Feeding the Beast

He wasn’t horrified by what he’d done, call it what you will. No indeed, though, he did in the end wipe some regret from his eye—persistently his thoughts leading back to his home kitchen. It wasn’t the spice rack, nor linen, or fancy knives that he recalled. He had to admit to himself that he’d done reasonably well, making-do with his current lot.

The “table-setting” was neat and clean, though spare, here in the front of the desolate den that had become his prison cell. He had had the foresight to spread out his trench coat across the dirt floor beneath him, so as not to soil his supper. He’d even gone so far as to make a bib of his handkerchief, and was quite tickled. As a fact he liked dining—dining in, or dining out. Ah, sigh! shaking his head. It would have been nice to invite company tonight, but alas, there was nobody, and never had been.

Regarding the etiquette and aesthetic, he really felt he had done what he should, as best as he could. Surely, his brothers and sisters would not fault him. He was quite confident they would have advised him the same, being pragmatic and plain. But it mattered not, since they were far away, and the rest of his family had long passed on, so he was left to tend to his own comfort and pain.

And so he did. He was a doer with considerable esteem. Having once made a decision, he toiled away with great resolve. Nay, with precision! One could tell by the way he had gnawed carefully around each sinew and relished his every morsel. He reflected it wasn’t that bad really, considering all possible crimes—what others might do in such obverse conditions! He was quite pleased, in spite of himself, and proud at the thought of how another might have died sooner, yet he had persevered for 80 days and 81 nights. Truly, he could help himself! Wiping his hands he had no shame, though admittedly feeling somewhat faint.

His single remorse—which he went so far as to inarticulately voice—was almost trivial, if not so simultaneously grave. Thoughts kept sinking back to his kitchen; the smart little pantry, the big fridge by the door. It was a bit of a waste. Looking down sadly from the shoes to his bones, to the satisfied gut, full and protruding, pressing out between bare ribs in a monstrous herniated plot. Ach! that refrigerator! What wouldn't he give to save a piece of himself for later!