Feast

At times, I wonder.

What if I would've chosen differently? But then I remember why I didn't. I remember all the stupid, self-centered, egotistical assholes out there, and I don't wonder why any more. My basement is my safe place. It has my kitchen, my dining table and chairs, my art supplies and my crafting things that are littered about. For other's, it's not so safe. I will burn them with pans from my oven, cut their wrists for them. I take the liberty in rinsing their un-pure souls by boiled water being poured over them. The screams I hear are like a high pitched symphony, getting higher with every octave before is cracks, and is crushed under the pain. I love it. The best part is, when we sit down for dinner. Well, I sit, their on the table, on a plate, saturated in their own juices and bursting with the metallic taste I crave in every bite. The remains are used to boil the next person I purify, and the process happens again and again every time, over and over until I feel like doing something else. Human flesh is desirable, no doubt, but their screams are even sweeter, and the flesh even warmer when I take a subtle bite right out of the shoulder.

The symphony and flesh of this woman, Avalon Cruise, is most satisfactory. With every scream her shrill voice emits, the sweeter and juicier her flesh becomes. With every bite I take, on her thighs, neck and shoulder, the louder she screams, until it goes silent. My fun is over, but not my feast.