot. But then that makes this more exciting, watching them panic and struggle when they have no hope left for life, and you can just watch it fade out, watch the hope die with each breathe they take.

I reached down to the rope that held her secured and began to tug at it. As soon as I had untied her arms, she began swinging them round in an attempt to claw at me – possible escape plan? Thrown by the madness of her actions, I almost lost my footing, but then managed to regain it just as she tried to leave the building and be released from my grip. Dragging her up the stairs, her head bruising more with each step she thudded into, I reached for the door. It would be upsetting to see the swollen grey patches around her face, but hopefully preparations would still work as it was only the head that was damaged.

Upon going through the door, I noted that she had a wound along the side of her torso, allowing her blood to trickle out, her life force escaping. Time was running out.

***

I had decided the best thing to do would be to begin the preparations early, rather than let the life drain out of the meat. Time was running out and it was vital that we do not waste this opportunity given to us. Death was not the way for this though as heaven was not in her field of vision just yet; that would all come with time.

Following the ancient rituals descending from our ancestors, it was vital we start with the lower arm and leg meat to ensure the rest of the meat was kept fresh, and these had time to marinate in a creamy honey. Grabbing the weathering rope I secured the blood flow in her upper arm and started to cut deep into the skin. Curdled flesh crumpled up on her face as her frown became a cry and she could no longer hold back the need to scream. This was my favourite part of preparations. Screams would, however, attract attention from onlookers, and that could get messy. One option remained and so I reached over and grasped the rusting poultry shears and, holding her whimpering mouth open, I sliced the squirming voice from her throat, leaving the blood to trickle down her throat as she ached for the end.

Inspecting the damage made to the rest of her face I accidentally locked in with her gaze. Raw hatred melted my soul, the fear had gone. She was an inferno, hell-bent on dragging me under. Never had I seen such a look strike the hearts of past victims, never had I witnessed them lose this much hope – did she know the meaning of that word anymore? She had reached beyond hopelessness. She was hopelessness. Defining the very meaning of the word and the very soul of what it was like to die a death somebody else had thrust upon her. Control of her life had been taken from her, and she wanted it back. And she would do anything to get it. She had gone past the point of hope – just where I wanted her. She could be dangerous now. Shame.

Risks were one thing my family could never take and so I regrettably made the decision to end it there and then. Standing over her, fixated on her stare, I began to slowly remove the deep orange tie from around my neck, unfolding the knot it has been systematically woven into. Tensing my muscles I wrapped it around my hands. One time. Two times. Round and round until it was about 25 inches – pulled tight. Springing from my spot in the room I swiftly moved round until I had her back facing me and in one motion I twisted the tie round her naked neck and squeeze tightly, watching her choke and gurgle as her very life force is squeezed out of each crevice in her body.

Slumped on the floor I could see the hardness in her stare fade into nothingness. All of the hopeless power she had was gone, she was left empty, like an animal who had gone against the hunter and lost. I could do nothing but stare at her for what felt like hours, until the muscles supporting my weight began to ache with guilt. She had died trying to survive, her meat may sour, may become unpleasant to eat. The Thanksgiving feast would be ruined this year. All because of me. 

Guilt was not something I tried to avoid, especially when I had wasted the life of an innocent, having no purpose unless the meat was able to be used, but the moment was passing. Soon she would be rotting and that would be dragging the quality of the flavour. It would not last long enough. Not until my Thanksgiving feast at least, and I couldn't eat it beforehand – that would be wrong. It would defy every rule we ever created within the recipes. But fresh meat was the key to the preparations, and the traditions I followed stated that the meat mustn't be killed until the optimum time, but there was nothing else I could have done, I couldn't save her, her mind had too much power. The world around me dimmed to black as the panic I had become indulged me and as I saw the floor head towards me before the descending darkness consumed me.

When my vision finally returned I was greeted with the consuming weight of my ancestors' pain. I had failed them for the first time in my life, and it felt like a million people had just stabbed me through the heart, all in one go. It was as if hell itself had opened up and set me on a course of destruction and death. I would not see another happy day. I could not hold the feast. I could not be a part of the world anymore. Not now that I am a failure. It was not the kind of thing you go through every day – failing the whole family after generations of success. I would be lucky if they let me live anyway. I was a murderer. Not a farmer, not a butcher, but a cold blooded murderer. Killing in fear and that could never be forgiven. I had no choice but to run. Run and leave. Never look back. Never go back. Never do that again.

But would running be effective? would it really be of any use? They would find me eventually, surely. If not, could I fit in and cook broccoli and carrots with chicken as a meal? Causing harm to no-one, ever. Or would I become a world famous serial killer/cannibal? The possibilities are endless but none of them really suit me. Not in this life.

Kneeling beside my bed I fought the inescapable abyss creeping towards my very soul of being. The urge to leave was too great, to leave this life and to leave the descending madness that had become of my life, the pain I had caused and the torment I had created could all disappear, could all be gone... For a price. It would cost me my life, and was I really prepared to give that up? Could I really get the knife and slice my throat. I'd seen it happen so often to other people, but never someone inflicting it on themselves. Would it hurt? Would I be able to cope with it? What would happen to me after I died? I would have suggested that I would be heading to heaven before I died, but that was before she was gone. Before I had compelled her to leave this dull world. The more I thought about it the less I would be willing to commit the act. I had to fight this. I had to do it now.

Stretching my worn out fingers across to the splintering wooden top of the bedside table, feeling each prick of wood as the fragments slid into my fingers, piercing the skin as they settled in their new home. Cautiously grasping the chilling handle of the knife, I focussed on the sharpened edge. Towards my neck. A quick slicing movement. Stinging sensations. Nothing.